Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

by Doug Lamoreux

  The Taste of New Orleans, and now I'm talking about the physical building, had started life as a full-service gas station in the 1930's. The small concrete block building sat on a lonely south side street corner. The lot out front, with both pump islands long removed, could park ten cars if the last four parked the first six in. Four newspaper boxes, chained to the building, stood guard in front of the wide glass windows (iron bars permanently in place). The face of what once had been the two bay service garages had been covered in barn board and white washed; over top of that, in bright splashes of blue, from one end of the building to the other, had been painted the business hours and the restaurant's menu. I don't know if you've read any good restaurants lately but this place made your mouth water. Behind the building, and above, stood an even older wood and concrete railroad trestle. Time had marched on and the six intercity rail lines that once used it had been consolidated into one (Amtrak) eight years before as mass passenger travel went the way of the dinosaur. Still cross-country goods needed to be moved and the line, taken over by Burlington Northern South Bend was still heavily in demand. Day and night trains shunted noisily by.

  A monstrous two-story residence to the west of the restaurant housed Large's brood of children, nine in all, and was ruled over by his wife, Estella, a woman of both indomitable mettle and precious metal (a heart of gold, a fist of iron, a soup ladle of steel). But the restaurant was Large's kingdom.

  One of the old gas station's service bays had been converted into the restaurant's cutting and mixing kitchen, larder, and walk-in cooler. The former lobby and office had been transformed into the cooking kitchen and dining area with a six-stool counter and three tables with three chairs apiece. As outside the interior was simple, white wash, with blue brush paint listing and championing the delectable virtues of New Orleans' Gumbo, Blue Bayou Burgers, Hot Burgers, and Oyster Po-Boys.

  Red Beans, at 19 the middle-aged of Large's five sons, was in his usual station at the stove and grill, stirring a kettle of red beans, and watching over the black beans, dirty rice, and the sizzling pans of blackened fish, off to one side from the monstrous and ancient oven where a succulent dripping “P-i-g, Hog!” was all set to come home to Papa. Lizbet, at 17 Large's eldest of four daughters, was fending off a come-on from a customer on a stool at the end of the counter and, without missing a beat, drying a mountain of dishes and shelving them neatly on the wall above her head.

  I barely crossed the sill before Lizbet saw me and, toweling her hands, hurried my way. “Blake! Daddy said I missed you earlier.” Her hugs, which used to encircle my thighs, now wound round my waist. Time marched on. Those same hugs would soon be forced, by the natural order of things, to come to an end. Another sad day to which I had no choice but to look forward. Red Beans hadn't given me a hug in nearly a decade. But he waved big from where he stood and smiled bigger.

  Before I got a word out, the door to the mixing kitchen came open and a four-hundred-pound black man with an intellect, heart, and soul twice that size appeared from his lair. “I thought,” Large said, “I heard your appellation.” He turned to Lizbet. “Shouted in the too-excited-to-be-good-for-business voice of my eldest angel.” She twisted her lips in a loving frown. “To work,” he told her, raising a huge ham hock of a hand, glinting rings on every finger, and waving her away. “To work.”

  Lizbet smiled at me and returned to her dishes.

  Large looked past me to ogle the customer at the end of the counter who'd been giving Lizbet the business. “You again?” he asked. “And more of the same?”

  The fellow flexed his jaws like a landed carp. No sound emerged.

  “Would they were edible,” Large told him. “I would twist you in half like a Louisiana Crawfish and suck out your innards. Sadly, I'm convinced your entrails are as tainted as your thoughts and I fear–”

  It should come as no surprise to you, it came as none to me, the young man did not wait to hear the details of Large's fears. Having a few of his own, he vacated the stool and the restaurant toot sweet. Without giving the running cock's rear a second glance, my mountainous associate waved me toward the door to the back rooms. “Now Brother Blake, to work.”

