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

by John Lutz

“Not like me, though,” Hollister said. “My only interest is my music. You might call it my consuming passion.”

  “What about Miss Mann?”

  “I told you that's none of your business. You don't listen worth a damn.” Hollister stood up, neatly but ineffectively snubbed out the cigarette he'd been smoking, and seemed to relish leaving it to smolder to death slowly in the ashtray. “I've got a number coming up in a few minutes.” He tucked in his Fat Jack's T-shirt and looked severe, squaring his shoulders. Obviously this was threat time. “I don't particularly want to see you anymore, Nudger. Whoever, whatever you are, it doesn't mean burned grits to me as long as you leave Ineida alone.”

  “You shouldn't joke about grits south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  “You're the only one taking it as a joke,” Hollister said, moving toward the door.

  “Before you leave,” Nudger said, “can I have your autograph?”

  Incredibly, far from being insulted by this sarcasm, Hollister scrawled his signature on a nearby folded newspaper and tossed it to Nudger, as if it were of great value and might serve as a bribe to keep Nudger away from Ineida. Nudger took that as a measure of the man's artistic ego, and despite himself he was impressed. All the ingredients of greatness resided in Willy Hollister, along with something else.

  Nudger stuck the folded newspaper in his sport-coat pocket and walked back out into the club. He peered through the throng of jazz lovers and saw Fat Jack at the bar. The crowd was lively tonight, lots of talk and laughter, and there seemed to be a larger than usual percentage of females. Maybe it was ladies' night.

  Marty Sievers was leaning with his back against a wall near the stage, his gaze sliding back and forth over the crowd.

  Sidling around a knot of revelers, Nudger made his way across the dim room toward the leviathan form of Fat Jack, so they could talk before Hollister's next set. Just then he spotted Ineida across the room. She was wearing a sequined green blouse that set off her dark hair and eyes and gave her a faintly Gypsy air. Nudger regretted that she couldn't sing as good as she looked. She glanced at him sloe-eyed, recognized him, and quickly turned away to listen to a graying, bearded man who was one of the party at her table. He seemed pleased and surprised by her sudden interest; he removed a curve-stemmed pipe from his mouth, and began to gesture knowingly with it as pipe smokers habitually do. Nudger wondered if his own IQ would rise if he took up smoking a pipe.

  “Hey, Nudger,” Fat Jack said, when Nudger had reached the bar, “you sure you know what you're doing, old sleuth? You ain't exactly pussyfooting. Ineida asked me about you, said you'd bothered her at home. Hollister asked me who you were. The precinct captain asked me the same question. I feel like I'm on ‘The Joker's Wild’ and you're my category.”

  Nudger's stomach tightened. “A New Orleans police captain?”

  Fat Jack nodded. “You betcha. Captain Raoul Livingston.” He smiled broad and bold and took a sip of absinthe. “You make ripples big enough to swamp boats.”

  “Do you know anything about this Livingston?”

  “Sure,” Fat Jack said. “In my business, I'd better know about him. He acts like he's the one that wrote the law and can damn well change it if he wants to as he goes along.”

  “Tough cop?”

  “They say so.”

  “Who're ‘they’?”

  “The ones that've had dealings with Livingston. I guess you'll be one of them as soon as he catches up with you.”

  Nudger thought it was time to change the direction of the conversation. He motioned with his head. “Who's the gray-haired guy with Ineida? The one with the pipe.”

  “That's Max Reckoner.” Fat Jack absently swirled his absinthe around in his glass. “He's a big jazz buff and antique dealer; got himself a string of shops that sell the real stuff as well as reproductions. You might say he's interested in Ineida, and not in a fatherly fashion.”

  “What does she think of him?” Nudger asked.

  “She tolerates him while fending him off nicely without hurting his feelings.”

  “Does he know who she really is?”

  “If he does, he's not saying. He wouldn't. Max is a good enough guy; he's just got glands younger than he is and a wife that understands him too well. That's her near the end of the table, the tall brunette.”

  “How about Marty Sievers? Does he know Ineida's true identity?”

