by John Lutz
“No, I already checked on that.”
“Then Dr. Fell might be able to buy you some time away from slaving over a hot grill or hoisting Three-eighths Pounders.”
“I’ll sure see him, Nudge. Lots of doctors have failed, but he might be the one who can help my back, finally give me some relief from the pain.”
“He might even give you a real back brace,” Nudger said. He turned away and walked toward where his car was parked.
“And some ointment,” he called over his shoulder.
“Nudge! Wait a minute, damn it! You never did let me finish telling you why I was afraid to answer the door at first.”
Nudger stopped walking and faced Ray, silhouetted in his apartment doorway.
“There was a big, creepy guy here about an hour ago looking for you.”
“He leave his name?”
“Not hardly,” the misshapen silhouette said. “He wasn’t the type to leave a name.”
“What did he look like? I mean, his face?”
“I don’t know. Reason I said he was creepy, he stayed back in the shadows so I couldn’t see his face. Not so far back, though, that I couldn’t smell bourbon on his breath.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nudger switched on the window air conditioner in his apartment, removed his shoes, and padded in his socks to get a Busch beer from the refrigerator. He slid a footstool over so it was in front of the sofa, then sat back with his feet propped up and used the remote to turn on the television set.
He channel-surfed. There was a network special about violence in the streets. There was the Cubs game Ray was watching. There was another network special, about violence in the home. There was a rerun of the Twilight Zone Nudger had seen three times, the one where Agnes Moorehead, alone in an isolated cabin, battles miniature pesky space invaders who turn out to be from the planet Earth. There was yet another special about violence in the schools. There was Strangers on a Train, but Nudger had seen that oldy-but-goody at least three times. There was Pat Robertson, straining forward in his chair and smiling grimly about something. There was a CNN special about whether the media gave too much coverage to violence and were scaring people. Maybe that was why Pat Robertson was smiling. Nudger decided there was nothing special on, turned off the TV and sipped beer.
He became cooler and more comfortable. Then the beer can became empty.
Nudger didn’t feel like getting up. And he knew he shouldn’t fall asleep; it was too early and he’d wake up at 3:00 A.M. with his mind whirling like the out-of-control carousel in Strangers on a Train.
The phone was within reach so he put it in his lap and punched out Danny’s home number. Now was a good time to tell him about the Ray and Heidran situation.
Danny didn’t answer.
Nudger knew that if Danny wasn’t home on a weekday evening, he was probably at the doughnut shop doing his baking for the next morning. During the summer especially, Danny often did his baking at night when it was cooler.
No answer at the doughnut shop, either.
Okay, maybe Danny was at the ball game. The Cardinals were in town, so it was possible. Danny had a friend who had a share of a season ticket for a terrace seat between home and third and sometimes let him use it.
While the phone was in his lap, Nudger decided to call his office answering machine and see if he had any messages.
The machine beeped and signaled that he had two. Nudger pressed the receiver to his ear and listened. He didn’t bother with a pencil and paper; the machine would save his messages, and if they were important and he needed to remember anything, he could call back later and copy it down, or take care of it tomorrow in the office.
Beep.
“Nudger, this is Eileen. Did you get the letter Henry Mercato sent you? There’s no use pretending you didn’t. If you don’t . . .”
Her voice faded as Nudger held the receiver well away from his ear. Sitting there in his apartment, there was no way he could fast-forward to the next message, so he waited patiently until Eileen’s message ended.
Beep.
“Hello, friend. Did you ever wonder about why society is in a crisis state? Why our institutions are failing us? Why the very fabric of our once-great country is in disarray?”
Nudger knew. It was because of the media’s undue emphasis on violence. It was scaring the bejibbers out of people.
“If you’ll send ten dollars—or something more if you can afford it—to the American Patriotic Society of Psychic—”
“Nudge?”
Huh? Danny’s voice. He must have picked up the phone in the office and cut into the answering machine’s message.
“Nudge?”
There was something different about the voice. Something that made Nudger apprehensive.
“What’s going on, Danny?”
“I’m hurt some. I could use your help over here. Can’t quite get up all the way . . .”
“Don’t try, Danny. I’ll be right there. You bleeding? You need an ambulance? I can call nine-eleven.”
“Not necessary, I don’t think. Need help, though.”
“I’m on my way.”
As Nudger stood up and replaced the receiver in one motion, he heard the clatter of the phone in his office on the other end of the line, as if it had been dropped on the floor.
He ignored the red traffic light at Sutton and Manchester, and it took him less than five minutes to drive to his office and park directly in front of the doughnut shop. He could see faint light in the back of the shop. Apparently Danny had been baking earlier that evening. Nudger started to unlock the street door, then found that it was already unlocked. Of course! He wasn’t thinking! Danny would have had to unlock it to go upstairs.
He dropped his keys back in his pocket, then opened the street door and charged up the narrow stairwell and in through the office door.
The desk lamp was glowing in the office. File cabinet and desk drawers were standing open, some of their contents scattered on the floor. Danny was sitting on the floor with his back against the front of Nudger’s desk.
