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

by John Lutz

  Nudger smiled briefly. He had kept his pledge of fidelity to Claudia. He felt rather smug about that.

  Sandra returned to the bathroom, wearing her panties and bra. She reached in behind the plastic shower curtain to test the temperature of the hissing water.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked.

  Nudger nodded.

  She helped him step over the edge of the bathtub; he looked down as he did this and saw that his body showed only a few faintly purple bruises and was almost unmarked by one of the worst beatings he'd ever endured.

  “Can you stand up by yourself all right in there?” Sandra asked over the rush of water.

  “I can stand and move around okay,” Nudger told her. “It just hurts when I do.” The needles of hot water seemed to penetrate his flesh and soothe his stiffened and abused muscles. He looked over at Sandra, smiled at the concern on her bony features. “I'm on the mend,” he assured her.

  She nodded, looking no less concerned. “Sure,” she said, and pulled the shower curtain closed. He didn't hear her leave, but registered the sharp click of the latch as she shut the bathroom door.

  Nudger turned his body slowly to let the water work on his back, then turned again and raised his face into the powerful spray. He stood that way for several minutes, lost in the cascade of hot water. Finally he moved back a step so the spray struck his chest. Steam began to rise. He really could feel his body loosening up, his strength returning.

  He stayed in the shower a long time, running up the Hotel Majestueux's water bill. Then he gingerly toweled dry, used his fingers to brush his hair back, and wiped away condensation on the fogged mirror so he could look at himself.

  Same old Nudger, but maybe a few years older than he'd been last night.

  He walked stiffly out of the bathroom to locate some clothes. Each step made him ache, but less than he'd anticipated, and the pain at the base of his spine was almost gone.

  He felt like lying back down, but he knew that if he did his body would stiffen up again and he'd undo much of the good of the hot shower. With the slow deliberation of a man in a dream, he began getting dressed.

  Twisting back his arms to get his shirt on was painful, as was crouching braced against the wall to step into his pants. But the shoes and socks were the worst. Bending his body to reach his feet was a rare agony. He managed to get one shoe tied in a bow, then fastened the other one with a crude knot, sat up straight, and said the hell with it.

  The effort of getting dressed took more out of him than he'd thought it would. It also made him realize he was hungry. Should he phone down for a motorized wheelchair with chrome hubcaps, or just call Room Service?

  He decided on Room Service and ordered a two-egg cheese omelet, toast, orange juice, and a pot of coffee. Then he unlocked the door, slumped in the blue armchair, and for the first time looked at his wristwatch. He was surprised to see that it was almost eleven o'clock. Sandra Reckoner had given him her morning as well as her night, without much in return.

  Nudger realized that either the maid was late this morning or she'd found his door locked with the nightlatch and would make up his room on her late rounds. It occurred to him that she might come in at the same time as the bellhop from Room Service and bustle over to the wastebasket and empty it. That could cause minor complications; Nudger decided he'd better remove the stack of Ineida's love letters from the wastebasket where they were concealed inside the wadded napkin.

  He stood up and creaked over to the desk, placing his left palm on it to support himself while he leaned over the wastebasket and felt beneath crumpled papers to find the napkin.

  As soon as he touched the napkin he knew something was wrong; it was lying flat, not the way he'd carefully arranged it to conceal the letters.

  Blood was rushing to his head, making him dizzy, so he straightened, lifting the metal wastebasket as he did so and setting it on the desk. He stuck his hand in the wastebasket and probed around; still no letters. To be sure, he dumped the contents onto the desk.

  The letters were gone.

  “Damn her!” he said softly, but with enough vehemence to make his sides ache from the effort of abruptly expelled air.

  At the knock on the door, he scooped the trash back into the wastebasket and set it on the floor. Then he hobbled over to the door and opened it, expecting to say hello to his breakfast.

  But it wasn't Room Service at the door.

