Oops! (Alo Nudger Book 10)

by John Lutz

  “What about the door from the basement to the yard?”

  “There is no door to outside from the basement. And no old coal chutes or fruit cellars. It was a fairly new house. There was nothing unusual about the basement until the dead body.”

  “What did Betty Almer trip over?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said she tripped going down the basement stairs.”

  “One foot tripped over the other, I guess,” Hammersmith said, a bit testily. Nudger had come for a favor, information; was he going to be difficult? Hammersmith touched the ominous cigars again. “Look, Nudge, people trip over nothing but air every day and get killed, somewhere in the world. Why not here? Why not Betty Almer?”

  “I guess that’s the way we have to convince the father to see it,” Nudger said.

  Hammersmith raised a thin white eyebrow. “We?”

  “Lacy Tumulty and I,” Nudger told him.

  Hammersmith rolled his eyes and drew a cigar from his pocket. “That young woman has too much carbonation in her blood.”

  “Not to mention larceny in her soul,” Nudger said.

  “Is she the one who steered you onto this case?”

  “More or less,” Nudger said.

  “She can be trouble.”

  “Well, she does have some unsettling ideas.”

  “Like Hitler did.”

  “I don’t think she’s political.”

  “You better be careful, Nudge. Lacy comes around here now and then. She’s dating one of the uniforms in the district. Guy named Dan Kerner.”

  “Young love,” Nudger said.

  “Young confidence woman,” Hammersmith said. “You ask me, I think she’s using Kerner. Dating a cop just so she can wheedle information out of him.” Cellophane rattled as he unwrapped the cigar. Nudger knew the conversation was drawing to a close. “Damned pillow talk leads to lots of trouble.”

  “Maybe they’re just friends,” Nudger suggested.

  Hammersmith fondled the greenish cigar then clamped it between his teeth. “Jush friendsh my ash,” he said around the cigar. “She even comesh here and bringsh him presh-ents.”

  “Presh—er, presents? Like what?”

  Hammersmith removed the cigar and studied its wet tip. “Little trinkets and toys. And sometimes things that embarrass him in front of the other guys. Tiger-stripped bikini underwear once. Her idea of a joke. Another time a black ski mask.”

  “Ski mask?”

  “Yeah, like he’s a criminal and not a cop. I guess that was the idea. Who the hell knows what a woman like that is thinking?”

  “Who the hell,” Nudger agreed.

  Gazing at Nudger with his calm gray eyes, Hammersmith nodded slightly as if in approval or agreement. “Calories are calories,” he said.

  “Just go easy on the syrup.”

  Hammersmith stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “Bishy day ahead of me, Nudge. Crime never shtops.”

  Nudger stood up and thanked Hammersmith for his help.

  Hammersmith nodded and found a book of matches. He struck one and fired up the cigar.

  Nudger got out of there fast.

  Chapter Three

  Nudger was hungry. All that talk about pancakes, maybe.

  Before leaving the Third District station, he used the pay phone to call Claudia Bettencourt and see if she wanted to meet him for lunch at Uncle Bill’s. She was teaching freshman English this year, and she had some kind of alternating schedule Nudger hadn’t yet figured out.

  Claudia was home, but she told him she was busy grading papers and didn’t have time for a long lunch. She suggested he pick up some White Castle hamburgers and bring them over to her apartment. It was only eleven o’clock. Kind of early for hamburgers, Nudger’s delicate stomach was warning him. But he wanted to see Claudia.

  Chewing antacid tablets as a precaution, he zipped up his jacket, then walked from the station out into the cool air and crossed the gritty, puddled lot to where he’d parked his Granada.

  The old car, like Nudger, seemed to be suffering already in the slide toward another St. Louis winter. It was red, so the considerable rust wasn’t too noticeable until you got up close, but it needed shock absorbers, which caused the front end to sag and made the car bound somewhat like a gazelle over rough roads. And more and more often, Nudger had to raise the hood and insert a screwdriver down the mouth of the carburetor to get the engine started. At least the heater worked. Sometimes. That was a necessity in St. Louis.

