The Right to Sing the Blues (Alo Nudger Book 3)

by John Lutz

  “So what specifically is there about Hollister that bothers you?” Nudger asked. “Why shouldn't he be seeing Ineida Collins?”

  Fat Jack scrunched up his padded features, seeking the word that might convey the thought. “His music is … uneven.”

  “That's hardly a crime,” Nudger said, “especially if he can play so well when he's right.”

  “He ain't as right as I've heard him,” Fat Jack said. “Believe me, Hollister can be even better than he is tonight. But it's not really his music that concerns me. Hollister acts weird sometimes, secretive. Sam Judman, the drummer, went by his apartment last week, found the door unlocked and let himself in to wait for Hollister to get home. So what happens? When Hollister discovers him there he beats up on Sam—with his fists. Can you imagine a piano player like Hollister using his hands for that?” Fat Jack looked as if he'd discovered a hair in his absinthe. “He warned Judman never to snoop around his apartment again. I mean, talked hard to the man!”

  “So he's obsessively secretive,” Nudger said. “I still don't see why you need me.” What am I doing, he asked himself, trying to talk myself out of a job? What would Eileen think if she could hear me? What would her shark of a lawyer think? Blood in the water.

  But Fat Jack said, “Hey, believe me, I need you. Hollister has been troubled, jumpy, and unpredictable, for the last month. He's got problems, and he's seeing Ineida Collins, so I got problems. I figure it'd be wise to learn some more about Willy Hollister.”

  “I understand,” Nudger said. “The better to know if his intentions toward the lady are honorable, as they used to say.”

  “And in some quarters still do,” Fat Jack pointed out. “Only they don't fight duels over those matters around here anymore; in a duel both parties have a chance. What we see now are mostly one-shot affairs, usually in somebody's back.”

  Nudger felt a cold twinge of fear. He didn't like murder; he didn't even like talking about murder.

  “Are you afraid David Collins might shoot you?” he asked.

  Fat Jack lifted the massive shoulders inside his pale jacket. “Naw, I guess not. What I'm afraid of is he'll see to it that I wanna shoot myself.”

  Nudger wasn't totally reassured. Nobody could exude fear like a fat man, and fear seemed to live and feed inside Fat Jack like a malignant overmatched tapeworm.

  “Who's Marty?” Nudger asked, looking around but not seeing the brown-suited man who'd so skillfully handled trouble earlier in the evening.

  “Marty Sievers,” Fat Jack said. “He's my floor manager.”

  “You mean bouncer?”

  “Naw. Marty's in charge when I'm not here. And we don't need a bouncer with him around. He's ex—Green Beret. Black belt, all that mean stuff. But he don't use it if he don't have to.”

  “The ones who really have it usually are that way,” Nudger said.

  “I guess. You know any martial arts? A guy in your business should.”

  “I'm yellow belt,” Nudger said, “only mine runs vertically, up the back.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Have you talked to Marty about Hollister?”

  “Some. Not much. I asked him to keep an eye on the situation, keep me clued in on anything that happens between Ineida and Hollister that I should know about. Marty's too busy running the place to see much else, though. He's got enough of a job keeping watch on the liquor and seeing the help don't dip into the till.”

  The lights did their three-time dimming routine again, the crowd quieted, and Willy Hollister was back at the piano. But this time the center of attention was the tall dark-haired girl leaning with one hand on the piano, her other hand delicately holding a microphone as if the heat from her fingertips might melt it. Inside her plain navy-blue dress was a trim figure. She had nice ankles, a nice smile, nice eyes. Nice was a word that might have been coined just for her. A stage name like Ineida Mann didn't fit her at all. She was prom queen and Girl Scouts and PTA and looked as if she'd blush fire-engine red at an off-color joke. But maybe all of that was simply a role; maybe she was playing for contrast. Show-biz types were good at that.

  Fat Jack knew what Nudger was thinking. “She's as straight and naive as she looks,” he said. “But she'd like to be something else, to learn all about life and love in a few easy lessons. You know how some young rich girls are.”

  Nudger knew. “Is Hollister the guy to teach her?”

