by John Lutz
“What’s happening here?” Adelaide asked in a squeaking voice. “Worked what out?”
“Nudger was about to tell us,” Kyle said. “What say we let him talk?”
Nudger sat silently. His stomach had become a nasty, clawed thing stirring around restlessly, starting to cause pain.
Kyle looked at Palp, who drew a small, dark revolver from the pocket of his plastic raincoat and aimed it at Nudger. This one wasn’t the scare-tactic cannon Palp had used to threaten him at Scullin Steel. It was a pro’s gun, very businesslike. Small caliber and with a soft enough report not to attract much attention, but lethal enough in capable hands; dead was dead.
Palp said, “If you’re shy, here’s a little conversational aid that’ll break the ice.”
At the sight of the gun, fear won out over anger in Adelaide. Sensible woman. She said, “Better go ahead and tell them. Please!” Nudger thought inanely that she didn’t want blood on her carpet. Well, he didn’t, either.
He said, “Virgil Hiller is dead. He knew too much, and he drank too much, and it killed him.”
“Because he talked too much,” Palp said.
Again Kyle flicked his eyes to Palp, signaling him to be quiet, let Nudger roll.
“Talked about what?” Adelaide asked.
“In nineteen eighty-one,” Nudger said, “Kyle decided he wanted more control over the city government he’d corrupted. He wanted his own comptroller in office, cooking the books, diverting tax money. The advantages for somebody in Kyle’s business could be enormous. But the problem was that the office of comptroller is elective. And the comptroller was planning on running again and, since he hadn’t committed rape, murder, or general mayhem, was a shoo-in; it’s that kind of office. His name was Marvin Nolander, and he and his family died in a plane crash that conveniently left the office open. The election was near, so a political hack interim comptroller was appointed to take over Nolander’s duties. Until Kyle’s man could be elected.”
“How did they know he would be elected?” Adelaide asked.
Kyle chuckled at her naivete.
“It’s pretty much a one-party city,” Nudger said, “but Kyle didn’t take any chances. He intimidated the opposing candidate and saw that his man ran unopposed.”
“Won in a landslide,” Kyle said, smiling. He and Palp were both smiling. The catbird seat was big enough for two.
“At the time,” Nudger said, “Virgil Hiller was assistant comptroller. When Kyle’s man, Dan Gray, took over the office after the election, he appointed his own staff members. All except Hiller, who stayed on even though he was an inept product of cronyism who, under normal circumstances, would have been first out the door after the election.”
Kyle chuckled again and said, “The strange bedfellows of politics.”
“And of murder,” Nudger said. “A mechanic name of Del Westerson, who’d worked on Nolander’s plane before it took off from Jefferson City, conveniently dropped from sight and didn’t testify at the FAA hearing to determine the cause of the crash. That was because he was the cause. And Westerson was what Hiller had on Kyle and his clique that had gained political power. It was the only way an obnoxious incompetent like Hiller could hang onto his job while Kyle controlled his boss, the new comptroller, Dan Gray. Hiller knew Westerson had been paid to sabotage Nolander’s plane. He also knew that after the crash Kyle had Westerson killed to ensure his silence.
“Hiller could have revealed the entire mess, but he decided to use his knowledge to his advantage. Kyle couldn’t risk murdering him to shut him up. Hiller’s death might serve to draw more suspicion to the circumstances of the Nolander plane crash. No one wanted the ashes stirred, so accommodations were made, and Hiller stayed in the comptroller’s office.”
“That was all long before Mary became his secretary,” Adelaide said.
Nudger said, “She was drawn into this, had no choice. During the last few years, Hiller’s drinking problem got worse, and his tongue got loose. Kyle realized he might slip and tell someone how he’d been able to stay in office and collect blackmail money the last eight years. Hiller was no longer an acceptable risk. He was also no fool, and Kyle knew it. Knew Hiller had stashed proof of the Nolander and Westerson murders somewhere, and in such a way that it would surface if he met a premature death.”
Palp moved a step to the side, his plastic raincoat rustling. “You got this pretty well puzzled out, Nudger. You’re not such a lunkhead detective after all.”
