Time Exposure (Alo Nudger)

by John Lutz

  The engine ground . . . ground.

  Coughed.

  Then roared to life.

  Nudger jammed the shift lever into Drive and the Granada screeched from the parking lot like a wild thing set free, its right front fender ticking one of the brick pillars flanking the driveway. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, let it slide back through his fingers, then stomped the accelerator again. Luckily there was a break in the traffic on Lindbergh, or he might have caused a hundred-car pile up.

  He got off Lindbergh as soon as he could. Took every side street too fast, skidding around corners, checking the rear-view mirror on the straightaways.

  Ten minutes passed before he could assure himself he wasn’t being followed. And it was a wonder he hadn’t picked up a cop, speeding around like a teenage leadfoot. Like Tad. Even a few minutes ago he’d have given anything to see a police car in his rear-view mirror. Where were the traffic cops when you needed them? Out wasting their time chasing crooks? He’d talk to Hammersmith about this.

  There was much he wanted to talk about with Hammersmith. He was sure now that Dobbs hadn’t disappeared of his own volition, and that Mary Lacy hadn’t simply fallen helplessly in love and run away with the irresistible Virgil Hiller and his stolen half million dollars.

  Nudger had bought a fresh roll of antacid tablets while paying the cashier at Denny’s restaurant. He popped three tablets into his mouth and chewed frantically but with a sense of relief. Some night this had been!

  He drove toward home, wondering about tomorrow.

  But the night hadn’t finished with him. A few minutes before midnight he awoke sweating and clutching the thin sheet. His mind was free of his dream, but his body remained captive. His heart still pounded crazily, pumping fear along with blood. Not fear for himself, but for Claudia.

  They’d been on a picnic, just Nudger and Claudia, in what he thought was Forest Park. Odd, because Claudia was big city and joked about not liking to step off concrete. Not the picnic type. But in the dream they were sitting on the grass, with sandwiches and paper cups and plastic forks spread before them on a white blanket. Everything on the blanket was white—except for a tiny black insect that scurried out from beneath a slice of bread.

  Claudia had been laughing with her mouth open wide, but when she saw the insect she stopped laughing and said, “I hate them.”

  “Ants?”

  “Not ants.”

  Nudger scooted sideways on the cool grass and leaned down to study the insect.

  Claudia was right; it wasn’t an ant. It was even smaller than an ant, with countless flailing legs and rapacious pincers. That was all the thing seemed to be, legs and scythelike pincers.

  It stopped crawling, and that was when Nudger felt a cold fear that drilled deep, deep to the center of his brain.

  He knew that the thing was aware of him. Staring back at him and emitting a malevolence that struck him like a fist, left him gasping.

  Then another of the tiny creatures scurried out from beneath a sandwich.

  Another.

  Another appeared from between the white plastic tines of a fork.

  Then they filled vision with motion. The white blanket was suddenly gray, covered with the infinitesimal creatures so that it seemed alive and undulating in pain.

  Astounded, Nudger turned to draw Claudia’s attention to the spectacle. Share it with her.

  He couldn’t see her.

  He heard her scream.

  Still hearing her scream, Nudger struggled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He thought about running cold water on his wrists, but that might wake him so completely he’d never get back to sleep.

  He relieved his bladder. Then he rinsed his hands and stood leaning over the washbasin, waiting for the ticking, soothing seconds to leave the nightmare far enough in the past so that it was nothing more than a bad dream.

  Somehow the cold tile against his bare soles soothed him, rooted him in reality.

  A long time passed before he lay down again.

  A longer time before he returned to sleep.

  12

  Nudger caught up with Hammersmith the next morning at the Webster Grill and Cafe, where the lieutenant often had breakfast when he was working the early shift. Hammersmith was slouched in a booth near the front window, a piece of buttered toast halfway to his mouth. He put on an annoyed expression. Looked as if any second he might say, “Damn, can’t I even eat in peace?”