  The outer service bay was now Large's office and fortress. This inner sanctum was a world unto itself and not unlike, it always seemed to me, visiting a giant's lair. There were two huge chairs, a gargantuan couch, and a massive desk. Those were necessary. Large was a giant, but a gentle giant, a well-spoken man, an artist, and a connoisseur of music. Not any music. As I already mentioned, this was the place in Chicago for real Louisiana blues. And New Orleans blues, and Cajun music (the old French sounds), Dixieland Jazz, Ragtime, Zydeco (the Creole music), Swamp blues, and the Afro-Caribbean rhythms. The walls of Large's lair testified, wall-to-wall-to-wall shelves of vinyl LPs, and a fourth of 7-inch 45 single records, each in his words, “A chariot bearing glory upon the wind.”

  Professor Longhair's piano played me in, to a chair and (thanks to Large) a gin, with the happily raucous 'Tipitina'. We sipped slowly while Moses 'Whispering' Smith gave us the 'Mean Woman Blues' on his harmonica. We commiserated with the magical guitar of Lightnin' Slim while he shared his 'Bad Luck Blues'. Then, despite my desire to say to hell with it and keep spinning records, I asked Large what he'd been able to ferret out concerning my cast of circus characters. His minions had had the assignment for mere hours, yet the answer appeared to be plenty. We got down to business.

  “This was, and is, an infinitely interesting group of individuals you named for inclusion in our search,” Large said. “With whom among them shall we begin?”

  “I always start with the client. But, as this time I haven't one, I'll take the next best thing. Alfonso.”

  “Your diminutive clown. Yes.” Large selected a manilla file folder from a stack on a nearby table and settled back. “A fairly straight-forward case lacking anything sinister to sink the teeth into. Alfonso Valencia. Thirty years of age, born Queens, New York, 1949, to average-height adult parents (a Polish mother, an Egyptian father, both naturalized). Diagnosed with Achondroplasia, a form of short-limbed dwarfism. Outside of the genetic disorder an otherwise healthy individual who joined the circus in his teens. Has been with six circuses of various sizes throughout his career,” Large waved a paper. “The list is here. No incidents of note bringing him to the attention of law enforcement. Currently, as you know, employed by the Callicoat and Major Combined Circus.”

  “All right,” I said. “If you were able to find anything, let's move on to The Canary.”

  “If I was able to find anything?” Large shook his head in dismay and picked up another folder. “The Canary. An excellent choice.” He took a deep breath. “If – and I emphasize If – The Canary of your drowned man's quote is the performer you saw featured on the circus poster in Wisconsin,” he shook the file, “and it is possible, even likely, though I'd put little faith in her being billed as 'The One and Only', then your drowned man was in error and his dying declaration faulty. The Canary,” he shook the file again, “did, in fact, die when she fell from the sky.”

  “You have my attention.”

  Large chuckled with a childish glee, an infectious sound and sight. Whether it was food, music, or information, he loved unveiling tastes and tidbits to virginal reactions.

  “The name of our 'One and Only' Canary was Aurelia Marx Herman. She was the premiere aerial performer and trapeze artist of the Kessler Traveling Circus. There isn't a lot known about her but, I can tell you this, she did die during a performance, three years ago in Cape Girardeau, Missouri.”

  I raised a brow. How could I not?

  “Now to her limited background,” Large said. “Aurelia Marx joined the Kessler troupe the previous year, from where it is not known. Hired to replace an injured acrobat, she joined the remaining half of that couple act, a competent and moderately successful, but obscure, trapeze artist and aerial catcher named Gunther Herman. Aurelia's new partner was considerably older, eh, twenty years, but still a
marvel of physical strength and prowess. Their act was initially billed as The Hawk and The Canary and they were an instant hit. Such a hit the injured performer was let go. The Hawk and The Canary became Kessler's star attraction. Behind the scenes, the couple got on famously and soon married.

  “But the spotlight shined far brighter on The Canary than it did her husband. In no time, the act was introduced simply as 'The Canary'. Gunther Herman remained, as partner and husband, but the cheers fell only on The Canary. I'll add, Brother Blake, as I know your cynical mind, there is no suggestion the change in billing or the shift in audience adoration bothered the husband in any way. It was merely show business and Gunther appears to have handled it as such.”

