by John Lutz
“That’s why you’re here,” Nudger told her. “Let whoever might be looking for you roam around the downtown Hilton.”
He was familiar with the cottages and knew there was no back door. While Vanita was testing the air conditioner, he checked the windows and saw that they were locked. Even the tiny frosted glass one in the gray-tiled bathroom was secure.
Vanita was standing next to the humming air conditioner, nodding with satisfaction. “I’ll be cool, anyway.”
“And well fed. There are some fast-food restaurants within easy walking distance.”
“You mean you don’t want me to live like a hermit?”
“I don’t think you could. Not for very long. And the odds of whoever might be looking for you running across you at Wendy’s munching a hamburger are slim.”
“Slimmer than I’ll be after a week or two of hamburgers.”
Nudger grinned. “They serve salads, too.” He walked to the door. “Phone my office every morning and evening. Leave a message if I’m not there. I wanna know you’re all right while I nose around. And before I go, I need the key to your apartment.”
“How come?”
“If anyone does want to find you and talk about the diamonds, that’s where they’ll start to look.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment, then said, “Makes sense.” She reached into her purse for her key ring, then detached a brass door key and handed it to him. “It fits the front and back doors.”
The key was warm from her hand. He slipped it into his pocket. “You read?”
“Read?”
“Yeah. You know.” He pointed to his eyes. Mimed turning a page.
“Sure, I told you I went to college.” Ah! A little sarcasm. He hoped.
“I mean for pleasure. Books, magazines.”
“No, not much. Financial statements are what I mostly read. Cosmopolitan now and then.”
Nudger wasn’t surprised. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and bring you the latest issue.”
“Okay, thanks.” She glanced around. “I’ll be fine here. I’ll watch television. The soaps. ‘Geraldo. ”Oprah.’ I’ll wait to hear what you find out.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, making the old springs squeal, and worked her shoes off her feet. Wriggled her toes, whose nails were enameled red to match her fingernails. “This was a good idea, Nudger. I think I can relax here and not be afraid.”
“Stay afraid enough not to go out too often,” he told her.
“I’ll try.”
He smiled, reassuringly, he hoped. Then he left her and stood outside the door, listening as she clicked the deadbolt and rattled the chain lock into place.
Good girl. He’d try to remember that Cosmo. Maybe pick her up a TV Guide.
What the hell, he’d give her his Wendy’s coupons.
6
Conscience.
Hammersmith often said Nudger had too much of it, and maybe Hammersmith was right. A thousand dollars was locked in the bottom drawer of Nudger’s office file cabinet, and he suspected his services weren’t really necessary—or wouldn’t be within a few days, as soon as news of the diamonds at the air disaster scene was made public. Then Nudger’s client, and her pursuers, would know the game was over. But until then, while there was danger to her and to him, Nudger felt compelled to do something to earn his fee.
Dumb, but there it was. Like an affliction.
Conscience.
As he drove north on Lindbergh toward Vanita’s apartment, he wondered how much of the thousand dollars he should throw to Eileen to keep her and her lawyer at bay. In this age when few childless, self-supporting women were awarded alimony, Henry Mercato and Eileen had managed to financially rape Nudger. Now Eileen was earning more than twice his annual income, and he was reasonably sure she’d be living openly with Mercato if the intimate domestic arrangement wouldn’t upset their plans to wring every dollar possible out of Nudger.
Sated or not, Eileen couldn’t stay away from the trough. She didn’t operate out of economic necessity; she was motivated by a nasty combination of vengeance and greed, using Mercato the way she’d used Nudger, but Mercato didn’t know it. Well, bright and eager as he was, he’d find out eventually. Nudger didn’t feel sorry for him. And he didn’t want to pay Eileen any more than the court had decided five years ago. Eileen wouldn’t be satisfied with that amount, and wouldn’t let Mercato be satisfied. Greed and spite would be the thing that slept with them.