  Nudger got in and was relieved when the engine turned right over. He hadn’t been inside the station house very long, so the heater began to blow warm air immediately. And White Castle had a drive-through window, which meant he wouldn’t have to turn off the engine and try to restart it before continuing on his way to Claudia’s apartment. Things were breaking right. Now he was comfortably warm and on his way to a long afternoon with Claudia. Maybe his luck would hold.

  “I think I’ve developed a yeast infection,” Claudia said.

  Nudger’s heart plunged. They weren’t married and didn’t even talk much about marriage, but they’d been close for several years now and told each other such things.

  “Been to the doctor?” he asked, putting the white paper sack of hamburgers on the dining room table.

  “Yes. He gave me a prescription. It’ll take awhile, like it always does, then things will return to normal.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

  He watched her move to scoot the papers she’d been grading to the far side of the table. She was a slender woman with lean features, a very straight nose that was slightly too long, shoulder length dark hair, and dark, dark eyes that pulled at him. And she had a way of walking. His choice, even with a yeast infection.

  The old steam radiators pinged and clanked comfortably in the second-floor apartment. Beyond the angled venetian blind slats, Nudger could see the upper branches of a big maple tree just outside the window. Most of its leaves had fallen, and the ones that were left were shriveled and brown, ravaged survivors of early fall windstorms.

  While Nudger laid out the hamburgers and french fries, Claudia went into the kitchen and got some Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator.

  As they sat enjoying the distinctive little square White Castle hamburgers, Nudger told Claudia about Lacy Tumulty and the Almer case. It wasn’t so much the case that interested her.

  “She actually wanted you to pretend to burglarize her apartment, then sleep with her?” Claudia asked incredulously.

  “That sort of thing’s not so unlike Lacy,” Nudger said. “I mean, she’s probably asked lots of guys to do that. I mean, she’s basically a nice kid and not really as promiscuous as this makes it seem. I mean—”

  “Shut up, Nudger.”

  “Sure.”

  “That girl’s got a lot to learn.”

  “My concern is that she survives the lesson.”

  “She at least seems to have the instinct for asking the right man to share her fantasy.”

  “I turned her down,” Nudger reminded Claudia, wondering if he should be insulted.

  “But you wouldn’t have gotten carried away with your role and hurt her.”

  Now he understood and was reassured. “Most men wouldn’t hurt her, but it only takes one who will for things to get out of hand, and for her to get raped or maybe killed.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” Claudia asked.

  “Do? Me? What can I do? If she has this fantasy and is determined to act on it—”

  “I meant about the death of Betty Almer.”

  “Oh. I’ll talk to her father, try to convince him that this investigation will probably lead nowhere.”

  “Didn’t Lacy already do that?”

  “Yes, but I want to tell him that myself before I take his money, even indirectly, in exchange for my services.”

  “Maybe he’s right and there is something suspicious about his daughter’s death. You should allow for that possibility when you go see him.”
r />   “The police saw nothing suspicious in it.”

  “The police are busy with deaths where the bodies have knife wounds and bullets in them.”

  Nudger knew she had a point. And if there was the likelihood of a violent death being accidental or a suicide, it was to everyone’s advantage to make it read that way officially. Life and death moved fast and nothing was perfect.

  He finished his french fries and wiped his hands and mouth with one of the white paper napkins that had been in the sack with the burgers. Claudia picked up the little cardboard boxes each hamburger had come in, along with the larger french fry boxes, and stuffed them and the napkins and empty soda cans into the sack, then carried it into the kitchen. Nudger heard the plomp-plomp! of the foot-pedal-operated rubber wastebasket lid opening and closing.

  He got up from the table, patted his stomach, then walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. It was slightly cooler in there than in the dining room, but still comfortable.

  Claudia came in carrying two cups of hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows floating in them. Smiling, she walked across the room and handed a cup to Nudger, then sat down on the sofa next to him. She moved up against him and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “You’re an honorable man, Nudger.”

  He sipped hot chocolate, taking in some of the marshmallow. “Sometimes, anyway.” He sighed. “What’s it ever profitted me?”