  “You might think so, judging by his surface qualities, but I think he might be a phony. I think he might take her straight through to graduation, but no diploma. And that's what scares me enough to hire you.”

  Someone in the backup band announced Ineida Mann. There was light applause, and she acknowledged it with a smile, slipped into the pensive mood of the music, and began to sing the plaintive lyrics of an old blues standard. She had control but no range. Nudger found himself listening to the backup music, which included a smooth clarinet.

  The band liked Ineida and went all out to envelope her in good sound, but the audience at Fat Jack's was too smart for that. Ineida finished to more light applause, bowed prettily, and made her exit. Competent but nothing special, and looking as if she'd just wandered in from suburbia. But this was what she wanted and her rich father was getting it for her. Parental love could be as blind as the other kind. Sometimes it could cause just as much trouble.

  The lights came on full brightness, and conversation and the sale of drinks stepped up in volume and activity. There apparently would be no more music for a while. Some of the customers began drifting toward the door, to continue roaming the night for more fun or blues or whatever else they needed. It was early yet; there was promise in the air.

  “The crowd'll thin out soon,” Fat Jack said. “It's Hollister they came to hear.”

  “They stuck around for Ineida's act.”

  “Jazz folks are a polite audience. And like I told you, Ineida ain't all that bad. She's worth the cover price, once the customers are in. But it's people like Hollister that get them in.” Fat Jack took another delicate sip of his absinthe, diamond ring and gold bracelet flashing in the dimness. “So how are you going to get started on this thing, Nudger? You want me to introduce you to Hollister and Ineida? Or are you gonna sneak around sleuth-style?”

  “Usually I begin a case by discussing my fee and signing a contract,” Nudger said.

  Fat Jack waved his immaculately manicured, jewel-adorned hand. “Hey, don't worry about fee. Let's make it whatever you usually charge plus twenty percent plus expenses. Trust me on that.”

  That sounded fine to Nudger, all except the trusting part. He reached into his inside coat pocket, withdrew his roll of antacid tablets, thumbed back the aluminum foil, and popped one of the white disks into his mouth, all in one practiced smooth motion.

  “What's that stuff for?” Fat Jack asked.

  “Nervous stomach.”

  “You oughta try this,” Fat Jack said, nodding toward his absinthe. “Eventually it eliminates the stomach altogether.”

  Nudger winced, feeling his abdomen twitch. “I want to talk with Ineida,” he said, “but it would be best if we had our conversation away from the club. And without us having been introduced.”

  Fat Jack pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded. He said, “I can give you her address. She doesn't live at home with her father; she's in a little apartment over on Beulah Street. It's all part of the making-it-on-her-own illusion. I can give you Hollister's address, too.”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Maybe. Do you still play the clarinet?”

  “Does Andy Williams still sing ‘Moon River’?”

  Nudger smiled. A silly question deserved a silly question.

  Fat Jack cocked his head and looked curiously at Nudger, one tiny eye squinting through the tobacco smoke that hazed the air around the bar. “The truth is, I only play now and then, on special occasions. You aren't going to ask me to play at your wedding, are you?”

  “
It's too late for that,” Nudger said, “but a blues number would have been perfect on that occasion. Why don't we make my price for this job my usual fee plus only ten percent plus you do a set with the clarinet here some Saturday night?”

  Fat Jack beamed, then threw back his head and let out a roaring laugh that drew stares and seemed to rattle the bottles on the backbar. “Agreed! You're a find, Nudger! First you trust me to pay you without a contract, then you lower your fee and ask for a clarinet solo instead of money. Hey, there's no place you can spend a clarinet solo! I like you, but you're not much of a businessman.”

  Nudger kept a straight face and sipped his beer. Fat Jack hadn't bothered to find out the amount of Nudger's usual fee, so all this talk about percentages meant nothing. If detectives weren't good businessmen, neither were jazz musicians. He handed Fat Jack a pen and a club matchbook. “How about those addresses?”

  Still smiling expansively, Fat Jack flipped back the matchbook cover and wrote.