Nudger was chomping an antacid tablet by the time he parked in the lot of Vanita’s apartment building. It was pointless to dwell on the unchangeable and unpleasant, he told himself. He should be concentrating on what he was doing here, and why. What he’d say and do if someone actually came to Vanita’s apartment looking for her and the diamonds.
His stomach growled and suggested something that sounded like “Ruuuuun!” He got out his roll of antacid tablets, thumbed back the silver foil, and popped two more of the chalky white disks into his mouth.
The apartment was stuffy and silent. It was a stupid idea to come here, he told himself, sitting down on the uncomfortable sofa. Its leather upholstery was sticky, like furless flesh still on the cow. Down around the udder. Yuk! He got up and instead sat in some kind of modern canvas sling chair with an angular stainless steel frame. He was astounded to find it comfortable ; like discovering Andy Warhol was just plain folks.
So here he was, acting out the work ethic.
He sat in the sling chair for a long time, idly wondering why he wasn’t selling used cars or insurance. Then he switched on Vanita’s multi-million-dollar stereo setup and misused it by listening to the Cardinals’ afternoon game with the Mets. He got up only a couple of times to peer out the window when he heard a car door slam. Helped himself to a can or two of Busch beer from the refrigerator.
The game was a pitchers’ duel that went into extra innings. When Todd Worrell came in and struck out Strawberry to stifle a potential Mets’ rally in the thirteenth inning and give the Cards a two-to-one win, Nudger decided to call it a day. Like the Cardinals.
He’d at least put forth an effort; laid his ass on the line for his client. Anything might have happened here.
Before leaving he snooped around Vanita’s apartment. She wouldn’t approve, but there was still danger for Nudger; it was possible he’d need an edge.
Vanita seemed to live reasonably well. Though she’d taken more than enough clothes to the motel, her closet was still stocked with plenty of expensive items. Over a dozen business suits with skirts. Probably thirty pairs of shoes, from joggers to high-heeled boots. Little Imelda Marcos.
He poked through the drawers of a dainty walnut secretary desk in the corner of a spare bedroom that had been converted to an office, saw that she had an ominous Visa balance but other than that was pretty well caught up on her bills. No car payment book, so the BMW was most likely paid for, like Nudger’s 1979 Ford Granada.
There was another desk in the room, this one ugly but functional, a gray steel office model. It was full of arcane financial information pertaining to Vanita’s work. Interest rate lists. Amortization schedules. None of it as exciting as Cosmo.
Nudger perched on the edge of the desk and used the phone to call Claudia. She should just now be arriving home from her last class at Stowe, the girls’ private high school out in the country, where she was teaching a ninth-grade summer course in remedial English.
She sounded out of breath when she answered the phone. That was okay; Nudger liked listening to her breathe hard.
“Heard the ringing out in the hall,” she explained. “Ran up the last flight of steps to reach it in time.”
“Knowing it might be me,” Nudger said.
She unleashed her stern teacher’s tone: “Don’t get overconfident. It’s unbecoming.”
“I’ll drive over,” Nudger said. “Stop on the way and pick up something for supper.”
“Oh? I thought we might eat out.”
“Not tonight. It’d be better if we stayed at your place.�
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“Why?” Different tone altogether. She’d sensed something in his voice. Woman was psychic.
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Okay.” She knew enough not to ask superfluous questions. Knew when to push and when to draw back. It was one of the reasons he loved her. just one.
He said, “Any red wine left in the Gallo bottle?”
“Four or five inches.”
Enough. “Good. See you in about an hour.”
He hung up the phone and made another quick round of the apartment, to make sure everything was back the way he’d found it.
Then he locked up carefully and went outside to where the Granada was parked in the sun. The rust on the fenders and beneath the doors made the car look as if it were slowly disintegrating in the heat. Maybe it was. Maybe he was.
He rolled down all the windows before sliding in behind the steering wheel and starting the engine.
As he made a left turn out of the parking lot, he felt good about the way the day had gone.
Until something cold shot through his mind. He was sure he’d locked the car when he’d arrived at Vanita’s apartment, but it was unlocked when he’d returned to it.
