He stared glumly at a framed picture on his desk. I couldn’t see it but assumed that it might be of his children, or even his ex-wife, children, and the stepfather.
“And in the meantime I’m stuck with an unfaithful wife who has the brains of a prairie dog.”
“Are you so sure that she was unfaithful?” I asked.
“Damn right she was. Had that son of a bitch sleeping in my bed while I was out in Mexico with a bunch of students on a fucking field trip. If the Mexican cops hadn’t run us off because of bandits or some damn thing, I’d probably never have found out what the dumb bitch was up to. Should have bribed the Mexicans and stayed, but the university frowns on students getting shot by rebels or bandits or whatever they were. If there were any.”
“Actually,” I said, “Mexico can be quite a dangerous place for visiting Americans. In 1916 when our government recognized the Carranza government in Mexico City, Pancho Villa was so angry that he killed sixteen American mining engineers and shipped their bodies to El Paso. The arrival of the caskets came close to causing a race riot, the Anglos attacking the Mexican American population.”
“No shit!” said Professor Collins. “I never heard that story. I wonder if the engineers were from the old School of Mines.”
“I’m not sure. I do know that in 1927 the School of Mines and a community college united to add liberal arts courses, and with them female students. The engineers, according to the book I read, were very unhappy with the change because they could no longer attend classes in carpet slippers and undershirts.”
“They’d have had better reasons than that to want women kept out,” he muttered angrily.
“Just because you were on a field trip doesn’t mean that your wife—”
“Mrs. Blue, that’s exactly what it means,” he retorted impatiently. “I got home two nights early and found a note on my pillow, in Russian, no less. With a translation. ‘I am in shower. Wake up, beautiful heart, and we make love all over again with soap and hot water.’ I was so pissed I
didn’t even bother to wash off the sweat and trail dust, just headed out to the opera party and caught him sampling my wife’s ear and a bowl of guacamole. And she was embarrassed, for Christ’s sake, because I wasn’t dolled up in a tux like her fuckin’ Russian lover, who deserves—” He stopped his tirade after taking a close look at me.
“I’ll be damned. My language embarrasses you, doesn’t it?”
“I guess you’ll think me old fashioned, but I do prefer not to be sworn at,” I responded.
“Hey, I wasn’t swearing at
you.
That’s kind of nice, you know. A woman who doesn’t like dirty language. Talking dirty turned Melanie on. Well, you asked me if I followed Gubenko home. I didn’t. And I didn’t kill him.”
I had a terrible thought. “What about your wife?” I asked.
“What about her? Oh, you mean did I follow
her
home and kill her? Hell no. I haven’t even seen her since that night. What I did was go over to Jerk’s, that’s a sports bar and fast-food place on North Mesa. I picked Jerk’s because I felt like one, and I ate chicken wings and got roaring drunk. They had to toss me out. Then I decided I was too drunk to drive anywhere, so I staggered off to Jeremy Totten’s in Kern Place and banged on his door until he let me in, after which I passed out on his sofa. How’s that for an intelligent response to a wife’s infidelity?” He was drumming his fingers on the desk and making me nervous.
“The next day I started thinking again instead of just blowing my top. We—Jeremy and I—spent Sunday drinking beer, watching football, and talking about unfaithful wives and rat’s-ass divorce lawyers. Jeremy’s divorced. He recommended a lawyer who can probably get me out of my marriage with a few pesos left in my pocket instead of buck naked and broke. You want to hear more? Monday—I’m staying at Jeremy’s until I get my own place—I went to the bank; took everything out of the safe deposit box, since it’s my stuff anyway; and cleaned out half of everything in our accounts, which I deposited in another bank in my name.
“Then I found a realtor and put our house on the market, after which I went back to Jerk’s for two beers and another round of chicken wings; it’s a place that grows on you. The staff is so rude, they fit my mood exactly. Then—what? I looked up Jeremy’s lawyer and told him to file for divorce. With any luck, my cute little wife, who’s been calling the department and my office every ten minutes since Sunday, will be served today.
“So that’s what I’ve been doing since Saturday night, not that I know why you’re asking. Are you a friend of Melanie’s or something?”
