The right to sing the blues an-3 Page 15

  Nudger knew how, even given as he was to baseless optimism. The pain was back, threatening to get really vicious, so he went back to the bed and lay down, went immediately to sleep again, and slept until nine-twenty the next morning. Time sure flew when you weren't having fun.

  Deja vu seemed to play a prominent role in Nudger's life, he reflected, wondering if it was like that with everyone. This morning was a repeat of yesterday morning, only without Sandra Reckoner. The hot needle shower to ease aches and stiffness, the clean, unwrinkled clothes, the eggs, juice, and coffee served up by the gawky young bellhop who rolled the car in and looked around for Ineida, his protruding Adam's apple bobbing frantically like some kind of carnal radar.

  "She's not here," Nudger said.

  "Yes, sir," the bellhop answered, leaving the tray in front of the blue chair again. "I can see that." It was as if Nudger had diabolically dictated that Ineida disappear. The kid seemed to hold it against him, so Nudger tipped him a mere dollar and watched him sulk and disappear himself.

  Plenty of appetite this morning, and nothing to spoil it. Nudger forked down the omelet, ate every crumb of the toast, and drained his orange juice glass. Then he sat and leisurely sipped two cups of coffee, realizing with hope and satisfaction that he felt tolerably well today. Some pain was still present, but he could tune it out enough to coexist with it. He could be Nudger again, and not merely a thing that lay motionless and ached.

  Still moving stiffly, but not nearly as slowly as his creeping pace of yesterday, he gingerly labored into his sport jacket and straightened his open shirt collar. Then he left the hotel and walked through golden-molasses sunshine to Fat Jack's club. Fat Jack was in his office this morning, at his desk studying a folder full of sheet music with a sketchy and faded look to the notes. He had his suit coat off and was wearing a pristine white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms like fleshy hams.

  "Hey, high tech," Fat Jack said. He gave a little offhand wave.

  "Hi," Nudger said, somewhat confused. Had Fat Jack said "tech," or had he greeted him as "Tex"?

  "Guy set me some blues numbers written by his computer," Fat Jack explained. Tech. "Wants me to have the band play them some night. Trouble is, the computer doesn't writ e like W. C. Handy, it writes like IBM. Can you believe it, one of the numbers here is called 'Dot Matrix Momma of Mine.' "

  "Catchy."

  "So's syphilis."

  Nudger guessed Fat Jack didn't like the dot matrix number.

  "Where you been?" Fat Jack asked.

  "Slept late; I was beat."

  "Not this morning. I mean yesterday."

  "Yesterday morning's when Ineida came to my hotel to see me," Nudger said, turning away the thrust of Fat Jack's question like a seasoned politician on "Meet the Press." "She offered me twenty thousand dollars to leave her and Hollis- ter alone."

  Fat Jack looked thoughtful and shifted his immense weight; the chair somewhere beneath him groaned for mercy.

  "She said it was her money," Nudger said. "Do you think she could come up with that much on her own without her father knowing about it?"

  "He might not know about it now," Fat Jack said, "but you can bet he will know about it, whether it's her money or his." He suddenly glanced sharply up at Nudger. "Hey, how come you turned down her offer?"

  Nudger shrugged. "I'll make it up when I send you your bill."

  Fat Jack was too lost in concern even to respond to that outrageous suggestion. He used his sausage-fingered left hand to worry the gold pinky ring on his right. "What did she say when you refused her offer, old sleuth?"

  "She couldn't understand why she couldn't buy something she wanted that badly. She got mad."

  "People like that," Fat Jack said, "they know the value of money. Hey, I mean the real value. Even at her age, been rich all her life. Folks like you and me, we think we understand, but we don't. Usually not till it's too late. You must have confused her for sure, a private cop without a price tag."

  "She assumed somebody was paying me more for staying on the job than she was offering me to quit."

  "Hey."

  "She wants to know what's going on," Nudger said, "wants to know how she figures into it. I think maybe it's time we tell her, see how it all falls."

  "No," Fat Jack said quickly. "No matter how it falls, it will all land on me."

  "But think how much heavier it will be if David Collins finds out you had information that might have saved his daughter from Hollister and you kept silent."