  FOUR

  Beulah Street was narrow and crooked, lined with low houses of French-Spanish architecture. It was an array of arches, ornate shutters, pastel stucco, and ornamental wrought iron and wood scrollwork. The houses long ago had been divided into apartments, each with a separate entrance. Behind each apartment was a small courtyard. A behemoth street-cleaning machine was roaring and hissing along the opposite curb at about three miles per hour, laboring as if its bulk were being dragged forward only by the rotating motion of its heavy-bristled disk brush digging against the curb. Nudger moved well over on the sidewalk so he wouldn't catch any of the spray from the water jetted out in front of the determinedly rotating brush.

  He found Ineida Collins' address in the middle of the block. It belonged to a pale yellow structure with a weathered tile roof and a riot of multicolored bougainvillea blooming wild halfway up one cracked and much-patched stucco wall. Harsh sunlight washed half the wall in purifying brilliance; the other half was in deep shadow.

  Nudger glanced at his wristwatch. Ten o'clock. Ineida might still be in bed. If the street-cleaning machine hadn't awakened her, he would. He stepped up onto the small red brick front porch and worked the lion's-head knocker on a plank door supported by huge black iron hinges pocked with rust. A fat honeybee buzzed lazily over from the bougainvillea to see what all the fuss was about.

  Ineida came to the door without much delay, fully dressed in black slacks and a peach-colored silky blouse. She didn't appear at all sleepy after her late-night stint at Fat Jack's. Her dark hair was tied back in a French braid. Even the cruel sunlight was kind to her; she looked young, and as innocent and naive as Fat Jack said she was. A Brothers Grimm princess with the money to live the fairy tale.

  Nudger smiled and told her he was a writer doing a piece on Fat Jack's club. “I heard you sing last night,” he said, before she could question his identification. “It really was something to see. I thought it might be a good idea if we talked.”

  It was impossible for her to turn down what in her mind was a celebrity interview. The Big Break might arrive anytime from any source. She lit up brightly, even in the brilliant sunlight, and invited Nudger inside.

  Her apartment was tastefully but inexpensively furnished; she really was living independently away from Daddy. There was an imitation oriental rug on the hardwood floor, lots of rattan furniture, a Casablanca ceiling fan rotating its wide flat blades slowly, not moving air but casting soothing flickering shadows. Through sheer beige curtains the apartment's courtyard was visible, well tended and colorful. A subtle sweet scent hung in the still air, either a trace of incense or from something growing in the courtyard garden. Some pale blue stationery and a pen lay on a small desk; Ineida had been preparing to write a letter.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Nudger?” she asked.

  Nudger told her yes, thanks, then watched the sway of her trim hips as she walked into the small kitchen. From where he sat he could see a Mr. Coffee brewer on the sink, its glass pot half full. He watched Ineida pour, then return with two cups of coffee. She asked Nudger if he wanted cream or sugar and he declined.

  He asked, “How old are you, Ineida?”

  “Twenty-two.” She placed his coffee on the table next to him.

  “Young enough not to have to lie about your age,” he said.

  Her smile was forced. “I wish I were older.”

  “You'll change your mind about that,” Nudger said. “Everybody does. You can't have sung professionally for very long.”

  She sat down, centering her steaming cup on a coaster. “About four years, actually. I sang in school productions, then studied for a while in New York. I've been singing at Fat Jack's for about two months. I love it.”

  “And the crowd seems to love you,” Nudger fibbed. He watched her smile and figured the lie was a worthy one. There was a vulnerabilty about her that needed protecting. Certain men might view it as something to exploit. Not Nudger. No, siree!

  He pretended to take notes while he asked her a string of writer-like questions, pumping up her ego. It was an ego that would inflate only so far. Nudger decided that he liked Ineida Collins and hoped she would hurry up and realize she wasn't Ineida Mann.

  The street cleaner roared past again, snailing along in the opposite direction to tidy up the near curb. Nudger could hear its coarse brush scraping on the pavement. He sat quietly, waiting patiently for the monster to pass.

  “I'm told that you and Willy Hollister, the piano player, are pretty good friends,” he said, in the converging quiet.

  Ineida's mood changed abruptly. Suspicion crept into her dark eyes. The youthful, smiling mouth became taut and suddenly ten years older. It was preview of what she would be after life had fallen on her.