Or had he locked it? He reconstructed the scene in his mind. Driving onto the blacktop lot, finding a parking slot, switching off the engine and climbing out of the car.
Then what?
His mind’s eye saw a Nudger slipping the keys into his pants pocket, leaving the car unlocked. Saw another Nudger squinting across the car to make sure the passenger-side door was locked, then getting out and punching down the driver’s-side lock button. Yet another Nudger keying the lock beneath the door handle, then dropping the keys into his pocket and walking away.
But which phantom Nudger struck the right chord in his memory? Were any of them correct?
By the time he’d parked in front of Claudia’s apartment on Wilmington, he’d convinced himself he hadn’t actually locked the Granada.
He was smiling as he jogged up the steps to her door at the head of the second-floor hall, wondering why he’d assumed he’d locked the car in the first place, why he’d worried about it. The mind could sure play tricks.
In her understated way, Claudia looked terrific. She had on her blue dress that was severely tailored to her lean body but couldn’t straighten her curves, and she still wore a gold necklace and plain gold loop earrings. She didn’t have on any shoes, though. Her nylonned toes were scrunched into the throw rug by the door as she stood waiting for Nudger to kiss her.
He touched his lips to her cool forehead. Rattled the white paper bags he was carrying.
She said, “What’s that I smell?”
“White Castle burgers. Ten of them. With fries.” White Castle was a fast-food franchise that sold curious little inexpensive square hamburgers on square buns. The beef patties had holes in them and they needed onions to hold the entire affair together. Claudia’s South Side neighbors referred to White Castle hamburgers as Belly Bombers, but they kept buying and eating them. They were strangely habit forming. Possibly addictive as cocaine.
Claudia smiled. She had a lean face with a perfectly shaped nose that was too long but lent her a look of nobility. Dark eyes that saw deep into things. The longer you looked at Claudia, the more attractive she grew to be; the longer she looked at you, the more downright beautiful she became. A subtle male-female connection was completed and that was that. The way it was with some women. They were sexy in a way subdued but potent. Low-voltage but high-wattage. She nodded toward the familiar white bags and said, “The wine should go well with those. Let’s uncap it so it can breathe and we’ll eat.” Such sarcasm.
She took the bags from Nudger and carried them to the dining room table. He hung back so he could watch the perfect motion of her walk. Then he went into the kitchen and got the jug of Gallo from behind a carton of milk in the refrigerator. Pulled a couple of clean glasses out of the dishwasher. No need for flatware. White Castle burgers and fries were finger food.
When he sat down across from Claudia at the table, she said, “There’s ice cream in the freezer for dessert. We’ll let cholesterol run riot.”
She dealt out the hamburgers in their little cardboard folders while Nudger poured wine into the water tumblers. The dining room was cool; the air conditioner in the window near the table served both it and the adjoining living room. It was an old, large apartment of the sort found in south St. Louis. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, radiator steam heat. Ornate, enamelcaked woodwork. Some cracked plaster here and there. Nudger liked it. The place felt more like home than his own apartment.
Claudia bit into one of the little square hamburgers. She loved the things but wouldn’t admit it. Then she sipped her wine, gazing at Nudger over the glass rim. She put down the glass and said, “You implied over the phone there was a reason we were eating in tonight.”
He told her about Eileen and Mercato’s gathering assault on the amount of his legally assigned alimony payments. About the rumor that they’d hired someone to follow Nudger and establish that he was throwing money away on Claudia that should be going to Eileen.
“That’s bullshit,” Claudia said. “We don’t very often dine at four-star restaurants.”
“Never have, in fact.”
“And most of what I wear, I bought with my salary.”
“Painful but true,” Nudger admitted. He uncrated and ate one of his miniature burgers. Counted. Six for him, the usual four for Claudia. Ten might not be enough. “The good news,” he said, “is I went to work on a fresh case today. So I’ll be able to pay Eileen most of what I owe her.”
“What kind of case?”
“Has to do with that airliner blowing up.”
Claudia looked concerned. “You’re not into something political, are you, Nudger?”