I tended to believe him, not that I wouldn’t check out his story. After all, he was my best suspect to date—at least until I gathered more information about Vladik. But there was his question to answer: Why was I interested in his business? “Actually, I and all the women who provided refreshments for the opera party are being questioned by the police as people who may have poisoned him.”
“No shit. Well, I hope you did a good job and he’s still puking his brains out.”
“He’s dead, Professor Collins. You hadn’t heard?”
“Well, no. I’ve been drunk, passed out, or busy since I last saw him, and he was alive then, although he did say he was sick. I thought he was just a chicken-hearted creep. But I didn’t make any food for your party. I don’t cook, so the police can skip me.”
“I don’t cook either, not if I can help it,” I said, relaxing. He didn’t seem to be about to attack me for suggesting that he was a murderer.
“So he died of food poisoning? Hell of a way to kill someone. There you go wincing again. That’s cute.” He grinned at me. “If you ever decide to dump Jason, give me a call. I’ll ask you out.”
“That’s very flattering, Professor Collins.”
“Brandon,” he corrected.
“But don’t you think I’m a little old for you?”
He studied me carefully and replied. “Nope. Younger man, older woman. That’s the way to go. Then if we get married, we’ve got a chance of dying around the same time. And think of all the fun we’d have in between. You could come on field trips with me. Nothing more interesting than rocks. You can tell the geologic history of the area you’re in by looking at a highway cut. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did, but I’m not really an outdoor person, and I’m already married and expect to stay that way.”
“Okay, but keep me in mind. You never know what’s going to happen in a marriage. Jason might get restless, see some cute chick in a class—”
I had to laugh. “He’s very good at fending off cute chicks.” Still, Professor Collins’ suggestion made me uneasy. I glanced at my watch. “Oh my, I have another appointment.”
“Someone else you want to ask if he murdered Gubenko. Even if the man’s dead, I have to say it couldn’t have happened to more deserving guy. Only more satisfying scenario I can think of is that he’s still alive and marries my soon-to-be ex-wife and has to put up with her boring company for the next hundred years, but l guess it’s too late for that.”
“Unfortunately,” I agreed, and left to keep my rendezvous with Vladik’s Russian students. Before I left, I got directions to Miner’s Hall from Brandon. Wouldn’t you know, it was up the hill. I hate walking uphill, but I didn’t want to lose my parking space, which was downhill. I might never find another and miss the students I wanted to interview.
My goodness, but Professor Brandon Collins was foul mouthed! His language came as quite a shock to me. One expects more of well-educated people, although I did remember an industrial chemist from New York City, where Jason consults. That young man had been embarrassingly profane—even at the Metropolitan Opera. And he talked during the performance!
13
Lunch with Russians
Carolyn
T
here they were,
two pretty girls with fine soprano voices and good figures, even under their thrift-shop outfits. They were talking to each other in Russian, looking tired and glum, when I approached and reintroduced myself. I had small gifts, art glass fish in different colors, tucked into two gift bags, all of which I’d picked up before my drive to the university. Early rising was bad enough, but climbing stairs in old, high-ceilinged buildings was worse, especially after climbing a hill.
“Polya? Irina? Do you remember me?” I had no idea which girl was which but hoped to find out during lunch. “I’m Carolyn Blue from the opera committee. I’d like to take you out to lunch in thanks for your lovely work in
Macbeth.
” You’d think, given their expressions of astonishment, that no one ever went out to eat in Russia.
“Lunch? For us?” they chorused happily. They were clambering into my car, chattering unintelligibly, almost before I could collect myself. One was blonde, Polya, the other dark haired with a slight Asian slant to her eyes. That was Irina, pronounced with two long
e
s. She was definitely a beauty. Could Vladik have chosen them for their looks rather than their voices? Remembering his behavior with Adela and his embarrassing titty speech at the party, I rather imagined it was their looks that had won them their student visas.
They had no afternoon classes so I took them across town with the idea of sampling the
salpicon
at Julio’s. Not that I hadn’t had it before, but if it was as tasty as I remembered, I’d get a recipe for my column. My guests were happy with anywhere I wanted to go. Obviously, they didn’t get around much, poor things. They kept their noses pressed to the car windows all along Interstate 10 East, exclaiming over what they saw. The sights weren’t all that picturesque, but if they were happy, I was happy and managed to get off the right exit ramp to Julio’s.