  It was Ineida Mann.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Not Ineida Collins, Ineida Mann. She'd shed her ingenue image for her visit with Nudger. She was wearing tight black leather slacks that laced up the fly, and a navy-blue blouse with an oversized collar. Her dark high heels made her seem six inches taller than the little girl who sang. She had on a spiked gold bracelet clasped tight around her wrist, and she was clutching a small leather purse in such a way that the long, thin strap dangled from her hand like a whip. Nudger thought she looked as if she'd been hanging around someplace taming lions.

  “I want to talk to you,” she said, pitching her voice low, biting off the words hard. Everything about her was hard today except for her eyes. They tried, but had marshmallow centers.

  Nudger stepped back and motioned for her to come in. She stalked into the room, then paused, noticing that he was walking with difficulty.

  “What's wrong with your legs?” she asked.

  “I had an accident. Sliding into third base.”

  She looked at him strangely but didn't press with more questions. That she wasn't here about the letters was obvious; she wasn't clawing at Nudger or threatening a lawsuit. Or maybe she was working up to that. Actually she would approach him differently, Nudger knew, if she found out that he'd stolen and read her sometimes clinical love missives to Willy Hollister; he would hear from her not at all, or he would hear from her attorneys.

  Standing just inside the door, she spread her feet wide and faced him squarely, establishing a beachhead that she might just expand into a full-scale invasion. “Why are you investigating me?” she asked.

  “I'm not,” Nudger told her, which seemed for this occasion close enough to the truth.

  Her greenish eyes narrowed and managed to become tigerish. She'd practiced the expression; she was doing it consciously to demonstrate her anger. Nudger figured she was actually scared beneath all that bravado and makeup. “You're asking questions about me,” she said. “Coming around my apartment lying to me, sneaking around the club. Does my father have something to do with this?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes.” Nudger was getting tired of standing. He made his way painfully over to the blue armchair and eased back down into it. The old chair felt pretty good.

  Ineida placed her fists on her hips and jutted out her smooth fighting chin. Nudger thought she might have a brighter future as an actress than as a singer. “If my father didn't hire you to spy on me, who did?”

  “I'm not spying on you, Ineida. And you enter into my job only in a way that could prove beneficial to you.”

  “That's vague, Nudger. I didn't come here to listen to you be vague.”

  “Sorry. I feel vague this morning.”

  Standing in such a dramatic spread-legged fashion in those high heels must have gotten to her ankles. She stood up straighter and more naturally, her feet closer together so her weight bore down evenly and more comfortably on the thin spike heels.

  “Why are you dressed that way?” Nudger asked.

  “Dressed what way?”

  “Like a dominatrix in a cheap whorehouse.”

  She blinked at him; she didn't know what he meant. Women who whipped masochistic men for pay were beyond her experience and imagination. Her ignorance was inexcusable, she figured, so without answering she reached into her purse and tossed a fat white envelope into Nudger's lap.

  “What's this?” Nudger asked, leaving the envelope alone. But he knew what it was, just not how much.

  She t
old him. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  He was impressed, and not nearly so altruistic and unswerving. Then, when he saw Ineida smile at him, he picked up the envelope and tossed it back to her. To his surprise, she caught it left-handed with the ease of a major league first baseman and stood holding it.

  The smile stayed, a confident curve above the arrogant chin. “You don't believe me,” she said. “Would you like to see the money? Count it?”

  “No,” he told her, “seeing all that money might break down my resolve. I'm not made of wood; mostly I'm papier-mâché made from unpaid bills.”

  “Then accept this.” She extended the envelope toward him but didn't toss it this time. “Go back to where you came from and forget this job. But first, tell me who hired you. And why.”

  “I can't do that, Ineida. Ethics.” He thought about her love letters he'd stolen, now missing from his possession, and his stomach twitched.

  She saw that he was serious, then stopped smiling and replaced the bulging envelope in her purse. Nudger watched its fat white form disappear; absently he wiped his hand across his mouth. “You really do have ethics,” she said, almost in amazement.