  “Marty? Naw, he's got no idea. Hey, you want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sandwich or something from the kitchen?”

  “Nope.”

  “What then, old sleuth?”

  “What I'd like to do now,” Nudger said, “is take a short trip.”

  “Lots of folks would like for you to do that.”

  “I need to go to Cleveland, Kansas City, St. Louis, and Chicago,” Nudger said, sounding like a public-address announcer at a train station. “I'll spend maybe a few hours, maybe a couple of days at the most in each city. I've got to find out some background on Willy Hollister if I'm going to help you. Are you willing to pick up the tab?”

  “I don't suppose you could get this information with long-distance phone calls?”

  “Not and get it right.”

  “When do you plan on leaving?”

  “Tonight, as soon as I can.”

  Fat Jack nodded. He produced a checkbook with an alligator cover, scribbled deftly in it, and tore out a check and handed it to Nudger. Nudger squinted at it but couldn't make out the amount in the faint light.

  “Hey, if you need more, let me know,” Fat Jack said. His smile was luminous in the dimness. “Make it a fast trip, Nudger. I'd like to wind this thing up as soon as possible.”

  “Speaking of winding up,” Nudger said, “do you know anything about a couple of muscular robots? One has a scar across his right eyebrow and a face like an ex-pug's. His partner has a dark mustache, sniper's eyes, and is named Frick. Possibly the other is Frack. They both talk with thick Cajun accents.”

  Fat Jack raised his eyebrows. Fear caused him to reel out a flag-sized white handkerchief and wipe his forehead. “That'd be Rocko Boudreau and Dwayne Frick,” he said, with soft, terror-inspired awe. “They work for David Collins.”

  “I figured they might. They warned me to stay away from Ineida.” Nudger felt his intestines twist into Boy Scout advanced knots. He got out his antacid tablets and placed two on his tongue. “They suggested that if I didn't take their advice, I might take up postmortem residence in the swamp.” As he recalled his conversation with Frick and Frack, Nudger again felt a dark near-panic well up in him. Maybe it was because he was pressed in at the bar with the huge and terrified Fat Jack McGee; maybe fear actually was contagious. He offered Fat Jack an antacid tablet. The big man accepted, chewed the tablet furiously, and washed it down with absinthe. Nudger didn't think it would do him much good.

  “I'm sure their job is to look after Ineida without her knowing it,” Nudger said. “Incidentally, they seem to approve of her seeing Willy Hollister.”

  “That won't help me for diddly shit if anything happens to Ineida that's in any way connected to the club,” Fat Jack said. “It'll be Swamp City for the friendly fat man.”

  From what he'd heard about David Collins, Nudger thought Fat Jack might not be exaggerating. Frick and Frack were in Collins' employ for more than just keeping things dusted and running out for canapés.

  Nudger pushed away from the bar. He was tired and uncomfortable. His stomach was trying to digest itself. “I'd better make airline reservations and pack,” he said. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

  Fat Jack mumbled something unintelligible and nodded, lost in his own dark apprehensions, a ponderous man grappling with ponderous problems. One of his inflated hands floated up in the dimness in a pale parting gesture.

  As Nudger was about to walk away, Willy Hollister launched into his first number.

  Nudger hung around and listened. Fat Jack understood.

  SEVEN

&nb
sp; “Where have you been?” Claudia Bettencourt asked Nudger.

  “Cleveland, Kansas City, Chicago.”

  “Sounds like three years' worth of Shriners' conventions.”

  “I've also been to New Orleans,” Nudger said, wincing at the morning light blasting through the blinds into Claudia's bedroom. “That's where my new case is. I tried to phone you before I left, but you weren't home.”

  Claudia slipped into her blue robe and shook her head with brief violence. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and drops of water marked the robe. It was a new robe, with silk at the sleeves and hem, and came down only about halfway to her knees. It made her legs look great. “You might have phoned before you came by last night.”

  “At midnight when I got into town? Miss Manners would have something disapproving to say about that.”

  Claudia smiled. “So you just used your key to let yourself in and climbed into bed with me. Perfect etiquette.”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Does now.”

