EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories (3 page)

“The Non Compos Mentis Blues” originally appeared in the Bleak House Books anthology CHICAGO BLUES, edited by Libby Fisher Hellmann. It is a Ray Dudgeon story, and takes place between the novels
Big City Bad Blood
and
Trigger City
.

Between the novels, Ray has fallen on hard times and takes whatever comes his way. In “The Non Compos Mentis Blues” he learns the hard way that divorce can be murder.

I originally began the story with a surveillance report, just like the many I’d submitted during my days working as a P.I. The idea was to give readers a window into the authentic life of a P.I., as an introduction to the story.

Problem was, surveillance reports are intrinsically boring. While I got many nice emails from people who slogged through the report and loved the story that followed, I got many others from people who said, basically, “Why the hell did you make me read all that stuff before you started the story?”

Okay, lesson learned. As the great Elmore Leonard so famously said,
“Leave out the parts that people skip.”

Here’s the story, without the surveillance report.

S
HE'D READ THE REPORT,
looked at the photos, but still had trouble accepting it. They often do.

“Mrs. Hills, you hired me because you thought your husband was having an affair. He is.”

“But some cheap little Italian restaurant and an airport motel? It all seems a little
downscale
, for him.” She shot me a look from behind huge Gucci sunglasses. I couldn’t actually see her eyes but I caught the abrupt change in the angle of her head. Even without eyes, she shot me a look.

“He’s not likely to take her to Charlie Trotter’s and the Ritz-Carlton” I offered. “Or any place where he’s known.”

“And a smoky blues club?
Please.
Gordon doesn’t even like blues music.”

“Maybe he does.”

She shot me another look. “Gordon does
not
enjoy blues music.”

Thinking back on the previous night, I had to concede her point. Gordon didn’t strike me as a fan of the blues. My impression had been that he’d taken Susan Titley to a blues club in order to impress her. In order to seem hip. When he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, he completely missed 2-and-4, and in fact seemed to miss the concept of any steady rhythm. Susan Titley seemed no more interested in the music than Gordon. They talked a lot, over the music, about how great the music was. And they never shut up long enough to actually listen.

They missed a hell of a set. Lurrie Bell—my favorite of the current Chicago blues axemen—put on a fine show, complete with searing guitar and heartbreaking vocals. Pearls before swine. But they paid the cover and bought drinks, and I suppose that gave them the right to ignore the music. Still, I didn’t like them for it and I started to feel something akin to alliance with Mrs. Hills, who now sat flipping through the photos attached to my report.

“Where are the pictures of them fucking?” And now she wanted to see them fucking. So much for our nascent alliance.

“I don’t take pictures of people fucking, Mrs. Hills. First, it’s illegal. Once they’re in the hotel room, they’re off limits. Second, it’s unnecessary. There’s not a divorce court in the state that will believe they were playing Scrabble all night. Now if you can arrange it so they’re fucking in public—”

“Just be quiet a minute,” she said, “I want to read this again.”

So I shut up and let Mrs. Hills read the report of her husband’s infidelity for the third time. She was not a bad looking woman, if quite severe. I guessed she’d already had a couple of facelifts and I put her in her early fifties. She wore a cream Chanel suit, too much gold on the wrists and fingers and three strands of jumbo pearls around the neck. Her ash-blonde hair, cut long enough to caress her shoulders, was her most attractive feature. She made my office smell like Coco, which was okay by me. Perfume—even when overzealously applied—smells better than a guy who hasn’t showered in a day and a half. Which I hadn’t. Across the oak desk I noticed that her overlong nails were painted to match the pearls. Highland Park
nouveau riche
.

I glanced at my wall of built-in bookshelves. I’d actually read some of those books. Someday I’d read them all. Right now I just wanted to get Mrs. Hills the hell out of my office so I could sleep the rest of the morning away on the familiar burgundy leather couch in the corner. But the tension in Mrs. Hills’ ivory jaw said that she was going nowhere for a while. I wished she would just cry, like any normal wife. I reached into a pocket and dug out a half empty pack of Pall Malls, tapped one on the desk, put it between my lips and fired it up. She forced two sharp coughs to register her disapproval, but didn’t look up.