Nudger ignored him; he was talking to Adelaide. “They solved their problem by murdering Hiller and making it appear that he’d absconded with city money—money Kyle now has. But before killing him, they tortured him. Thinking he was bargaining for his life, his mind clouded by pain, Hiller gave up his proof of the murders.”
“Gave it up rather easily,” Kyle said. “Makes me wonder why we endured him all these years.”
“What about Mary?” Adelaide asked, scooting forward to sit on the edge of the sofa.
“Hiller must have confessed he’d given a copy of his proof to his secretary for added insurance.”
“Exactly,” Kyle said.
Adelaide said, “The brown envelope.”
Nudger gripped the cool flesh of her arm. “They must have tortured Mary until she told them she’d left the envelope with you.”
“You mean she’s . . .”
A boiling rage tore at Nudger’s stomach. He glared at Kyle and Palp. Said, “Ask them.”
Palp said, “‘Fraid so, sweets. I’ll tell you, though, she lasted longer than Hiller before she emptied out. Long as some of the slants I interrogated in ‘Nam. You oughta be proud of little Mary.”
Adelaide expelled more air than Nudger would have thought possible. She turned white and slumped back into the sofa. He squeezed her arm, which had become even colder and oddly limp, almost like the arm of a corpse.
Kyle gazed remotely at her while Palp seemed amused.
Nudger swallowed and said, “What did you do to Crinklaw?”
Palp laughed his girlish giggle. “Scared him, is all. Made some imaginative threats regarding his wife. Man loves his wife more than he loves you, Nudger, so it had to work. He mentioned Dobbs’s second visit, and we reasoned the thing out same as you.”
Nudger thought of Claudia and couldn’t blame Crinklaw. John Wayne was dead and in the ground and had never been real anyway. Name was actually Marion something.
Adelaide was staring at Nudger, her eyes wide and without depth. “What’s he mean, Nudger?”
“Kyle had you look for the envelope on his first visit, which was when Dobbs was here. But Kyle didn’t know it was Dobbs’s second visit. After seeing the photograph he’d taken of Hiller dead, Dobbs searched Mary’s apartment and learned she’d left the envelope with you. You must have told her where you’d put it and she’d made a note of it, or left some indication that could be figured out, because he even knew that.”
Adelaide nodded, remembering.
“Dobbs’s first visit here was actually to sneak the envelope away, which he managed. But after seeing what was inside, he realized he was a small-timer onto something big-time and dangerous. He also knew that if Kyle followed in his footsteps and the envelope was missing, he’d be suspected; he’d already told too many people about the Hiller photo. So he photographed the envelope’s contents, and his second visit—when Kyle was here—was to secretly return the envelope to the closet shelf. Only he hadn’t had an opportunity to do it before Kyle arrived. That’s why the envelope was gone when you went to get it from the closet. After Kyle left, Dobbs stayed a while. Did he have a chance to sneak into the bedroom and replace the envelope?”
“He told me he was thirsty,” Adelaide said. “I went to the kitchen and made coffee. But when I got back, he was sitting right where he’d been when I left the room.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Five minutes or so. Enough time for him to do what you described.”
Nudger looked at Kyle
and said, “Then you caught up with Dobbs and killed him, too.”
“Not yet,” Kyle said. “But we will. If he’s ever dumb enough to return to the Western Hemisphere.”
Adelaide started to stand, but Kyle held up a hand palm out in a signal for her to stay seated, and she settled back down. Her body was tense and trembling; Nudger could feel the vibration through the sofa. He felt like Dobbs—a small-timer in over his head. Kyle had warned him about deep water, but he hadn’t listened; he’d swum too far out to sea, and now here he was drowning. Maybe some of the trembling was his own.
Kyle raised an eyebrow and glanced at Palp.
Said, “Pop these two, Jack, while I go get the envelope.”
34
Palp smiled and leveled the wicked little revolver.
Nudger’s stomach twisted, turned, knotted. Staring into the implacable eye of the gun’s black bore, he said, “I wouldn’t just yet.”
“Bet not,” Palp said.