  “Sure. You find them in unexpected places,” he told her, “like lost buttons.” Probably she hadn't seen much in the way of ethics, being David Collins' daughter. “Have you talked to your father about this?”

  “No. What good would it do? If he did hire you, or knew who did, he'd just lie to me about it. He considers me too young to know certain things, still a child.”

  “Where did you get the twenty thousand dollars?” Nudger asked.

  “It's mine; I have money of my own.” She gazed curiously at Nudger. “Are you working for my father and afraid to accept the money?”

  “No.”

  “If that's the situation, twenty thousand dollars can take you a long way from New Orleans.”

  “Not that I'm working for him,” Nudger said, “but if we got into a contest to see who could afford the most one-way tickets, he'd win.”

  She knew Old Dad well enough not to argue with Nudger on that point. “I don't like being watched over as if I'm a twelve-year-old,” she said.

  “Most people don't. Especially twelve-year-olds. Does Willy Hollister know you came here?”

  The chin was out again. “Of course not! He doesn't know my family has money. No one in the jazz scene knows it, or knows my true identity.”

  “They won't learn who you are from me,” Nudger told her.

  “How did you find out who I am, if Daddy didn't tell you?”

  “I learned from someone else. You're from New Orleans, Ineida; how long do you think you can sing in a club without someone recognizing you?”

  “I've spent the last six years away from the city, and the kind of people in my old circles don't go to jazz clubs off Bourbon Street.” She smiled again with that unassailable blind confidence. “And I don't look at all the way I used to, Nudger; I've grown up.”

  “In some very obvious ways,” Nudger said, letting his gaze flick up and down her tightly clad body. She liked that, he could tell. Would she try to bribe him with something other than money?

  “Now,” she said, lowering her head and fixing him with an upcast, direct stare, still smiling.

  “Now what?” Nudger asked, wondering if a lot of people had been wrong about Ineida.

  But the thought of tit for tat, sex for that, hadn't entered her naive young mind. Or if it had, it had fled through the pure driven snow. “Now are you going to tell me who hired you if Daddy didn't?”

  “Nope,” Nudger said, wondering if he was disappointed.

  There was a polite knock on the door. Ineida looked in that direction, then back at Nudger, and he nodded, motioning for her to answer the knock. “That would be Room Service.”

  Ineida went to the door, opened it, and stood back.

  A scrawny young bellhop Nudger hadn't seen before pushed a cart with Nudger's breakfast on it into the room. When he saw Ineida in her Hustler magazine outfit, his Adam's apple jumped but his expression remained professionally bland. The cart's wheels squeaked as he ran it through a kind of loose figure eight.

  “For him,” Ineida said, pointing toward Nudger.

  The kid gulped noisily and pushed the cart over to the blue chair. Nudger nodded thanks to him and tried to reach into his hip pocket for his wallet without standing up. He found that the pocket was empty, and he saw his wallet on the dresser where Sandra Reckoner had put it after it had fallen onto the floor while she was helping him to undress last night.

  “Here,” Ineida said, holding out a five-dollar bill for the scrawny kid. He accepted the money and grinned at her; he liked her, all right. Nudger wished he'd take her out for a PG movie and a hamburger and a Coke and make her forget all about Willy Hollister.

  When the bellhop had gone, she turned again to Nudger, who was meticulously placing a napkin in his lap and lifting the silver cover off his plate. Eggs, toast, and coffee had never smelled so good.

  “Your last chance,” she said, tilting her half-open purse so he could see a corner of the white envelope. With the sight seemed to come the faint perfumed scent of money to mingle with his breakfast aromas.

  Nudger ignored her, tried not to look at the envelope.

  “Aren't you even tempted?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then why don't you accept my offer?”

  “You said it earlier: scruples.”

  “I said ethics.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Same price, too. I don't think you're not for sale, Nudger; I think it's simply that someone is paying you more than my offer. How much more?”

