The Jar of Nephren-Ka

On Kinsey's Trail

New Orleans, Louisiana: 10:05 AM, Wednesday, June 6th, 1984

I rolled into the King Cab lot just as the sun was winning its battle with the clouds. As the little bell heralded my arrival, Hubert wheeled over to the window, head craning on his short, fat neck.

"Rev, right?" he called out.

I nodded as I strode forward.

"Boss, I been busy, me. Gonna be later 'fore I can dig up your paperwork."

I stopped at the counter and studied the little office. Looked roughly the same as yesterday; maybe the piles of paperwork were rearranged, but there certainly didn't seem to be any less of them.

"Doesn't look like you've had much luck at all," I remarked.

"Pretty normal, this. Rough job," he said as he rolled back over to his desk.

I wanted to roll my eyes so hard they popped out of my head. Instead, I let out a weary sigh and said, "There's a Jackson in it for you if I can get it before lunch."

He looked up at me for a moment, eyes squinted, calculating. "Make it a Grant, and you got you a deal," he said, eyes twinkling.

I pulled out my wallet, shuffled through it, and slapped two 20s on the counter.

"Best I can do."

Hubert looked at the clock, thinking, then slapped his hand over the bills and slid them across. 

"Have a seat, Bossman, be right with you."

***

After about an hour of digging through his filing cabinet, Hubert came up with the fare ticket. "Here you go," he said, and slid the slip of paper across the counter.

It had the driver's name, taxi number, date, and charge listed, but not the destination. The driver's name was Oleg Nikolaev.

"The driver's number?" I asked.

Hubert wrote it down on a scrap of paper and slid it over to me.

"Borrow your phone?"

Hubert rolled his eyes, then grabbed the phone, drug it to the edge of the counter, and passed the receiver through the little slit at the bottom. I stuck it to my ear as he began dialing.

"Oleg works nights. He not gonna like this call," he said, eyes glinting with private mirth. The phone began ringing on the other end. I cursed under my breath, but stayed on the line.

"Da," came a groggy, nasal voice with a heavy Russian or Eastern European accent.

"Oleg Nikolaev?" I asked.

"Yes, who is calling at ungodly hour?"

"I'm Rev Parata, a PI. I'm looking for a fare you picked up a few weeks ago. Is there some time we can talk?"

There was a pause, then "You are not police, no? I am not in trouble?"

"No trouble. I'm looking for a missing person. Just need to know where you took him."

I could hear bedsprings creaking on the other end of the line.

"If was few weeks ago, maybe I not remember. You have photo?"

"Yes," I said, then added, "Photos of the fare and some dead presidents."

This got an approving smile from Hubert.

There was a pause, then he gave me an address in Westwego, across the river from Nola proper. I thanked him, hung up, and headed out.

***

I was getting low on cash due to all these payoffs, so I dropped by the local branch of my bank on the way. Counting the stop, it took me half an hour to make it to Oleg's apartment.

The complex was a cluster of small, single-story brick buildings, almost like ugly, blocky little cottages. Oleg's unit was on the edge of the property, near an enormous overflow pond. The smell of stagnant water and trash wafted in whenever the breeze blew to the west.

I parked the cruiser beside the yellow cab in the drive, then got out, flexing my leg a few times to wake it up. At the front door, I knocked three times and waited.

I could hear some rustling around inside, then the curtains in the window beside the door briefly parted, and I made out the face of a man looking me up and down before the curtains closed again.

"Mr. Nikolaev, it's Rev Parata. I'm the guy you just spoke to on the phone."

I heard the rustling stop, and then I heard the snap of the deadbolt disengaging. The door opened, and a small, thin, middle-aged man with blindingly white skin and a thick mop of black hair stared back at me. His eyes were small, dark, and wary, but his hands were steady as he opened the door and gestured for me to enter.

The inside was dark and tight, but cozy. Oleg clearly took some pride in his home.

The living area comprised a small tattered sofa, a battered side chair, and a long, low coffee table, clean but clearly well used. There was no TV in evidence, but great stacks of books were piled on makeshift shelves nailed to the far wall.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a small sofa in the living area.

I sat, my bulk taking most of the available space. The sofa groaned in protest.

"You are wanting coffee, tea?" Oleg asked.

I waved away the offer. Oleg shrugged and sat in a worn chair to the left of me.

I placed the photo of Kinsey down on the coffee table and slid it over towards Oleg. Oleg leaned over the table, face serious with concentration. After a moment, he leaned back.

"Da, I remember," he said. "Was strange fare. Had me drive in circles, then to Slidell to visit bank machine."

"An ATM?" I asked.

"Da, uh, yes."

"He just have you leave him there?"

Oleg shifted in his chair, not meeting my eyes.

"Oleg?"

"Well, maybe I could see some presidents now, yes?"

There was a pleading quality in his voice. He clearly didn't enjoy shaking me down, but was desperate enough to do it anyway. I felt a little sorry for the guy.

I pulled out a $10 bill and laid it on the desk. "There's another if I like the information," I said.

Oleg pondered for a moment, then quickly snatched up the money.

"He asked if could take him somewhere off books, cash only."

"Isn't that against policy?"

"Da, it is," he said, spreading his hands in a 'what's a guy supposed to do' gesture.

"Did you take him?"

He looked me in the eyes, a searching look, like he was trying to see into my soul.

"I tell you, it is between you and I, yes?"

I nodded.

He took a deep breath and began. "He had me drive up bayou to Lacombe, just off 434. Dropped him at a locked gate."

"Could you see anything past the gate?"

"Trees, brush, old dirt road. Big abandoned house further down. Reminded me of stories my babushka used to scare us with as children." He laughed harshly at the memory.

"What happened when you dropped him off?"

He looked at me incredulously, eyes wide. "Who can say? I leave like the wind."

"Can you take me to the place?"

"Da," he said, but then added, "Is long way. You have more American presidents?"

I nodded, pulling out a 20 and waving it. He reached for it, and I pulled it back.

"On arrival," I said, and he nodded.