“Not politics,” Nudger said, “diamonds. But not the kind that are forever.” He explained everything to Claudia.
She looked worried. “So you’re in danger until news of the diamonds comes out. If it does.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” Nudger asked around a mouthful of greasy and salty french fries.
“You said the diamonds are stolen. Maybe the police will want to keep it secret that they’ve been recovered.”
“Reason?”
“So they know something the thieves don’t know. They could use that to their advantage.”
Nudger washed the fries down with a swallow of wine. His fingers were grease-coated and the glass almost slipped from his hand. “Television crap. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in the real world. Cops’ll want all the credit they can get for recovering the diamonds. Maybe somebody’ll get promoted. Believe me, there’ll be a news conference, a speech, Channel Five close-ups of the diamonds on a black velvet cloth. You’ll see.”
“Hope it’s soon,” Claudia said. She finished her last little hamburger, then drained her glass of wine. “Want to save the bags and wrappers?” she asked. “Use them in court as evidence of your frugality?”
Nudger didn’t think she was funny. He felt a little cheap, actually. “I don’t eat this stuff just because it’s all I can afford,” he said defensively. “I like fast food, and economy wine usually tastes as good as the expensive stuff.”
She smiled at him, with a certain light deep in her eyes. She said, “Me, too. Let’s make love before it makes us sick.” Nudger lay on his back with Claudia’s head resting on his bare chest. The ceiling fan rotated steadily overhead and the window air conditioner was humming, but the room was still warm and smelled of stale perspiration and recent sex.
Claudia was sleeping. Her breathing was rhythmic and deep and with each inhalation her lean, tanned arm moved slightly where it was flung across Nudger’s body. Now and then her eyelash fluttered and tickled his chest. REM sleep, Nudger figured. He wondered what she might be dreaming.
Whatever other problems they had, sex was good. Claudia was still in her thirties, but he was mid-forties. Not many years away
from AARP membership. Sometimes he surprised himself.
He’d just about decided he’d never been more comfortable and contented, and was drifting into sleep, when the phone on the bedside table rang.
Claudia jerked awake. Blinked and snatched up the receiver on the second ring, knocking the bent tube of KY jelly to the floor. She said, “Jus’a min’t,” and handed the receiver to Nudger.
He pressed cool plastic to his ear. “‘Lo.”
“Nudge? Hammersmith here. Need you to come over to where I am. Soon as you can get here.”
Something in Hammersmith’s voice alerted Nudger. “Where are you?”
“Crime scene.”
“Give me directions, Jack,” Nudger said irritably. He didn’t feel like playing word games.
“Know where the Dropp Inn Motel is on Watson Road?”
Nudger swallowed hard. “I know.”
“Then you don’t need directions.” Hammersmith abruptly hung up. He had a quirk when it came to phone conversations; he always liked to break the connection first. It made him feel like he was in control.
The sun was finally giving in and sinking, and the room had become dim. Nudger stood up and turned dazedly in a circle, then made his way into the bathroom and took a quick shower.
Back in the bedroom, he located his underwear and socks, yanked them right-side-out, and started pulling on his clothes. He wanted to be at the Dropp Inn Motel as soon as possible.
“Trouble?” Claudia asked.
“Business.”
“Trouble,” she said. She was nothing if not astute. “Got time to share it?”
“Don’t know yet what kind it is.” He had a pretty good idea, but he didn’t want to think about it until it was confirmed.
Claudia said, “Hammersmith’s still with Homicide, isn’t he?”
“I think so,” Nudger said. “See my shoes anywhere?”
7
Flashing red-and-blue roofbar lights from police cars illuminated the Dropp Inn Motel. Half a dozen patrol cars, and what looked like an unmarked county police cruiser, were parked at odd angles in the meandering gravel drive that connected the cottages. As Nudger braked the Granada to a halt as close as possible to Cottage 13, he couldn’t help thinking that anyone committing adultery here tonight must have had a hell of a scare. And Nudger knew he was scared, or he wouldn’t be reaching so far to find humor to suppress panic.