Ride the Lightning (Alo Nudger)

by John Lutz

  “We're here, Nudge,” Danny said. “I'D come around and help you out.”

  But Nudger had already opened the passenger-side door and was sitting straddling a yellow line in the parking lot.

  12

  A Filipino doctor and a husky blond nurse argued about Nudger's X rays. Nudger and another emergency patient, a calm man with a fishhook in his arm, watched as the nurse kept trying to poke at the X rays with her finger while the doctor waved them around. Finally they decided that one of Nudger's lower ribs might be cracked. They also thought he might have suffered a concussion.

  The guy who'd beat him up had been very professional. He could have hurt Nudger much more seriously. Nudger's face was unmarked except for a long red scratch, probably from a thumbnail, leading to his mangled and swollen right ear. There were fast-developing, huge bruises on his sides and on his right leg, where he'd been kicked. He was colorful.

  County Hospital decided to keep him overnight for observation. They asked him if there was anyone he wanted notified of his whereabouts, but he said no. Claudia didn't have to know about this. A cheerful nurse woke him three times during the night, probably to assure him that he really was being observed.

  When they released him in the morning, Danny was there to help him ease his stiffened body into the old Plymouth. Then they drove to Nudger's apartment on Sutton.

  “Want me to help you get situated, Nudge?” Danny asked, after assisting him up the stairs and opening the door. It had been a long climb; they were both breathing hard and perspiring.

  “I can make it okay, Danny. Thanks for all your trouble.”

  Concerned and embarrassed, Danny mumbled something about what friends were for and started to back away.

  “How about coming in for some coffee?” Nudger asked, leaning on the door to take weight off his aching leg. “You can have some breakfast if you want, but I'm not up to it.”

  “Thanks,” Danny said, “but I gotta go. Dunker Delite sale. I put a coupon in the local newspaper. Buy one, get one free.”

  Nudger nodded and watched him go back downstairs to the vestibule, then push out into the morning heat to walk to his car parked illegally in front of the building. He wondered if Danny knew that most customers wouldn't dream of eating a second Dunker Delite. Probably he didn't, and Nudger would be the last to tell him.

  It was hot in the apartment, too. And the air was still and stale. Nudger limped to the thermostat and adjusted it so the air-conditioning clicked on, then he made his way into the kitchen and got Mr. Coffee going. Things were bustling, all right. The pain in his side started to catch up with him as he lurched into the bathroom.

  He got undressed slowly, with a great deal of agony, then stood in front of the mirror and gingerly untaped his ribs. Moving like a man made of glass, he bent over the tub and turned on the shower. When the water was plenty hot, he supported himself with a hand on the porcelain towel rack, maneuvered his way into the tub, and stood in the blast of hot water and rising steam.

  After adjusting the angle of his body so the needle stings of water didn't beat on his injured rib, he began to relax.

  He stayed in the shower for almost half an hour, until the water began to turn cool. Then he stepped out of the tub, switched on the exhaust fan to clear the bathroom of steam, and carefully rewrapped his torso. He wanted to lie down for the remainder of the day, and knew that he probably should, but he couldn't rest until after Saturday. Then he and Curtis Colt could rest uninterrupted for a long time.

  Nudger stayed in his white terry-cloth bathrobe and sat barefoot in the kitchen while he ate toast with strawberry jam on it and drank three cups of strong black coffee. He listened to some FM jazz for a while on the radio, then tuned to KMOX and caught the hourly news. The Cardinals had won yet another ball game. Other than that, things were grim all over the map. It cheered Nudger perversely to realize that there were millions of people in the world worse off than he was.

  He felt better and was moving more easily, if still slowly, as he went into the living room to use the phone.

  Siberling's secretary was mad. Nudger had missed his appointment, actually stood up the prestigious firm of Elbert and Stein. It must have been like a slap in the face. No, Mr. Siberling wouldn't be in anymore today. Nudger tried honesty and explained to her that he wanted to talk to Siberling about Curtis Colt, and time was fleeting. She was unimpressed but said she would leave a message for Mr. Siberling. Nudger got the impression that, like Curtis Colt, he'd have to murder someone to get to see Siberling. He had a victim in mind.