  “It’s why I love you. You’re an honorable romantic.”

  Yeast infection, Nudger thought.

  Then he felt guilty. She really did love him, he was sure. Most of the time, anyway. And wasn’t she right? Wasn’t he, in his own halting way, something of a romantic? Certainly he was in a romantic business—viewed from the outside. Writers like Chandler, Hammett, and Parker had made sure of that, and he was grateful for their efforts. He bowed his head and kissed Claudia’s cheek. She placed her slender, graceful hand on top of his. It was surprisingly warm, he guessed from gripping her hot cup with both hands.

  “My temporary medical problem is a local one,” she said.

  Hey, she was right about that, too! His hope soared. He remembered how the Granada’s engine had turned right over.

  The phone rang.

  Claudia unnecessarily told him not to go away, then stood up and hurried out of sight around the dining room archway to answer the phone.

  Nudger could hear her voice, but the caller was obviously doing most of the talking. Claudia’s voice became even fainter, and he could hear the sharp clacking of her heels on the hardwood floor, then on the tile floor of the kitchen. Apparently she was talking on the cordless phone and could roam.

  The clack-clack of her heels came his way suddenly and she appeared from around the corner holding her white Sony cordless phone out toward him. The expression on her face had changed in a way he didn’t like.

  “It’s for you,” she said. “It’s Lacy Tumulty. She’s calling from her hospital bed.”

  Chapter Four

  Lacy reminded Nudger of bruised fruit. Her face was badly swollen, stretching her skin and giving it an unhealthy gloss even where it wasn’t colorfully bruised. Both eyes were narrow, reddened slits, knife wounds that could see. The right side of her mouth was puffed more than the left. When she smiled at Nudger, wincing with sudden pain, he winced with her and saw that some of her front teeth were missing. No wonder she hadn’t told Claudia much and had gotten off the phone as soon as possible. It must have been agony for her to speak.

  Nudger crossed the pale green hospital room and stood near the bed, where Lacy lay on her back, covered to her neck with a thin sheet. An IV tube from a plastic packet of clear liquid coiled down from a steel rod attached to the bed’s headboard and disappeared beneath the sheet. He moved to pat her reassuringly but drew back his hand. Anywhere he touched might hurt her.

  He simply looked down at her, feeling his eyes beginning to tear up, and shook his head slowly in sympathy.

  “My hair mus’ be a horror,” she said thickly, barely moving her swollen lips.

  “Was it that burglar thing?” Nudger asked. “Did the fantasy get out of hand?”

  She shook her head no—moved it, rather—a millimeter left, then right. “I never got injured doin’ that, Nudger. I would ha’ been better off spending last night that way than tailing a wayward wife.”

  “Ah, the divorce case and the husband who likes you. Did the wife hire somebody to do that to you?”

  “Don’ know. No explanation was given. Huge guy I never saw before did this to me, had a pointy head and ears tha’ stuck out like Mickey Mouse, but he looked more like Brutus. He jus’ grinned while he was whaling away at me.”

  “Brutus?”

  “Big cartoon bully that used to beat up on Popeye.” She almost smiled. “If I’d ha’ been able to get my hands on some spinach, it mighta come out different.”

  “Did the goon say anything at all to you?”

  “Uh-uh. Only grunted through his grin whenever he hit or kicked me. Like it was foo’ for his soul.”

  “Foo?”

  “Food,” she pronounced carefully and with obvious pain around her broken teeth.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t try to talk.”

  “Feels okay. Tongue’s ’bout the only thing I can move. Got punched in the ear, though. Can’t hear very good, so you gotta stay close and talk loud enough.”

  The wide wooden door swung halfway open, and a severe-looking nurse with pinched features and skinned-back dark hair peered in. Her eyes narrowed as their gaze passed like cold water over Nudger, and she ducked back out of sight into the hall. The door eased shut with a slight hissing from its pneumatic closer. Nudger didn’t think his visit was going to last much longer.

  “I wan’ you to keep goin’ on this,” Lacy said. It was obviously getting more difficult for her to talk.