  Large coughed a throaty cough and continued. “On the fateful day in Cape Girardeau, a fire broke out inside the temporarily erected hippodrome during the performance of their headlining act. Details, even at the time, were naturally sketchy owing to chaos and excited memory. The intervening years have brought nothing new to light. What is known is that the fire got quickly out of control, a good number of circus goers and performers were injured in the tumultuous escape from the Big Top, a trick rider, eh, one Luna Blaženovic, went missing and, in the panic, The Canary fell to her death. Your informant, Brother Blake, your drowned man was in error.”

  “So much for cryptic clues.”

  “Indeed. The results were, of course, a legal nightmare. No sooner did the smoke clear than the Kessler Traveling Circus disbanded and its displaced performers scattered to the four corners of the world. There remains one item of interest; a fact discovered in cross-checking the employee lists. Among the displaced acts was a Sideshow performer billed as Mickey the Geek and payed as Michael Gronchi. This lends gravitas to your hypothesis that this Canary was The Canary. Beyond that…” Large shrugged his meaty shoulders.

  Michael Gronchi was there, on hand, or at least in the show, when The Canary fell from the sky. But it made no sense because he'd been wrong. The Canary died.

  Large was going on. “A fact worth noting is that, following the fire and the death of his wife, Gunther Herman appears to have vanished. There's no record of his moving on to another circus.”

  “He quit the business? Well, his wife was dead. I'm sure he was heartbroken.”

  “Yes,” Large agreed. “But neither you nor I are classical romantics, Blake. A fact takes it deeper.”

  “And the fact?”

  “Following the dissolution of the Kessler Circus there is no record of Gunther Herman, that particular Gunther Herman, anywhere at all. He didn't merely stop performing. He vanished.”

  There were facts and there were facts that made you think. That one made me think.

  Large picked up another folder. “Shall I proceed?”

  “Don't let me stop you.”

  “Michael Gronchi, your first victim. Gronchi worked in a number of small circuses, before and after the Kessler Circus fire, in their Sideshows, as Mickey the Geek. Cross-referencing again gives us one item of note. Fourteen months after the Cape Girardeau fire, Gronchi joined the 'Buckets and Barns Circus' traveling the U.S. southern circuit. In addition to Mickey the Geek, the Sideshow of the Buckets and Barns Circus featured a Bearded Lady named–”

  “Sybil.”

  “Indeed. Buckets and Barns folded its tent after one season. Sybil moved on to another circus. But Gronchi with, if you'll excuse the vulgar slang, Geek-work going out of vogue, appears to have taken up imbibing adult beverages as a full-time endeavor. Before you ask, he has a colorful history of Public Intoxication, Vagrancy, and Drunk and Disorderly arrests in his recent past.”

  “Did you have any more on Sybil?”

  “Yes.” Large cleared his throat. “Gerald Lapinski. Lithuanian by birth. Began his circus and carnival careers, he had a number in both, as a carnival barker, roadie, circus ticket salesman, and maintenance man. He was not originally a performer. On this side of the pond, he routinely spent the off season working for the circus museum in Barrelton, Wisconsin; his American home. The first appearance of Sybil, the Bearded Lady, and Lapinski's first position as a Sideshow performer was in the Great Garland Circus, where we find he worked for the first time with Alfonso Valencia, the diminutive Sideshow performer. This was before his Kessler days and his association with Michael Gronchi.”

  “Gerald. He's been Sybil to me for so long,” I confessed, “the names and pronouns are making me spin.”

  “We can refer to him by his circus persona if you'd prefer. There is no record of who originated the notion to put Sybil in a dress and pass her off as a Bearded Lady. There is no record, though I'm not certain there would be, of Sybil having been a transvestite or a cross dresser. Logic suggests it unlikely with the positions she held. The disguise seems to have originated solely for monetary reasons. The ruse worked. The act was a success with Kessler and led to her immediate hire by The Major's Major when they premiered their show.”

  “Never having met Sybil, I can't say whether or not I would have been fooled. She certainly fooled many,” I said. “All I know is I was painfully awakened to the truth in the end.”

  Large offered no comment. A tenacious digger, he nevertheless never dug at me. He merely switched files and continued with his presentation.