“I mean, we got some things to talk about.” Nudger’s voice whined with desperation. He wasn’t embarrassed. Beside him, Adelaide was gripping her knees with whitened knuckles, her breathing harsh and irregular. She couldn’t agree more with Nudger that it wasn’t time for them to die; the door couldn’t slam so abruptly on the years, the minutes they’d assumed lay ahead.
Palp gave his brittle, broken-crystal chuckle. He was getting his jollies, all right. “Things to talk about, huh? Believe me, Nudger, everybody feels that way. Fact is, your time for talking’s all over. You just don’t like believing it. Rather think you’ll live a hundred years.”
“I’d settle for making octogenarian.”
“Octogenarian, sagittarian, vegetarian, preacher, or sinner. It doesn’t matter; eventually we all sleep forever. It’s time to tuck you in.”
Kyle had paused in the hall, not liking the way the sadistic Palp was stringing this out. “Dammit, Jack! Do what you got to!”
Something made the hair on the back of Nudger’s neck stir. Something only he was aware of. A feeling that became faint sound. It was almost as if he possessed an animal’s keen hearing and could pick it up before mere humans.
The distant baying of sirens.
“You oughta know I called the police before I came here,” he stammered. “I mean, I wasn’t dumb enough not to cover myself. You do know that. Don’t you?”
Not listening, Palp said, “Ladies first,” and raised the revolver with both hands, aimed at Adelaide.
Adelaide sucked in what she thought was her last breath, a frantic, rasping shriek.
The sirens meant nothing. Death was too close.
“Hold up, Jack!”
Kyle’s voice.
He paced back into the living room. “Listen!”
Palp reluctantly lowered the gun.
“Sirens,” Kyle said. “Maybe he’s not bluffing.”
“He’s trying to talk himself alive,” Palp said. “That’s all this is about. Every word’s another second he exists. It’s a natural reaction to the gun. I’ve seen it happen lots of times.”
But Kyle slowly raised a manicured hand and let it float before him, as if he were a monarch waiting for his ring to be kissed, and both men stood quietly for a moment, their heads cocked to the side, listening.
There wasn’t any doubt—the sirens were getting closer, their baying now a distinct, impatient yodeling as the vehicles wended their way through obstructing traffic.
Palp stared intently at Nudger with bleak dark eyes as human as a reptile’s. Eyes that had seen so much death they’d become death. Then he seemed to reach a conclusion.
“He’s bluffing,” he said. “Those are probably fire engines. Maybe an ambulance; they can raise a helluva racket sometimes, like they got a dozen sirens.”
Kyle said, “I’m not so sure.”
Nudger, forcing breath and words, caught Kyle’s eye. “You haven’t personally murdered anyone yet,” he said.
Palp said, “Shut your face, Nudger.”
Nudger figured he had everything to gain by continuing talking. As Palp had pointed out, every word was another second of existence, another pearl in the string. And he had Kyle’s attention; he could feel it. Had him where it counted. “After Palp does us with that gun, if you’re stopped in or around this building with that envelope you can be thinking about life in prison and maybe the gas chamber. And the envelope’ll do something else—it’ll nail you for the Nolander murder. Even your high-powered attorneys won’t be able to help you. They’ll go through the motions and collect their fee, then they’ll write you off and won’t even be there to hold your hand when the pellet drops.”
Palp knew Nudger was playing on Kyle’s nerves and was getting irritated, not having nerves himself. The aim of the revolver had remained steady. Palp’s torso and extended arms might as well have been sculptured steel. “Don’t listen to his bullshit, Arnie. Let’s do it to these two, then grab the envelope and get outta here.”
But Kyle was wavering. The sirens were getting louder, closer, their shrillness boring deep into his courage. He glared at Palp. Said, “So it’s ‘Arnie,’ is it?”
“Okay, it’s ‘Mr. Kyle.’ But there’s no reason to believe this asshole. He doesn’t want to die, that’s all.”
“No reason? Listen to the fuckin’ reason! He says he called the cops, and we can hear mother-lovin’ sirens!”
“Said he called the cops after we heard the sirens,” Palp noted.
Kyle couldn’t stand still. He slid his hands in his pants pockets, then immediately pulled them out. Ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his hands on his thighs. Paced to the window and looked outside.