  She said something to him, but at the same time she switched on her blow-drier and Nudger couldn't understand her. He lay back in the bed and watched her shake her long dark hair again as she played the hot stream of air over it. She'd let it grow the past six months; he liked it long. She had fleshed out during the past half year, too, and he liked that. She was still slim, and her slender features were still dominated by a nose that was too long but somehow lent her a noble look. Her face was less gaunt now, her hipbones less prominent in bed; she seemed healthier, which immensely pleased Nudger.

  Claudia switched off the drier and began brushing her hair in front of her dresser mirror, slouching down slightly with a dancer's grace to fix her entire reflection in the glass. She was using an odd-looking brush with blunted, widely spaced bristles, the sort of thing that sold for something-ninety-nine via TV mail-order commercials.

  “How's work?” Nudger asked, meshing his fingers behind his head on the pillow.

  “It's fine.” She caught his gaze in the mirror and smiled ever so slightly as their eyes locked. Nudger had helped to get her the position as teacher in a private girls' high school in St. Louis County. Apparently she'd taken to her return to teaching after her stint as a waitress, and everything Nudger heard indicated that Stowe School had taken to her. “I've got to go in to work later today,” she said.

  “It's Saturday.”

  “I know. I have to grade some tests.”

  “You could have brought them home.”

  “I'd rather work at the school.” The brush made surprisingly loud, abrupt swishing sounds as she forced it through her still-damp hair. It was a sound Nudger didn't care for. “What kind of case are you working on in New Orleans?” she asked.

  “Something to do with a jazz pianist.” Nudger didn't elaborate. She knew he didn't like to discuss his cases except when he was ready, if at all, and she wouldn't push. Occasionally there were things about his work that Claudia preferred not knowing.

  “Sounds interesting” was all she said. Shhhhk! went the brush.

  “The layovers in the other cities were to gather background information.”

  Claudia nodded, not looking at him. Shhhhk!

  “Stop that, will you?”

  “Stop what?” she asked, putting down the brush.

  “Never mind.” Nudger swung out of bed and padded barefoot toward the bathroom to shower. The hardwood floor was pleasantly cool to walk on.

  “One egg or two?” she asked, as he passed her on the way to the door.

  “I thought we'd have breakfast out.”

  “I don't mind cooking,” she said. “I still enjoy playing with the kitchen.” She had only been in the south St. Louis apartment on Wilmington a little over a month. Considering the roach palace she'd occupied downtown, Nudger could understand why she liked her new kitchen.

  “Two eggs,” he said, and stepped over his wadded white J. C. Penney underwear where he'd tossed it last night in the throes of passion. Fortunately he kept a complete change of clothes at Claudia's.

  In the spacious old tiled bathroom, he stood beneath the stinging needles of a hot shower and thought about Claudia. Her world had improved vastly since her suicide attempt only nine months ago. She had her job, the new apartment, a self-respect she'd thought was lost forever. And Nudger liked to think he was an incentive for her to keep on living. It was nice to be needed.

  He began to lather his travel-tired body. The soap was perfumed and had the consistency of whipped cream, but it would have to do.

  Nudger felt better after showering and dressing. By the time he walked into the kitchen, the fresh-perked coffee scent had honed his appetite. He sat down across the table from Claudia. She had his sunny-side-up eggs ready, along with black coffee, buttered toast, and three slices of bacon. Working woman though she was, Claudia liked to cook and was good at it. Nudger and his stomach appreciated this touch of domesticity in his otherwise unruly life.

  “Are you going to see Nora and Joan today?” he asked, sprinkling too much salt on his eggs. Nora and Joan were Claudia's thirteen- and eleven-year-old daughters by her unfortunate marriage. The girls lived with their father, Ralph Ferris, in north St. Louis County.

  Claudia took a sip of coffee. “No, Ralph is taking them out of town this weekend. Or says he is. The bastard.”

  Nudger smiled. Bastard. It was good to hear her refer to Ralph that way. Emotion out in the open. “In touch with her feelings,” was the jargon. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Oliver, would like that. Besides, Ralph was undeniably a bastard.

  “I'll spend most of the day reading my English Two class's essays on Shelley,” she said.