  After hanging up the phone, he sat for a few minutes, then lifted the receiver again.

  If one lawyer wouldn't do, he'd try another.

  Welborne Colt was easier to see than Charles Siberling. There was no one else in his office in the Belmont Building on South Central in Clayton. His partners, the “Edmundsen and Keane” lettered above “Colt” on the frosted glass door, were at lunch, Colt explained. As were the secretary and paralegal who usually sat at the semicircular desk in the reception area. The building was full of lawyers' offices; at first Colt thought Nudger had wandered in by mistake, someone else's client. When Nudger mentioned Curtis' name, Colt's gaunt, strong features darkened and his body tensed, but he smiled.

  “Who hired you to hash over my brother's case?” he asked.

  “A woman who cares about him,” Nudger said. You had to play your cards tight with these legal types.

  “I see. What happened to your ear, Mr. Nudger?”

  “An accident. I was listening to Tina Turner and the earphone on my Walkman exploded.”

  Colt grunted and nodded. He knew when not to press. He walked across the plush carpet of the reception area to the window, then studied something down in the street. He was a tall man, but built wiry like his brother Curtis. There was a muscular bounce to his walk. He had hair like Curtis', too, dark and wavy, only his was styled shorter, razor-groomed, and receding and swept back in a way that lent him a dashing matinee-idol look that was almost caricature.

  “I wondered why you weren't in on your brother's defense,” Nudger said, not very tactfully but to the point.

  Colt turned and gave him a measured look that he had probably practiced before the mirror as a law student. Great eyebrow work. “We do corporation work here, Mr. Nudger, not criminal law.” There was the barest trace of Ozark twang in his voice.

  “Some might say that's a contradiction in terms.”

  “Sometimes it is,” Colt said.

  “Have you been in touch with Charles Siberling?”

  “Curtis' attorney? No, I haven't.” He appeared uncomfortable, then leaned his weight far back on his heels and tucked the fingertips of both hands into the vest pockets of his three-piece, pinstripe lawyer's uniform. It was a portly old man's posture that didn't look right on a lean young man. “Curtis …” he said thoughtfully. “Crazy bastard wouldn't settle down. Couldn't.”

  “Why not?”

  Welborne Colt straightened up and removed his fingertips from his pockets, as if his stance were a pose he could affect only so long. He shrugged. It was one of the most elegant shrugs Nudger had ever seen; Welborne was young and limber inside his skin again. “Who knows? We didn't come from a wealthy family, Mr. Nudger. My father sacrificed to send me to college at the state university, and he never let me forget it. Him and my momma, neither.”

  The abrupt country dialect startled Nudger. It went like a black roach on a white rug.

  “You were the oldest brother,” Nudger said. He didn't mention Lester. “So Curtis never had the same opportunity. That's the way it is in some families.”

  Welborne smiled and shook his head. “The little shit had opportunity. Made straight As in high school when he wasn't jerking around with junk cars and becoming part of the drug scene. There's a college near Branson, Missouri, Mr. Nudger, The School of the Ozarks. It's self-sufficient; the students farm it and take care of the livestock while they study agriculture. It's a damned good sc
hool. Curtis had himself a scholarship to go there, but he didn't even bother taking them up on it. Didn't even bother showing up to graduate from high school.”

  “Maybe he didn't want to ranch or raise corn.”

  “Wanted to raise hell is what Curtis wanted. What he did. Especially after coming to the city.”

  “Have you seen him since the trial?”

  “No. I don't want to see him, and I don't think he'd want to see me. There's bad blood between us.”

  “He's your brother,” Nudger said. “They're going to execute him. That's a forever thing.”

  “He did it to himself, Mr. Nudger. The way once a cue ball is stroked by the stick in a certain direction, everything is inevitable. It's going to bounce off a cushion, strike this ball at an angle and send it into that ball, and send that ball into another ball that will drop into a pocket. Curtis set his own direction and destiny early; what happened to him was in his future the way the pocket is in the future of a billiard ball.”