  “You're not a magazine writer,” she said in a betrayed voice.

  Nudger felt guilty about deceiving her, as if he'd tried to lure her into a car with candy. “No, I'm not,” he admitted. His stomach gave a mulelike kick. What a profession he'd stumbled into!

  “Then who are you?”

  “Someone concerned about your well-being.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Her smooth chin jutted forward in a way that suggested more than a mere streak of obstinacy. Nudger caught a glimpse of why Fat Jack saw her as trouble.

  Antacid time. He popped one of the chalky white disks into his mouth and chewed. The sound of it breaking up was surprisingly loud.

  “Father sent you,” she said.

  “No,” Nudger said. Chomp, chomp.

  “Liar!” She stood up and flounced to the door. She did a terrific flounce. “Get out,” she said.

  “I'd like to talk with you about Willy Hollister,” Nudger persisted. He knew that in his business persistence paid one way or the other. He could only hope that this time it wouldn't be the other.

  “Get out,” Ineida repeated. “Or I'll call the police. Better yet, I'll scream for them. Right here with the door open.”

  Scream? Police?

  Within ten seconds Nudger was outside again on Beulah Street, staring at the uncompromising barrier of Ineida's closed door. Apparently she was touchy on the subject of Willy Hollister. Nudger slipped another antacid tablet between his lips. He turned his back to the warming sun and began walking, keeping to the dry half of the sidewalk, away from the curb.

  He'd gone half a block when he realized that he was casting three shadows. He stopped. The middle shadow stopped also, but the larger ones on either side kept advancing. The large bodies that cast those shadows were suddenly standing in front of Nudger. Two very big men were staring down at him—one was smiling, one not. Considering the kind of smile it was, that didn't make much difference.

  “We noticed you talking to Miss Mann,” the one on the left said. He had a black mustache, wide cheekbones, dark, pockmarked skin, and gray eyes that gave no quarter. “Whatever you said to her seemed to upset her.” His accent was a cross between a Southern drawl and clipped French. Nudger recognized it as Cajun. The Cajuns were a
tough, predominantly French people who had settled southern Louisiana but never themselves.

  Nudger allowed himself to hope the large men's interest in him was passing and started to walk on. The second man, who was shorter but had a massive neck and shoulders, glided on shuffling feet like a heavyweight boxer to block his way. Nudger swallowed his antacid tablet.

  “You nervous, my friend?” the boxer asked in the same rich accent.

  “Habitually,” Nudger managed to answer in a choked voice.

  Pockmarked said, “We have an interest in Miss Mann's welfare. What were you talking to her about?”

  “The conversation was private.” Nudger's stomach was on spin cycle. “Do you two fellows mind introducing yourselves?”

  “We mind,” the boxer said. He was smiling again. God, it was a nasty smile. Nudger noticed that the tip of the man's right eyebrow had turned dead white where it was crossed by a thin scar.

  “Then I'm sorry, but we have nothing to talk about.”

  Pockmarked shook his head patiently in disagreement. “We have this to talk about, my friend. There are parts of this great state of Looziahna that are vast swampland. Not far from where we stand, the bayou is wild and the home of a surprising number of alligators. People go into the bayou, and some of them never come out. Who knows about them? After a while, who cares?” The cold gray eyes had diamond chips in them. “You understand my meaning?”

  Nudger nodded. He understood. His stomach understood.

  “I think we've made ourselves clear,” Pockmarked said. “We aren't nice men, sir. It's our business not to be nice, and it's our pleasure. So a man like yourself, sir, a reasonable man in good health, should listen to us and stay away from Miss Mann.”

  “You mean Miss Collins.”

  “I mean Miss Ineida Mann.” He said it with the straight face of a true professional.

  “Why don't you tell Willy Hollister to stay away from her?” Nudger asked. Some of his fear had left him now, supplanted by a curiosity of the kind that killed the cat.

  “Mr. Hollister is a nice young man of Miss Mann's own choosing,” Pockmarked said with an odd courtliness. “You she obviously doesn't like. You upset her. That upsets us.”