I dragged deep and blew smoke at the ceiling and said, “Coffee?” She waved her pearlescent claws absently in my direction. “Well, I’ve been up all night and I need some, so I’ll put your name in the pot.” No response.

I made a pot and came back from the kitchenette with two mugs full of strong black coffee and put one in front of her and sat and sipped the other one and scalded my upper lip.

“Well Mr. Dudgeon, it appears that you’ve done your job.”

“Not completely. That report, the photos, and my testimony will establish that your husband was unfaithful. Once. We need to establish that he was habitually adulterous or that he was having an ongoing affair.”

“She’s his secretary. You don’t have a one night stand with your secretary.”

“Sure. But that logic alone doesn’t hold up in court. We need to document three separate occasions of infidelity.”

“That’s patently ridiculous. I’ve paid you for three days’ work.”

“You can’t expect me to know when your husband’s going to—”

“And your rates are exorbitant. I’ve checked around.” Was she actually trying to negotiate with me?

I blew on my coffee for a while and waited for her to fire me. But she said nothing, just curled her right claw around the coffee mug and took a long silent sip. Then another. I started to get that uneasy feeling and hit the foot switch under my desk, activating a video camera I kept hidden in the bookshelf. She read the report a fourth time. I sat and smoked drank some coffee and listened to the ‘L’ trains rumble by, twelve floors below, on Wabash Avenue.

Finally she said, “How much would you charge to…well, you know.”

There it was.
“No, I don’t know.”

“To kill him.” Only her lips moved. The mug was still in her right claw.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mrs. Hills.”

“I’ve learned to accept the private humiliations,” she said, “but this…this is the end of it. I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.”

I stubbed out the cigarette and said, “I don’t murder people, Mrs. Hills. I’m a detective.”

“If you’re not man enough to save me from his cruelty, I’ll find someone who is.”

“Wait a second, let’s slow down. You’ve just received some bad news and you’re very upset—”

“Do I look very upset?” She didn’t.

“Some people hide it well,” I said.

“I refuse to stage a public performance of my anguish for your benefit,” she said. “I want him dead and I’m offering a substantial sum. Now do you or do you not want the job?”

It’s amazing how many people think private investigators will kill someone for the right amount of money. Too much television. I stood and picked up my coffee mug, pried hers loose, and went to refill them and give her a chance to think. When I returned, she was standing.

“I’ve had enough coffee. I want an answer. Yes or no?”

“You want me to kill your husband.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re offering twenty thousand dollars.”

She picked up her purse and said, “Stop stalling, Mr. Dudgeon. Yes or no?”

I let out a sigh, almost meaning it. “All right, give me a couple days to work out a few things and then call me if you haven’t changed your mind.”

“I’ll talk to you in a couple of days then.” Her mouth twitched up at the corners. Almost a smile. “I won’t change my mind.”

And she was gone, her stiletto heels marching off toward the elevators down the hall, probably leaving a trail of dents in the marble floor.

I slumped into my chair and hit the foot switch to shut off the video camera and lit another cigarette.

Then I reached for the Rolodex and flipped to ‘Holborn’.

Special Agent Holborn and I had a brief but intense history. I think Holborn liked me but he wasn’t sure if he respected me, while I respected him but wasn’t sure if I liked him. Anyway we’d worked together once and things had turned out okay.

Holborn and his partner Special Agent Jordan watched the videotape in the meeting room at the FBI’s Chicago office on West Roosevelt, and I watched them. Holborn was about six feet tall with sandy hair and a runner’s build. Agent Jordan was black, an inch taller than Holborn with a bald head, a close cropped beard, and a little more muscle on his frame. I’d only met Jordan once so it was too soon to know if I liked or respected him. The videotape ended and Holborn pressed stop and the television screen went to blue.

“Looks like we’ve got a live one,” said Agent Jordan.

Holborn said, “Ray, are you sure that you said nothing, prior to activating the video recorder, which could’ve planted this idea?”

“Well now that you mention it, I may have said something like, ‘It sure would be great if your husband was dead.’ Other than that, nothing I can think of.” Jordan stifled a laugh and I started to like him. Holborn glared at me.

“Don’t be a dickhead,” he said.