  Nudger stood mystified, glad Welborne Colt wasn't defending him in court. “Life isn't a pool table, Welborne.”

  Colt smiled handsomely, sadly. “Isn't it?”

  “Do you believe Curtis is guilty of murder?”

  “If a jury found him guilty, he killed that old woman.”

  “Juries have been wrong a few times.”

  “They're not wrong in Curtis' case. And if they'd found him not guilty, it would only have postponed the inevitable.”

  Billiard balls again. “Do you know Candy Ann Adams?”

  “No. And I wouldn't know her if she's a friend of Curtis. We didn't have much to do with each other after I got out of southwest Missouri.”

  “Are you ashamed of your hillbilly origins, Mr. Colt?”

  Welborne glared at Nudger. “You're a direct bastard, aren't you?” He rotated his wrist and glanced at the gold Rolex watch peeking out from beneath his white French cuff. “Let's see you be even more direct. Why exactly did you come here?” No more Ozark twang now; he had it under control and sounded almost British upper class.

  “I wanted to find out more about Curtis by discovering how he looked through your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know the man whose life I'm trying to save.”

  “You're years too late to save Curtis, Mr. Nudger.”

  “Probably,” Nudger admitted. He liked admitting that less than ever now that he'd met Welborne.

  The office receptionist, a tall mannequin-perfect brunette in a tailored brown business suit, swayed into the office, smiled with dazzling whiteness, and sat down behind her desk. Her back was straight and she had the clear, alert gaze of the very efficient. She looked as if she'd been manufactured by I.B.M. and trimmed with lace.

  Nudger nodded to her and moved toward the door. “Thanks for your time,” he said to Welborne.

  Colt looked at him with curiously pained eyes. “I'm sorry I couldn't help you much.” His glance shifted to the receptionist, then back to Nudger. “The party in question and I just haven't had much contact.”

  “You've helped,” Nudger assured him. “Blood tells. Peas in a pod and all that.”

  As he left the office, he heard Welborne in his businesslike pseudo-British accent crisply instructing the receptionist to check the files for this brief or that. Legalese, flowing fast and furious.

  Nudger figured the receptionist was in for it today.

  13

  Nudger had forgotten about the broken lock on his office door. As soon as he entered he knew he wasn't alone; there's something about an occupied room, a slight rise in temperature maybe, or sounds that the conscious mind is unaware of but that register in the subconscious. But as soon as he looked to his left, all of those primal sensors were unnecessary.

  A chubby little man wearing pleated slacks and a blue polo shirt was leaning with one arm on the file cabinet. Next to him stood the kind of abnormally skinny but shapely older woman usually glimpsed only in diet-food commercials. She had close-cropped, raggedy blond hair and was wearing an oversized sweatshirt with “Nike” lettered on it, pink shorts, jogging shoes, and was clutching a small, crinkly Gucci purse. She smelled of perspiration and expensive perfume. Nouveau jock.

  “The guy in the doughnut shop told us it was all right to wait here,” the man said. “I'm Charles Siberling. This is my friend Kelly Cole.” He paused to kiss her on the cheek, as if that were his way of introducing her to people. “We were on our way somewhere, but I thought I'd drop by to see you first.”

  Nudger introduced himself, shook hands with both parties, and sat down behind his desk. The swivel chair squealed its hello. Nudger sighed too loudly, as if it felt good to be off his feet. Blond Kelly studied him, then carefully surveyed his humble environs. She returned her attention to Nudger.

  “You've hurt your face,” she said. Somehow she made it sound like an insult, as if all ugliness were permanent, deserved, and excluded one from the better things in life.

  Siberling ignored Nudger's face. “Doreen told me you were trying to get in touch.”

  “Doreen?” Nudger asked.

  “The receptionist at Elbert and Stein. She's an airhead; don't judge the firm by Doreen.” He moved over and stood in the mottled stream of brightness from the dirt-streaked window.