Then there were menu problems. Irina and Polya didn’t eat in restaurants at all, as it turned out. They ate in their trailer and brought lunches from home, so after two years in El Paso, they’d never tried Mexican food. I had to describe dishes; I had to give warnings about spiciness. After much discussion, they ordered tlapeno soup, mild, a chicken and cilantro soup with avocado slices. After that they got what I was having, salpicon, which is a salad—cold, shredded brisket, marinated and served on lettuce leaves, with cheese cubes, cilantro, and avocado slices.
Avocados were a thrill for these girls. They’d never had any and later wondered whether there were avocado desserts. Actually, I remembered that in the ’30s a place in El Paso called the Spinning Wheel had served giant avocado malts to teenagers. How dreadful does that sound? I didn’t mention it to my guests lest they want to order that very thing. Of course, they’d never sampled any of Adela’s guacamole at the party. In fact, they’d seemed to keep to themselves and had avoided Vladik; and they left early, now that I thought back on the evening. Perhaps they didn’t like him. Perhaps he had demanded sex from them.
The salpicon was excellent, and I did solicit a recipe. “You will make at home?” they asked. I probably wouldn’t, I replied, and explained about “Have Fork; Will Travel.” They thought that a food column for newspapers must be a wonderful job and marveled that the restaurant didn’t provide the food free. Since the ethical considerations were too difficult to explain, I introduced the topic of Vladik. They nodded and looked very sad. “Only Russian we are knowing, and one more,” said Polya.
“Only person we are calling when car dies,” mourned Irina. “He giving money for food and gas and trailer. We don’t know what we are doing now. Boris Stepanovich Ignatenko is getting our pay at club now that Vladik dead. Say is being from their partnership.”
“I think Vladik owing him money, like we owing Vladik money,” said Polya, nodding wisely and rolling another tortilla full of salpicon. “Is very good,” she said around a big bite.
“You’re waitresses at a club?” I asked. Then it occurred to me that there might be a club in El Paso where opera was sung. If so, Jason and I would certainly have to go.
“No waitress—dancing,” said Irina. “Brazen Babes. You are knowing it? Is between university and trailer park. But so far Boris Stepanovich is giving us no money for food. We are wondering what we do. Car is dying again this morning. Nice boy pushes us into parking, but now we are needing push to get started. Need to find other nice boy.”
“Brazen Babes?” I asked. What kind of place was that? And what kind of dancing? And when did they get their homework done?
Polya nodded. “Is big surprise for us when we get here. We are not being dancers, not knowing about taking off clothes in front of many men. We are much embarrassed.”
“And Vladik is wanting us to have sex with men,” added Irina. “I am saying no.”
“Irina is not liking men,” Polya explained. “Her father was very bad to her, so I am saying okay to Vladik so he don’t be mad at us, but sex was very awful. Then we are both saying we rather go back to Russia than have more sex, but we much afraid Vladik making us leave. Only good thing, we think before, maybe we find husbands in U.S. But now we are being women who like women. How you say in English?”
“Lesbians?” I responded in a weak voice. My head was reeling at their revelations. These young women had been forced into white slavery.
“Maybe yes,” Irina agreed. “When Vladik think we should both having sex with him, we are saying, we don’t do that. We are women who are liking women. So he not bothering us about sex no more, but still we are dancing and taking off clothes on stage and tables. Is very disgusting.”
“I imagine.” Good grief, I thought. Something had to be done about this.
“Now Boris Stepanovich is saying lap dances. That is wiggling on laps of customers.” Both girls moaned and dove into their flan. “We are not wanting to go home, but maybe now losing school visas and degrees. Degree from American university would be very good things, and who will be making us opera stars with Vladik is dead?”
They looked so sad, and I had no idea what the solution to their terrible predicament might be. A good start might be the desecration of Vladislav Gubenko’s corpse. What a dreadful man! I shifted in my seat and my foot touched the gift bags. Since both girls appeared to be on the verge of tears, now might be a good time for the presents.