  Fat Jack was scooting one of the computer-composed numbers back and forth on the flat desktop with his fingertips, pondering Nudger's question. Nudger could read the piece's title, even though from his perspective it was upside down: "Floppy Disk Fanny." He liked that one. The desk phone rang.

  Fat Jack picked up the receiver, pressed it above the jowl on the right side of his broad head, and identified himself. A few seconds passed, and his face went as white as his shirt.

  "Yes, sir" he said. Both jowls began to quiver; loose flesh beneath his left eye started to dance. It was as if the thin man who's supposed to be inside every fat man was struggling to get out. Nudger was getting nervous just looking at him.

  "You can't mean it," Fat Jack said. "Hey, maybe it's a joke, is all." Pause. "Okay, it ain't a joke." He listened a while longer and then said, "Yes, sir" again and hung up. He didn't say anything else for a long time. Nudger didn't say anything either. The air conditioner behind the desk hummed and gurgled; traffic outside on Conti swished by with the low, tense singing of rubber on hot pavement.

  Fat Jack spoke first. He sounded out of breath. "That was David Collins. Ineida's gone. Not home. Not anywhere. Bed hasn't been slept in."

  "Then she and Hollister left as they planned."

  "You mean as Hollister planned. Collins got a note in the mail."

  "Note?" Nudger asked. His stomach did a flip; it was way ahead of his brain, reacting to a suspicion not yet fully formed.

  "A ransom note," Fat Jack confirmed. "Unsigned, in cutout newspaper words, just like in some cornball TV cop show." Fat Jack paused, perspiring. "Oh, Christ-cop! Collins said Livingston is on his way over here now to talk to me about Hollister."

  "Why isn't he on his way to talk to Hollister? That would make more sense."

  "No, it wouldn't. Hollister's disappeared, too. And his clothes are missing from his closet." Fat Jack's little pink eyes were bulging in his blanched face. He was suffering plenty; things he couldn't fathom were happening too fast. "We kept quiet too long about them letters you found. I better not tell Livingston about them."

  "Not unless he asks," Nudger said. "And he won't."

  "If he finds out about them and demands to have them, we're caught between having to withhold evidence or admitting something Collins won't be able to forgive. Some choice!"

  "It's not one we'll have to make," Nudger said, "because the letters are gone."

  "Huh? Gone where?"

  "I don't know. They were stolen from my room."

  A tremor ran through Fat Jack with this new source of worry. Its epicenter must have been his heart; he clutched his chest in a way that had Nudger concerned for a moment, then he seemed to calm down and dropped his hands to the desk. "Do you figure Collins might have got them?"

  "I think we can rule it out," Nudger said. He knew that if Frick or Frack had been in his room and found the letters, they would have mentioned it to him during their encounter in the alley. Or they would have phoned David Collins for instructions and that encounter would have been far more serious.

  "You got any idea who might have the letters?" Fat Jack asked.

  "No," Nudger lied. "Have the police been officially contacted about Ineida's kidnapping?"

  "Collins isn't the sort to trust the police on something like this," Fat Jack said. "He'll try taking care of it on his own, and in his own fashion."

  Nudger thought about asking how Livingston knew about Ineida's disappearance, but he decided that would be naiv
e.

  Fat Jack suddenly grimaced, as if something inside his head had been reeled painfully tight. "Just what the hell am I going to say to Livingston?"

  "Play it by ear," Nudger told him. "You've been doing that all your life and it's worked out fine." He stood up.

  "Where you going?"

  "I'm leaving," Nudger said, "before Livingston gets here. There's no sense in making this easy for him."

  "Or difficult for you."

  "It works out that way, for a change."

  Fat Jack nodded, his eyes unfocused yet thoughtful, already rehearsing in his mind the lines he would use on Livingston. His survival instincts had been aroused. He wasn't a man to bow easily or gracefully to trouble, and he had seen plenty of trouble in his life. He knew a multitude of moves and would use them all.

  "By the way," Nudger said, "do you know a woman named Marilyn Eeker?"

  "Eeker?…" Fat Jack mumbled absently, his mind not on the question. "No, never heard of her."

  "A petite blonde, about forty."

  Still engrossed in his own worsening dilemma, Fat Jack didn't bother to answer. Maybe he hadn't heard.