  Nudger was surprised by how young he looked. His face was sixteen, his eyes about fifty. Average it out and you'd probably have his true age. Blond Kelly appeared to be a well-kept half a century and displayed a certain brand of West End or Ladue snobbery in every line and gesture. The veininess and stretch marks beneath the tan of her legs were like the creases in old folding money. These two people didn't seem to belong with each other; it was as if a computer dating service had decided to play a joke.

  “I understand you're interested in the Curtis Colt case,” Siberling said. Something flared in the wise eyes, eager points of light, like sharp and brilliant objects glimmering in murky depths. Themselves like the eyes of something dangerous.

  “That's right. I've been talking to the witnesses, doing some deeper digging.”

  “Why?”

  “I've been hired to try to establish enough doubt of Colt's guilt to have the execution stayed.”

  Siberling laughed and shook his head. He had pudgy features and a halo of sandy, curly hair; no one looked less like a cutthroat lawyer. “That's crazy. Colt's exhausted virtually all appeals. Nothing can save him.”

  “Would the state execute him even if irrefutable proof were put forth that he was innocent?”

  Siberling thought about that and laughed again, this time with a bit more humor. “No. Politically it would be impossible, even though legally the execution should be carried out as scheduled. And the state doesn't want to kill an innocent man, Nudger. Especially one who might not stay in his grave.”

  Nudger leaned back in his squealing chair. The motion brought a jolt of pain around his damaged rib. The pain angled all the way up to his armpit. He sat forward slowly. “Eeeeasy,” the chair said, like a concerned old pal. Nudger said, “It's possible Curtis Colt was in another part of town when the shooting occurred.”

  Kelly looked bored, then whispered to Siberling, loud enough for Nudger to hear. “We'd better get going if we're going to get a court.”

  “Are you a lawyer, too?” Nudger asked her.

  She wasn't one for puns. “I mean tennis court,” she said seriously, almost angrily.

  “You have to prove the possible in a court of law,” Siberling said. “I already busted my gut trying to do that for Curtis Colt.”

  Nudger wondered what a sharp and fiery young guy like Siberling was doing with Kelly. “Love,” he muttered.

  “That's a zero score in tennis,” Kelly observed. Maybe she was a punster.

  “I can't prove it,” Nudger told Siberling.

  Kelly looked confused. “I'm going downstairs to wait,” she said. “The doughnut shop's air-conditioned, anyway.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Nudger said, and
reached back and switched on the window unit behind the desk.

  But even as it began its comforting hum, Kelly was heading for the door and a lower, cooler clime.

  “Try a Dunker Delite,” Nudger advised her.

  Siberling grinned. “She's an odd piece. Married to a judge. I put up with her because she gives good head.”

  “Reason enough, I guess,” Nudger said, trying to figure out Siberling, remembering what Hammersmith had said about the young lawyer being such an aggravation, about how he could sense and exploit weakness.

  “You're thinking I'm an asshole, Nudger, and maybe you're right. In fact, you are right; I'm nasty. Maybe because of that I'm also a hell of a lawyer; I fight for my clients. And not just the clients who can pay. I fought hard for Curtis Colt, but there was nothing to use on a jury. The prosecution held every card, and Colt himself wouldn't cooperate. He sat there dummied up as if he hadn't a chance of getting convicted. The proceedings might have been happening on another planet, for all he seemed to care.”

  “Why would he be like that?”

  Siberling shrugged. “It's not unusual. Maybe he was in mild shock; getting arrested and tried for murder is traumatic. I never really got close enough to him to find out what made him so goddamned stoic.” Pacing slowly, the young lawyer shook his head. “Yet there was something about him. Maybe it was his stoicism I came to admire. The bastard had a kind of yokel nobility about him, as if he were above everything going on around him in court, people deciding minor matters such as whether he was going to die. You can't help but kind of admire somebody who spits in the law's eye with calm and quiet style.”

  “I thought lawyers had respect for the law.”

  “Hah! I respect people, Nudger. And after that I respect the coin of the realm.”

  “You've got them in the right order,” Nudger said.

  Siberling grinned. “Yeah, but I get them mixed up sometimes.”