“I’ve been awake for 52 hours,” I countered.

Holborn turned to Jordan, “Check with Torontelli and Robertson, in case this turns into something.” Jordan nodded and left the room.

I said, “I’d like one more chance to talk her out of it.”

“Why? She’s an Ice Queen. You can’t possibly like her…”

“No,” I said, “but there’s something…I don’t know. Offered a way out, she might reconsider. And if she doesn’t, it’ll help shore up the case against an entrapment defense.”

Holborn considered it. “I’ll give you one chance. When she calls back—”

“
If
she calls back.”

“
When
she calls back, you record the call. Give her one chance to reconsider, then make the deal.”

“Fine.”

“And don’t get cute, Ray. Play this straight or I’ll have your balls in a vice.”

“You sure know how to paint a pretty picture, Agent Holborn.”

Of course she called back. And I recorded the call. I played it straight and gave her the one chance to back out but she would not be dissuaded. She still wanted the job done and she was growing impatient. We went back and forth on the timing of payment. I said I wanted it up front. She wanted to pay on confirmation of her husband’s untimely demise, although she didn’t put it that bluntly. Maybe she was being careful because we were on the phone, but her reliance on euphemisms was frustrating. We finally agreed on six thousand up front and fourteen “upon delivery.” We arranged to meet that evening at an IHOP diner near the airport.

I called Agent Holborn and we agreed that he would come to my office at nine thirty so he could wire me for sound, go over the game plan and get to the diner ahead of the scheduled meeting time of eleven thirty. I taped that call too, just for the hell of it.

“Now remember, this doesn’t transmit, it’s only a recorder. We’re relying on you to judge when you’ve got enough on tape.”

“I’ve done this before,” I said as I buttoned my shirt.

“Just don’t get fancy. And don’t make any assumptions. Check the money. If she doesn’t give you money, we’re back to square one.”

“Yeah, okay.” I put on my jacket and tightened my tie. Holborn wore blue jeans, a polo shirt, and a black leather bomber jacket. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit. “Is it on?”

“It’s on,” said Holborn. “There’s five hours of tape, so don’t worry about it. And don’t touch it. If you adjust it, you’ll give the whole thing away. Just forget it’s there.” He seemed tense and it was the kind of tension that can be contagious and I didn’t appreciate it.

“Agent Holborn, for a guy who’s done this a million times, you seem pretty nervous. Relax.”

“I’ve also seen amateurs like you screw it up a million times.”

If he were really so concerned, he’d wire me with a transmitter and have an agent listening in. I smiled, “Since we’re doing this on the cheap, I have to conclude that you do, in fact, trust my judgment and all this tough talk is just to keep me in my place.”

“As usual, Ray, you assume too much,” he said. “I’m watching my budget.”

I gave the feds ten minutes lead time and headed out to Rosemont in a steady drizzle. It had been threatening hard rain for days and the night air had the smell of it but the drizzle lacked motivation and never graduated to a genuine rain.

Mrs. Hills was drinking coffee in a booth at the IHOP when I arrived. Holborn and Jordan were sitting at the counter, eating pie. Jordan wore a jean jacket and a faded White Sox baseball cap. The cap looked natural on him and I figured him for a ball fan.

“You’re early, Mrs. Hills.” I sat across from her and checked my reflection in her sunglasses, thinking,
Maybe rich people are more light-sensitive than the rest of us.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Her Chanel suit was black this time.

“For twenty grand?” I signaled the waitress for coffee. “You’ve chosen an appropriate color, if I may say so.”

“Let’s dispense with the gumshoe humor, shall we?” She said
gumshoe
the way your racist Aunt Mildred says
Negro
.

“Sure you want to go through with this?”

Her blood red nails dipped into her purse and withdrew an envelope. “Six thousand, as we agreed. The balance upon delivery.” She slid the envelope to the center of the table.

I took a few seconds to get the wording right. “Mrs. Hills, I’m ready to take your money but you didn’t answer my question.” The waitress set the coffee in front of me. When she was out of earshot I continued, “You just used the word ‘delivery’ again, and I don’t like it. It sounds to me like you may be sugar-coating this thing in your mind.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she said.