  “I wouldn’t bother you at breakfast, only it’s important,” Nudger said, sliding into the booth to sit across from him. The booth benches at the Webster Grill were fashioned from old oak church pews that had been sawed in half and fitted against the walls. The ends of the benches had crosses engraved in them. High above the booths, ceiling fans rotated their wide blades slowly, as if to test the air rather than stir it.

  On the other side of a low wooden partition, the cook worked in plain sight behind a serving counter. The tantalizing smell of frying bacon rode the air, thick enough to taste.

  “How’d you find me?” Hammersmith asked.

  “Called your house. Jed said you were probably here.” Jed was Hammersmith’s teenage son, who was, so far as Nudger could tell, not at all like Tad. It was comforting to think Tad might be a mutant, but Nudger knew better.

  “Gotta talk to that boy,” Hammersmith said. He waved his fork. “Had breakfast, Nudge?”

  “Yeah,” Nudger lied.

  “Sure. Why don’t you order a wheat waffle? Those things are delicious.” Hammersmith, however, was eating eggs, toast, and fried potatoes. Upping the old cholesterol count.

  “I don’t like health food.”

  “It’s not sprouts or anything; it’s a goddamn waffle. A zillion calories but worth it.”

  “Why the wheat then?”

  “Forget the waffle, Nudge, and tell me why you’re here.”

  The waitress, a pleasant woman with dark hair and eyes and a white bandage on her forefinger, came over and Nudger ordered coffee. He hadn’t been by his office yet and gotten his usual cup of Danny’s potent brew. Found that he actually missed the stuff. Could the body adapt to acid?

  When the waitress returned he asked her how she’d hurt her finger. She told him a skiing accident. Nothing in the world seemed logical. He imagined a lodge full of skiers with bandaged fingers, sitting around a roaring fire and sipping Ovaltine.

  After sampling his coffee—mere water compared to Danny’s—Nudger said, “Suppose somebody let themselves into Paul Dobbs’s apartment last night.”

  Hammersmith dabbed at his lips with a napkin, then wiped butter from a smooth-shaven jowel. Wobbled his head and straightened his tie like Rodney Dangerfield. “The suppose game, is it?”

  “Attorneys play it all the time.”

  “Attorneys play all sorts of games.”

  “Let’s play attorney.”

  “You mean broke in? Or with a key? As you know, Nudge, there’s a difference.”

  “Is there really?”

  “Uh-huh. ‘Bout ten years.” Hammersmith forked some egg into his mouth, chewed, sipped coffee. He sure liked food; it was easy to understand how he’d put on so much weight over the years. “But let’s keep on supposing. Let’s suppose the person who got into Dobbs’s apartment did so legally, and also happens to be a private investigator. Let’s even suppose this person is you.”

  “For the sake of discussion,” Nudger said.

  “‘Course.” Another mouthful of egg, followed by coffee. Some fried potatoes. The breakfast was only half eaten, but going fast. “What did you find?”

  Nudger told him about the disarray in Dobbs’s closet-darkroom.

  Hammersmith munched on a triangular piece of toast. “Interesting, Nudge. Happens I obtained a warrant and went through the Dobbs apartment myself, right after Adelaide Lacy came to us with her story.”

  “I didn’t think the police took her story, or Dobbs’s, seriously enough to look into.”

  “I’m going to
level with you, Nudge. Confidence for confidence. It seems there are people who don’t want the investigation of Hiller’s disappearance to go in the direction of Paul Dobbs.”

  Nudger thought about that for a few seconds. “What sort of people? Higher-ups in the department?”

  “Sure, but somebody’s pressuring them. Politicos.”

  “How do politics enter into the disappearance of a man and his secretary? That’s a police matter.”

  “For Chrissakes, Nudge, the guy was assistant comptroller. Politics. Something you never really understood. There’s nothing sinister going on here; the fact is that Hiller probably did abscond with the money.”

  “So there might be political fallout. What about Mary Lacy? She deserves more than an investigation that pulls punches.”

  “I got a judge to issue a warrant so I could search Dobbs’s apartment,” Hammersmith reminded Nudger. “It’s a matter of record, but on the other hand, I wouldn’t want the information bandied about.”