  “Winters or Berman?”

  “What are you going to do today?” Claudia asked. She had learned to tune out his nonsense. She doused ketchup over her eggs. Nudger didn't understand how she could eat them that way. Or even look at them directly.

  “I'm going to see an old friend,” he said. “He's not nearly as literate as your English Two class; he communicates best through a saxophone. But he does it oh so eloquently.”

  Claudia looked up from her colorfully abused eggs and frowned at him. For a moment he thought she was going to ask him to elaborate, but she didn't. She picked up her fork instead.

  “Eat your breakfast,” she said simply.

  Nudger did. Then he kissed her good-bye and left, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Ketchup.

  Billy Weep lived in a second-floor apartment on Hodimont Avenue on the city's north side. That wasn't his real name, Billy Weep. Nudger had been told what it was one time long ago, but he'd forgotten it. He figured it didn't matter. Not to him, probably not to Billy.

  Nudger trudged up narrow dim stairs that reeked of stale urine, then knocked on the first door on his right.

  He stood for a few minutes, then knocked again. Harder. There was a faint noise from inside that Nudger chose to interpret as an invitation to enter. He tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and pushed it open.

  The one-room apartment smelled worse than the stairwell, but different. It had about it that unmistakable acrid odor of perspiration and futility that suggested illness. Nudger stopped and stood still, as if he'd been hit, when the heat and stench of the place reached him.

  The curtains on the single window were pulled almost closed. Squinting in the dim light, Nudger saw an unmoving figure seated in a small chair alongside the window. For a moment he thought he'd walked in on a corpse, then the figure jerked slightly and turned a lean, silhouetted head to stare at him.

  “Billy?” Nudger said.

  “You askin' or tellin'?” came a high-pitched, weary voice from the chair. It was a voice that had been made monotonal by pain.

  “It's Nudger, Billy. I used to come hear you play at Rush's a few years back. We had some drinks together. I did some work for you once.”

  “Few years back, shit,” Billy Weep said. “That's been eight years ago I had you follow Laverne.”

  N
udger thought about it. Maybe it had been that long since Billy had hired him to get the evidence he'd needed to divorce the wife he didn't trust. It had been one of Nudger's easier tasks, until a strung-out trumpet player had leapt out of Laverne Weep's bed and tried to strangle him. Laverne had joined the struggle, wielding a high-heeled shoe like a club. Nudger had barely gotten out of there alive and still had scars from that night.

  “Where'd you get my address?” Billy asked.

  “The Musicians' Association down on Fifty-ninth Street. I had to talk it out of them; don't you want to be found?”

  “Not these days.”

  “Why not?”

  “These days ain't the old days.” A thin, almost twiglike arm rose against the faint light and pulled open the curtains. “Arther-itis,” Billy said, holding up his hands in the sunlight so Nudger could see them clearly. The long, slender fingers that had once danced on Billy's alto sax keys were unbelievably contorted. Billy flexed the pathetic fingers to show Nudger that they wouldn't meet the palms of his hands. “Arther-itis is a bitch, Nudger.”

  Nudger tried to keep the pity from pulling at his face. It wasn't only Billy's hands that looked bad. The man himself couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds, most of that flesh-draped, protruding bone. Billy Weep, who had done magic on the sax, didn't look now as if he had the strength even to stand up with the heavy instrument. Arthritis is a bitch, all right, Nudger thought. Time is a bitch. Eventually, for all of us.

  He looked around at the steamy, disheveled apartment. He didn't see what he'd expected, but then the place was still dim, even with the opened curtains. “You been drinking, Billy?”

  “No,” Billy said, “not drink.”

  Nudger walked over to stand nearer to the old, old man of fifty-two. “I'll speak straight with you,” he said.

  “You always did, Nudger.”

  “You look like death not even warmed over. You killing yourself on something, Billy?”

  “Maybe.” Narrow, bony shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. Billy turned to stare out the window and the slanted morning light fell across his harshly lined thin face. They were not good lines, not laugh lines. “It don't make me no difference, Nudger. Shouldn't make you none.”