His body stiffened and he leaned on the sill, supporting himself with both hands and peering between the blind slats. “Jesus! There’s a car parked across the street, and the driver’s sitting there staring up at this window!”
Palp glanced his way, then back to sight along the gun barrel. “Police car?”
“An old Plymouth. Guy in it’s not in uniform. Dressed like a regular street turkey. Undercover shit, Jack. You can spot it a mile off.”
“Maybe he’s not a cop.”
“C’mon now, Jack.”
“Maybe it’s got nothing to do with us.”
Nudger said, “Don’t be silly. What are the odds?”
Palp said, “Shut up, goddamn you!”
Kyle drew back from the window as if the sill had suddenly gotten too hot for his hands. The sirens continued to yowl like hounds on the hunt. “We’re getting out, Jack. Now!”
Palp licked his lips, his dark eyes glowing. He was set to kill, having a hard time deprogramming himself. “Listen, Mr, Kyle—”
“Let’s move, Jack!”
Kyle bolted for the door.
Not at all spooked, Palp held his breath for a long moment, as if to steady himself to squeeze off a shot.
Then he exhaled, lowering the revolver. He smiled resignedly and shook his head, disappointed, then followed Kyle. Nudger listened to the clamor of their footsteps as they ran down the stairs toward the vestibule and street door.
He stood up on shaky legs and made his way to the window. Behind him Adelaide said, “Thank God you weren’t bluffing. You really did call the police.”
Nudger looked out the window. Tad’s old Plymouth was parked across the street. Tad himself—skinny kid in faded jeans, oversized boots, and a flappy red T-shirt—had climbed out of the car and was crossing the street toward the apartment building. Figuring Nudger was two-timing his mom, probably, and wanting to make sure.
Loping straight toward the door Kyle and Palp would burst out of any second.
“Christ!” Nudger moaned, and raced for the door to the hall.
“Nudger!” Adelaide yelled.
She shouted something else, but Nudger was already half-running, half-falling down the stairs, and he didn’t understand her.
On the second-floor landing, Palp looked up and saw him. Couldn’t believe it at first. Then said
almost happily, “Here comes a dead man.”
“No, Jack!” Kyle yelled. “We’re outta here! And now!”
Palp was still holding the revolver. But he was a good soldier and couldn’t disobey a command from his superior.
He waved the gun helplessly at Nudger, then spun on his heel and ran after Kyle.
Nudger had barely paused. He was on the second-floor landing, bouncing off the wall like a two-cushion billiard shot, throwing himself at Palp and Kyle before they could reach the bottom of the stairs.
Landed on Palp’s back. Knocked both of them into Kyle and sent him crashing against a closed door. All three men went sprawling. Somebody said, “Uumph!” Nudger wasn’t sure who. Might have been him.
Palp sprang upright with panther grace and swept the gun across Nudger’s head, grazing him behind the ear.
Nudger was slumped where they’d have to climb over him, his head pulsing with pain. A glossy black shoe mashed down on one of his fingers. He grabbed at Palp’s leg, gripped a pants cuff, and tried desperately to hang on.
The door Kyle had landed against swung open. “Through here!” he gasped. “We’ll get out through the goddamn basement.”
The pants cuff was yanked painfully from Nudger’s grasp as Kyle and Palp struggled through the narrow doorway. There was cleaning paraphernalia—mops, brooms, bottles, and some square metal cans—on the landing just inside the door. His balance upset by Nudger’s grip on his leg, Palp caught his foot on something, and mops and cans and bottles and Palp tumbled down the stairs, knocking Kyle over.
Both men scrambled to their feet at the base of the steps. Nudger wasn’t thinking now. Only reacting. He was a lot of things, and stubborn was one of them. His eyes watering from the stench and fumes of spilled cleaning fluid, he hurled himself down the stairs after Kyle and Palp, into the dim basement.
His fingers closed on the back of Palp’s plastic raincoat, but he couldn’t hold onto the slick surface. He slid down Palp’s body to the concrete floor. There was broken glass around him. A piece bit into the heel of his hand. Palp and Kyle backed several steps away, out of his reach.
Palp said, “Fucker’s game. He won’t quit,” and raised the revolver.