  “So what did you find there?” Nudger asked.

  “The same nothing you did. Only when I was there, Dobbs’s darkroom was neatly organized.”

  That was news, Nudger thought.

  “Also, I talked to some of his neighbors. They said his job often took him out of town on short notice.”

  “This time he didn’t bother to stop his mail,” Nudger said. “His box was jammed full and there was even a stack of junk mail beneath it on the floor.”

  Hammersmith toyed with his coffee cup. “There were only a few pieces in the box when I was there. I got the key from the manager and checked. Nothing but ads.”

  “Something else happened when I was at Dobbs’s,” Nudger said. He described his run-in with the big man carrying the gun.

  “Guy must not know much about you,” Hammersmith said, “or he’d have figured you wouldn’t have dived off a second-story balcony into a dark swimming pool. Nevertheless, clever, that deal with the potted plant. So give me a description—of the big guy, not the plant.”

  “Well over six feet, with a lot of weight but not much fat. He moved smoothly, like an athlete. Maybe dark hair, but I’m not sure. He was wearing a blue or black suit. It might have been an automatic in his hand, a big one, large caliber.”

  “Big, athletic, blue or black suit. He doesn’t change that suit, we got him.”

  “It was dark,” Nudger pointed out. “He didn’t stop and pose so I could identify him later.” He was getting irritated with Hammersmith’s wisecracking. “The thing is, this means somebody else is interested in Dobbs’s disappearance. That somebody is probably Arnie Kyle, and he was looking for something in Dobbs’s darkroom, or else making sure all of the film there was exposed and couldn’t be developed. That must be why he opened the cameras and tossed them on the floor.”

  “I don’t think Kyle owns a dark suit,” Hammersmith said. “Not as far as we’re concerned, with the evidence you’ve given me.” He was finished with breakfast. Reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a cigar, though he didn’t remove the wrapper. A threat. A way to let Nudger know the conversation was about over.

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

  “Same thing I’ve been doing—sit with my hands tied. I told you, Nudge, politics.”

  “Politics stink.”

  “You bet. But I accept them as a fact of life, and you don’t.”

  “Don’t have to. I’m not a civil servant.”

  Hammersmith smiled. “And your hands aren’t tied. Make sure your tongue isn’t, either, when it comes to what you find out.” He scooted his bulk out of the booth, then reached in his pocket for his silver lighter with a flame like a blowtorch. He fired up the cigar. A woman in a nearby booth looked ill and waved her hand in exaggerated fashion in front of her face. That kind of thing didn’t faze Hammersmith. The whole world should smoke. “Gotta get down to the Third, Nudge, before crime takes over the city. Things in your life seem to be gaining momentum; you be careful you don’t get run over by them.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Almost always.” Hammersmith rested a hand on Nudger’s shoulder for a moment, then glided over to the cash register. Despite his obesity, he still moved as he did twenty years ago. A younger man inside his bulk, the past inside the present.

  Nudger saw him inform the cashier that he, Nudger, was paying for breakfast. Her gaze followed Hammersmith’s pudgy, pointing finger.

  Then, with a puff of green smoke, Hammersmith disappeared out the door. Might have been smiling.

  The waitress ambled over. She was definitely smiling.

  Nudger thought what the hell and ordered the wheat waffle.

  13

  As he parked the Granada at the broken meter across the street from his office, Nudger decided he could use another cup of coffee. Even a cup of Danny’s.

  There was actually a customer in Danny’s, an old man wearing a heavy brown wool sweater despite the morning warmth. Mingled with the sweet aroma of fresh doughnuts was the acrid scent of mothballs. Sunlight that had streamed through the window lay in a golden trapezoid on the floor. A fly spiraled upward through the broad, dust-swirling beam and then flitted wildly against the window, as if mad for more warmth and light.

  Nudger stood at the opposite end of the counter, away from the old guy who was death to moths. Danny drew a large cup of coffee from the steel urn and, since Nudger was standing, stuck a plastic lid on it. Carried it over to place it on the counter in front of Nudger and said, “Your lady’s upstairs waiting for you.”