  He didn't seem to notice when Nudger left.

  XXVI

  They were waiting for Nudger by his car, around the corner from Fat Jack's. Frick and Frack. His stomach growled something that sounded like "Please, noooo!" He considered turning and running, even though they'd seen him and could easily overtake him. Fear and memory churned around in his gut like something alive and violent. He tried to fight it down; it wouldn't stay.

  Nudger figured the best way to deal with this was to walk on to his car and try to hide his fright. His aches from his previous beating seemed to flare up now that he was in the proximity of perpetrators Frick and Frack. He wished he'd stayed in Fat Jack's office and opted for Livingston instead of being here now, walking like a school kid toward two class bullies.

  At first Nudger thought the little red subcompact had a flat tire. Then he saw that its left front side was six inches lower than the right because Frick had one of his gigantic feet resting on the bumper. When Nudger got closer the car bobbed level as Frick removed the foot, straightened up, and both men stood facing him squarely, not smiling, waiting for him.

  "Don't worry, my friend," Frick told him. "None of the rough persuasion this time."

  "Nice of you to let my internal bruises heal," Nudger said, stopping a safe five feet from the two men. His voice hadn't squeaked as much as he'd feared. Traffic continued to flow past where the car was parked; a few drivers slowed down to gawk at the impressive bulk of Frick and Frack, then drove on in a hurry, hoping they hadn't offended with their slackened speed and curious glances, praying their engines wouldn't stall.

  "Ain't you gonna have one of those little white things you chew?" Frack asked. He shifted his body to the side and dropped his shoulder slightly, as if ready to throw a stiff left jab, trying to appear more menacing. He didn't need the theatrics; he'd probably menaced his mother's obstetrician upon emergence from the womb.

  Nudger obliged him by thumbing an antacid tablet directly from the roll into his mouth. "What's this about?" he asked, chomping loudly, as if noise might bluff away his uneasiness.

  "Mr. Collins said you and he need to talk," Frick said.

  "About what?"

  Frick did smile now. "What difference does it make? Mr. Collins wants a word, my friend, and you can find out what that word is about when he decides to tell you. That's the way it is with Mr. Collins."

  "Who am I to break tradition?" Nudger said. He wouldn't push things. He couldn't be sure if Frick and Frack knew about Ineida's disappearance. He would bet that they did, and they were here for that reason. But it seemed unwise to try to anticipate David Collins, so Nudger stayed silent.

  "Get in the car," Frack instructed.

  Nudger glanced around. "What car? Where is it parked?"

  "We're going in your car," Frick said. "That way you won't have to take a cab back to your hotel. You drive."

  Nudger didn't argue with such uncompromising consideration. They watched as he unlocked the car. Frick sat in front next to him, knees cranked up almost beneath his chin. Frack was somehow packed into the back-seat area, his huge knees digging into Nudger's back through the thin upholstery of the tiny bucket seat.

  "Don't them seats go up farther so I got more room?" Frack asked.

  Frick reached down awkwardly, yanked a lever. Instead of moving forward, his seatback slammed backward as far as it would go into the reclining position. It could only go halfway because it hit Frack, who grunted in surprise and pain and shoved the seatback forward again violently, almost causing Frick to strike his head on the windshield.

  "Christ!" Frick said. "Easy."

  "You guys are too big for this car," Nudger told them, when the subcompact had stopped rocking.

  "Fuck it," Frack said. "Drive. We'll give you directions."

  Nudger drove. Less than an hour later, the dwarf auto labored up the long driveway of a plush and rambling Spanish-style house several miles outside the city. It was all stucco and rough-sawn timber, painted white with dark-stained trim. Each end of the wide house was marked by a chopped-off kind of guard tower with small rectangular windows. Just the place for Rapunzel if she were twins. Flowering bougainvillea had crawled halfway up one of the towers and bloomed a wild riot of color, floral anarchists trying to escape from the neatly manicured green shrubbery around the foundation. There was a circular driveway that ran beneath a tile-roofed portico before tall, dark-stained wood front doors adorned with black iron. Beyond the house, where the ground sloped up gradually toward a distant chain-link fence, a gardener was working slowly but diligently with a shovel, piling earth off to the side in a neat mound. Nudger tried not to think of what he might be digging.