  “The venue of your current inquiry, The Callicoat and Major Combined Circus, came about as its own entity under two years ago when the majority of The Major's Major Circus was purchased by a holding company owned by Reginald Callicoat III. Karl Kreis, known to all as The Major, remains a minority owner. There are several interesting historical side notes. I recommend you peruse them.”

  “Something significant?” I asked.

  Large smiled with a glint in his eye. “Not for me to say. I beat the brush, Brother Blake. You are the keen-eyed hunter.”

  I nodded, silently reminding myself that, one, the big man's having made special mention of it made it significant and, two, having brought it to my attention he'd said all he would say on the matter. I took the file in one hand, and my refreshed gin in the other, and carefully examined the histories of both circuses and both owners. I did my best to soak up the raw information like a sponge. There was plenty there to file away, in case, and much there to consider in general.

  I couldn't help but marvel at how fast Large and his pack of snoops had met my request, and told my friend so. “How do you always come through with so much, so quickly?”

  “Give you my secrets and cut my own throat?” Large asked with a laugh. “But this time, as you were there and the answer should prove embarrassing, I'll tell you. The World Circus Museum has a library and research center on grounds. The world's largest collection of circus-related newspapers, magazines, books, and photographs. Open to the public.”

  “Why didn't I know that?”

  “Perhaps,” Large said, “you were too busy killing the Bearded Lady.”

  “Perhaps.” I returned his file. “You offered nothing detailed on the widow Callicoat or Alida Harrison. I'm pressed but would a little more time help?”

  “More time? Yes.” Large smiled. “And a look at your bank balance before I begin. A records search to the ends of the earth may be needed and likely will be a laborious and expensive endeavor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. But that doesn't mean the vault is empty. Let me tell you, Brother Blake, what I've learned about Reginald and Danita Callicoat, Karl Kreis, and Alida Harrison.” He proceeded to do just that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I'd been right about the lovely Mrs. Callicoat. In her case, still waters did run deep. There were curious things to learn about all four, in fact, the late circus owner, his junior partner and manager, his widow, and their star attraction. Unfortunately, that's all there was so far – curious discoveries. There were no smoking guns (or thrown knives), no signs directing me to a murderer or their motive. But my big snitch had given me plenty of human drama to think about.

  After my visit with Large I headed north again
, into the heart of the city and the loop, and made a stop at the City Hall building on North La Salle. Specifically, I visited Room 107, the Clerk of the City of Chicago, in an effort to see for myself any and all permits issued to The Callicoat and Major Circus to perform their dog and pony and tiger show at and on Navy Pier. My curiosity was soon satisfied, though I had no idea as to what end.

  Finished there, and while I still felt nosy, I detoured to West Washington for a repeat performance at the Cook County clerk's office. My goal there was slightly different. I did some, probably completely wasted, research on the details of the history of the Callicoat Estate and holdings. I'd like to report specifically what I was after, and what I found, in my hunt. But, the fact was, I had no idea. I merely wanted to know all I could know.

  Like I said, Large hadn't handed me a murderer but he'd given me food for thought. And knowledge gained in my trips to his Taste of New Orleans always made me hungry for more.

  Speaking of hunger, I'd seen to Alfonso's mutt and visited the best Louisiana restaurant in the city but had forgotten to feed myself. I needed grub, and a place to down it, and a place to quietly sort the head full of facts and rumors I'd collected. My office was out, the cops were covering it like a cheap suit. I imagined the same might be true for my apartment but, as it featured several points of access, I decided to give the homestead a look. I sneaked home.

  Well, close to home. I parked the Jag on a 'Used Car' lot two blocks away (the owner and I had an understanding) and I darted from phone pole to dumpster to discarded refrigerator box up the alleys to the rear of my apartment building. No bulls in the back. I hopped the rear fence, low crawled the yard, and slipped into the basement through a window secured with a trick latch for just such occasions. As quietly as I could, I maneuvered the cellar and climbed to the ground floor. I eased a crack in the door and found the hall empty. I slipped off my shoes, slipped into the hall, and peeked through the front door window. Sure enough there sat an unmarked, but obvious, city unit with a nodding copper at the wheel. Whatever Wenders wanted, he wanted it bad.