  “The divorce case? Listen, Lacy—”

  “Uh-uh,” she interrupted. “Betty Almer case. We can’t gi’ up, Nudger.”

  “Why not?”

  “Money.”

  Nudger thought about that. His need for money was serious, with the rapacious Eileen and her lover-lawyer the repugnant Henry Mercato pressing harder than usual for additional alimony. But Lacy had been badly beaten, maybe because of the Almer case. Which meant Nudger might be badly beaten. Woe! Maybe they should give up. His stomach twisted and turned, then growled a warning.

  “We don’t need money that much, Lacy. A delay won’t make a lot of difference in an investigation like the Almer case. I know you feel terrible now, but in a few weeks you’ll be up and around again. More your old self.”

  “I’m my ol’ self now, Nudger. And it’ll take me longer ’n a few weeks to be able to dance again. He cut my—”

  The door swung open wide.

  Nudger expected to see the severe nurse with the skinned-back hair and accusatory glare. Instead a well-dressed dark-haired man in a brown suit entered the room. He had a pen in the pocket of his white shirt, and a section of black tube was visible inside his suitcoat. He had kind blue eyes and was smiling in a way that made it seem he smiled often.

  “I’m Doctor Ryker,” he said, nodding to Nudger. “I’m afraid Lacy needs her rest. Visiting hours aren’t until later this afternoon.”

  “I invited him,” Lacy said. “He’s my fren’ an’ business ’socciate. It’s ’portan’.”

  Dr. Ryker turned his smile on her. “That doesn’t make any difference. Hospital rules. Besides, I’m not so sure you’re ready for visitors.”

  “Jus’ a momen’ more,” Lacy pleaded.

  Dr. Ryker hesitated, then nodded. “Only a moment, now. I’ll be out in the hall.”

  When the doctor had left, Lacy gazed pitifully at Nudger with her swollen eyes. “I don’ wanna let this fee get ’way, Nudger.”

  “I can’t help you, Lacy. I’ve talked to Jack Hammersmith. He assured me there’s nothing suspicious about Betty Almer’s death. It was accidental.”

  �
�� ’Mersmith doesn’ know wha’ he’s talkin’ ’bou’.” A wide crack in her upper lip began to seep blood.

  Nudger knew Dr. Ryker was right. This was no time for Lacy to have visitors. No time for her to keep talking, wearing herself down.

  “I’m sorry, Lacy.” He edged toward the door.

  “Don’ lea’ like this!” she pleaded. “Think ’bou it. Please!”

  Nudger felt his insides melting. What could he say? How could he answer? He knew he was being manipulated, but it was manipulation out of desperation, as if a bird with a broken wing lay before him beseeching him for a worm. He knew he was the worm. Women were always doing this to him.

  “Are you sure it isn’t that you have scruples?” Nudger asked. “I’d feel much better telling you I’d think about it if you wanted to continue the investigation because of scruples.”

  “Money,” Lacy affirmed. “Got no med’cal ’surance.” Her lip began to bleed profusely.

  Nudger sighed.

  “Think ’bou’ it,” Lacy asked again. Her eyes appeared to lose focus.

  “I’m thinking,” Nudger told her.

  “You’re mos’ kind man I know, to help me. I got a few scruples. You gon’ help me?”

  “I said I would.”

  “Prom’se?”

  “Sure. I suppose.”

  She managed a grotesque smile, but a smile. “Than’ you.”

  He moved toward her to kiss her forehead, but there wasn’t enough room between cuts and contusions. He gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring, then backed away and quietly left the room. She might not have seen him smile. She might have drifted off to sleep. He hoped she was sleeping, not in pain.

  “Mr. Nudger,” Dr. Ryker said.

  He was standing on the other side of the wide corridor, leaning with his back against the wall, his hands in his pants pockets. Nudger walked over and stood near him.

  “She’s hurt more seriously than she seems to believe,” the doctor said.

  “How seriously?”

  “Aside from being badly bruised, she sustained damage to her kidneys, and she has several broken ribs.”