  The red subcompact strained and clattered up to the crest of the driveway. The overheated little radiator sighed in relief as Nudger obeyed Frick's instructions and parked beneath the portico and finally switched off the engine.

  Nudger felt like part of one of those circus acts where a dozen or so clowns pile out of a tiny parked car. What Frick and Frack lacked in numbers, they more than made up for in poundage.

  Frick and Nudger stood waiting patiently outside while Frack grunted and growled and levered his contorted body loose from the back of the car. Nudger wondered how he could explain to the rental company how the car had gotten stretched. Did the insurance form he'd signed cover that? As if angry at the car for being small, Frack slammed the door so hard the window almost popped out.

  With Nudger between them, the two big men stepped up on the porch, pushed open the doors without knocking, and entered the house; they were familiar with their imposing surroundings, and they had returned with what they'd been sent to get.

  The interior of the house was as plush as the exterior suggested it would be. There were acres of tiled floor, expensive-looking throw rugs, heavy Spanish-style furniture, ornately framed oils hung on the sand-finished walls. Nothing seemed to be used or worn in the slightest; it was as if professional decorators had placed the furnishings just so and then left things to be dusted lightly by someone every few days.

  Frick led the way down a hall, through a door, and down a flight of wide, brightly lighted stairs. Another door opened into what Nudger assumed was the house's basement level. He was beginning not to like this.

  They walked down another hall, this one lined with more paintings. These were unlike the traditional oils upstairs; they were modern, canvases splashed with indecipherable forms that were somehow ominous. Jackson Pollock possessed by Poe.

  Frick stopped near a bend of the hall, stepped to the side, and motioned for Nudger to turn the corner first.

  Nudger did, not without apprehension, and there was a small, dark-haired man sitting in one of half a dozen black leather chairs in a large, carpeted room.

  Unlike upstairs, this room was comfortably sloppy. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered wi
th various collectibles: glass curios, antique steel banks, some old cast- iron toys, several rows of antique jars. There was a big-screen TV in one corner, its viewing area a bored, opaque eye. In another corner a bar was set up. There were telephones sitting about like ashtrays; nobody would have to get up from any of the plushy upholstered black chairs in order to take a call. A well-fed yellow cat lounged on the arm of a black sofa, its head turned and drawn back tightly to stare at Nudger with calm disdain, as if on its list of things due respect, Nudger ranked far below litter box. New Orleans had no shortage of cats, and they all seemed to share the same low opinion of Nudger.

  The dark-haired man saw Nudger and stood up. He was medium height, broad-shouldered yet very thin, younger- looking than Nudger had anticipated, with an even-featured face that was handsome despite deep acne scars that mottled his cheeks. He looked at Nudger with rather large, clear brown eyes. His expression was the same as the cat's. So was his complexion; his flesh had a yellowish tinge to it. He said, "Sit down, Mr. Nudger." His voice carried just the hint of a lisp.

  As he spoke, a tall, chestnut-haired woman, who'd been sitting outside Nudger's range of vision, stood up.

  "I'll be back in a few hours, darling," she said to the yellowish man and strutted from the room, regal and brassy as a showgirl. She appeared to have been crying, but it probably served to make her more beautiful, human as well as statuesque. Mrs. Collins?

  As the door closed behind the woman, Frick placed a hand on Nudger's shoulder and guided him to one of the black chairs. The chair hissed as Nudger settled into it; he felt oddly helpless, a prisoner of all that softness, which would inhibit any quick movement. Frick backed away to stand to the side and slightly behind Nudger. Frack took up position by the door, crossing his arms in a casual but vigilant they-shall-not-pass attitude.

  "I'm David Collins," the yellowish man said, walking over to stand in front of Nudger. He was wearing well-tailored dark-blue dress slacks, a silky blue-on-blue shirt, and crinkly leather gray shoes that looked suspiciously like house slippers. His clothes clashed with his complexion but his drink didn't. In his right hand was an on-the-rocks glass with a pebbled clear bottom; the glass contained ice cubes and about a quarter of an inch of diluted amber liquid, probably Scotch. He said, in a very calm and conversational tone, so softly, "Who has my daughter, Mr. Nudger?"