  “Don't be ridiculous. No one has more money than you do.”

  Nudger's refusal was puzzling and infuriated her. This visit wasn't going as she'd anticipated. She hadn't planned on a smitten bellhop and a private investigator dumb enough to have more of an appetite for food than for money. Life was too damned tricky and unpredictable. Unfair, unfair. Something inside her began to cave in. She suddenly looked even more ridiculous in the MTV clothes she'd worn to impress him with her authority. Different dress and mannerisms hadn't taken her where she wanted to go.

  “I want you to leave me alone,” she said, almost crying because she couldn't buy what she wanted. “I want you to stop sneaking around and badgering me and Willy and threatening our happiness.”

  “You have a few things backward,” Nudger told her.

  “No, I don't. And I get what I want, Nudger.” Her eyes were brimming; she looked so young and unknowing, standing there on the edge of tears and rage, ready to topple forward on those high heels and fall in. So very, very determined. “I'll get you to leave Willy and me alone, no matter what it takes.”

  “A threat?”

  “A threat,” she confirmed. She was trembling, about to lose any semblance of control over her emotions.

  “Do you want half of my omelet?” Nudger asked her.

  “No! Do me a favor and choke on your goddamned omelet!”

  Unwilling to break down in front of him, she stalked from the room quickly so he couldn't see the sobbing that he heard. She slammed the door so hard that the omelet quivered on its plate like something alive and neurotic.

  Nudger sat in the reverberating silence for a few minutes, then pushed his plate away and poured himself a cup of coffee. Ineida and her tears and her twenty thousand dollars had ruined his appetite.

  After coffee and half a piece of buttered toast, Nudger went to the bed and sat down with the phone. He dialed direct to the Third District station house in St. Louis and got Hammersmith.

  “This is Nudger, Jack.”

  “I know,” Hammersmith said, “I was warned.”

  Nudger made a mental note not to leave his name next time with Ellis the desk sergeant. “I need some information.”

  “I assume you're still in New Orleans, or you'd be here in the flesh to bring to bear the full force of your personali
ty behind your request. What specifically do you want to know?”

  “Nothing specifically,” Nudger said. “I want your feeling on the Billy Weep murder.”

  “You mean Benjamin Harrison Jefferson?”

  “You know who I mean,” Nudger said.

  “My feeling, huh?” Hammersmith understood what Nudger was requesting.

  Nudger heard the labored wheezing sounds of Hammersmith lighting a cigar and was glad that over six hundred miles separated them. Even at that he considered glancing out the window to check wind direction.

  “We found a gram of heroin hidden in Weep's apartment, Nudge,” Hammersmith said.

  “I thought you searched his apartment and came up with nothing.”

  “This was wrapped in a cut-off prophylactic and tucked down into a light socket with a bulb screwed in on top of it. Would you have found it?”

  “No,” Nudger said, letting Hammersmith extract his price for whatever information he was going to divulge, making a resolution not to take burned-out light bulbs for granted. They and burned-out people could surprise.

  “The most likely theory is that someone knew Weep had the junk hidden in the apartment and killed him for it but didn't find it.” Hammersmith couldn't quite make himself sound as if he believed that theory.

  “How would they know he had it or how much it was?”

  “Could be they saw him get it from his supplier and followed him home.”

  Nudger remembered the wasted Billy Weep slouched in his chair in the shadows. It was hard to imagine him having the strength even to go out and score for a fix. And it wasn't easy to find a supplier who delivered heroin like pizza to go. Something softer, maybe, but not heroin. “Was there evidence of heroin in his blood?” Nudger asked.

  “No. There was a two-point-five alcohol reading and there were traces of THC in him. Marijuana. He was on two kinds of high when he was killed.”

  “Maybe not,” Nudger said. “THC stays around in the body for a long time, and when I talked to him just before his death, Billy told me he wasn't drinking.”