  Oh-oh! “Eileen?”

  “That’s not the lady,” Danny said, “that was your wife.”

  Nudger stared at him. Danny wiped his hands on his gray towel, apparently not realizing he’d cracked a joke. Incredible.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you, Nudge. It’s Claudia up in your office. Hey, you want a doughnut to go with your coffee?”

  “No thanks,” Nudger said. “Already had breakfast.”

  Carrying his warm foam cup, he moved toward the door.

  Behind him the old guy in the sweater said, “This here’s s’pose to be a jelly doughnut, but there ain’t no jelly in it.”

  “Sometimes the pockets get off-center,” Danny told him confidently. “Take another bite and jelly’ll squirt all over you.”

  Nudger pushed through the door and got out of there before that happened.

  He trudged up the creaking stairs and opened the door to his office.

  Claudia was half leaning, half sitting on the edge of his desk. She was wearing a high-necked white blouse and a muted green plaid skirt, high heels, a gold pin on the blouse. Said, “Danny let me in.”

  “He told me.”

  Nudger placed the foam cup on his desk, walked around, and sat in his squealing swivel chair. Claudia stood up straight and turned to face him.

  He said, “How come you’re not out at the school?”

  “I phoned and told them I’d be late this morning. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Will you look at that,” Nudger said, nodding toward the window. “Damned pigeons come right up to the glass and stare in.”

  Claudia smiled. “You’re being evasive.”

  Nudger knew she was right. He was afraid of what she’d come here to tell him. Did she want to stop seeing him altogether ? Was she going to hike across the country with hardy Biff Archway? Was she going to invite Nudger to her and Archway’s wedding? Was that it? There was a dreadful cold weight in his chest. Come close to losing something, see how much it means to you.

  Claudia said, “I left you abruptly yesterday. That was wrong of me. I want to apologize.”

  Nudger’s spirits lifted. The pigeon fluttered against the glass and flapped away. Not only was she not going to tell Nudger something he didn’t want to hear, she was here to ask his forgiveness. Maybe she’d thought about him going out with Bonnie Beal. Maybe gotten at least a tiny bit jealous. Delayed reaction. Possible.

  He waved a ha
nd in casual dismissal. “No problem. I understand.” Magnanimous Nudger.

  “Do you really?”

  No. “Yes.”

  She managed to put together another smile. The cruel morning light tried hard but couldn’t do a thing to her; she was beautiful. “How was your. . .”

  “My date?” How had she guessed? Or had she been about to say something else?

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine. How about yours, with Archway?”

  She shifted her weight to her other leg, touched a lean finger to her blouse collar, as if to make sure it was buttoned all the way up. “The usual.”

  Nudger didn’t want to know what that was. Said nothing. The silence grew huge and threatened to turn on them.

  Claudia cleared her throat and said, “How you doing on the Hiller thing?”

  “All right. It’s his secretary I’m looking for, actually.”

  “I know. Hammersmith told me.”

  “You saw Hammersmith?”

  “Ran into him downtown. We talked a while.”

  “About me, apparently.”

  “Sure. Hammersmith worries about you.”

  “He shouldn’t.”

  “He does. He’s your friend. So am I. He asked me to keep an eye on you, not let you do anything dumb. I told him that was a tall order.”

  Nudger picked up a pencil, stared at it, and dropped it on the desk hard. It bounced and rolled under the phone, leaving its lead point behind. He didn’t like Claudia and Hammersmith conferring about him. Friends trying to help could cause more harm than enemies trying to hurt.

  Claudia said, “You’re being an ass, Nudger.”

  He looked at her, knew she was right. This friend. He realized that was what really irritated him, that she should refer to him as a friend. After what they’d been to each other, done to each other.

  Claudia laced her fingers in front of her and stood in an oddly prim, little-girl posture. “I guess what I came here for was to make sure things are the same between us.”

  “You mean on hold? In limbo?”

  “No,” she said, showing just a hint that he’d miffed her, “I wouldn’t describe it that way. Not at all. We see each other.”