His face looked worse than Nudger’s. Blood was streaming from a gash high on his forehead, and his already bulbous nose was even more crooked and unmistakably broken. Blood from his nose had colored the top of his white baker’s apron black in the dim light.
He was conscious, gazing up at Nudger with dim and sad awareness. Then he smiled. It must have hurt him, because he stopped immediately and inhaled a sharp, rasping breath through his mouth.
As Nudger bent over him, he saw that not all the blood on Danny had flowed from the gashed forehead and broken nose. Danny’s left ear was badly mangled.
“How’d this happen?” Nudger asked. His own breath was rasping. He was breathing hard, in fear and in rage.
“Heard somebody walking around up here, Nudge. So I left my baking and came on up. I surprised some big guy digging around in your files. When he saw me, he came at me right off. He was the size of a small house, only he moved faster than a house. I never had any chance even to run.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Sure, but only for a moment. He had red hair and a bristly little red mustache. Mean eyes, but I couldn’t tell you the color. ‘Bout all I can recall about him.”
“Did you smell liquor on his breath?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Bourbon. How’d you know?”
“I met him once before.” Nudger reached over on the desk and picked up the phone. “Stay put, Danny. Don’t try to move or something might break.”
“You trying to scare me, Nudge?”
“Only if it’ll keep you from moving.”
“Who you calling?”
“Nine-eleven. Ambulance. Don’t argue.” Nudger realized he sounded like Claudia.
But Danny didn’t resist, as Nudger expected.
“The giant worked me over pretty bad, Nudge. Even while I was unconscious, I think. Hurts to breathe.”
“That’s his style,” Nudger sai
d.
Then the 911 operator answered.
Nudger’s office was only blocks from the Maplewood Fire Department.
Things began to happen.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Danny was resting in his apartment the next morning, and the doughnut shop had a TEMPORARILY CLOSED sign hanging on its door. Emergency at St. Mary’s had treated him, kept him overnight for observation, then sent him home. His head was stitched, his broken nose set and packed with cotton and bandaged. He had been kicked in the chest while unconscious, like Nudger, only more gently and with less bruising, as if his attacker had thought perhaps his heart might stop more easily.
Nudger had driven him to his apartment an hour ago, made sure he was comfortable, then gone to his office.
The air conditioner still hadn’t caught up with the heat by the time he’d gotten the place cleaned up and his files were more or less in order. Or at least close to their previous disorder.
He sat in his shirtsleeves at his desk and called Hammersmith, wondering if he really needed half the stuff he’d crammed back into his file cabinet drawers. Like that file with the photo of the attractive twin of a murder victim. Or the file on the case where the Pomeranian had bitten his hand three times. Not deeply, but three times.
“Danny was beaten up in my office last night,” he said, when Hammersmith had answered the phone.
“He okay?” Hammersmith’s voice was concerned. And angry, though only people who knew him would guess.
“Not okay,” Nudger said, “but he wasn’t seriously hurt other than a broken nose. He’s healing at home.”
“What was he doing in your office at night?”
“He was baking down in the shop and thought he heard someone walking around upstairs. He was right. When he went up to investigate, he found a guy rifling my files. I think it was the same goon who beat me up. Danny got a look at him.”
“Second time someone’s gone through your files,” Hammersmith said. “Somebody must think you know something of interest.”
“I wish I knew what it might be.”
“Maplewood Police know about Danny?”
“I called them from the hospital and they sent an officer to take our statements. They want Danny to come by later and look at photographs and try for an ID.”
“He should come by here, too. Our art collection is more extensive.” Hammersmith’s voice became muffled and indecipherable. He must have placed his hand over the receiver and said something to someone who’d entered the office. When he spoke clearly again, he said, “Why do you think this guy’s interested in you, Nudge?”
“It’s probably the Dupont case, but I can’t rule out the possibility he was sent by Eileen and Henry Mercato to try to get financial information so they can squeeze more money from me.”
“Mercato’s a lawyer. You really think he’d hire a thug?”
“Sure. Hire him and then think of a way not to pay him. I know Mercato. Not as well as Eileen, who’s sleeping with him, but I know him. He thinks being an attorney gives him a free pass when it comes to skirting the law.”
“Aw, they all think that. And hiring somebody to commit assault and burglary is a bit more than skirting the law, Nudge. I think you’d better assume your giant thug’s part of the Dupont case.”
Nudger knew he was right. “That is my assumption, but if you knew Henry Mercato like I do—”
“You’re bitter, Nudger. Your judgment is clouded when it comes to Eileen. Just because she’s involved with the guy doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.”
Hammersmith had always liked Eileen and still had a soft spot for her, which infuriated Nudger.
He was going to hang up on Hammersmith, but Hammersmith hung up first.
Almost as soon as Nudger had replaced the receiver, the phone rang.
Claudia.
“Do you feel any better?” she asked.
“Sure,” Nudger said. “Every day in every way. Any luck with the St. Charles antique shops?”
“None,” Claudia said. “And I covered about half of them. One woman, at a place called Old Tales, said the name was familiar but she couldn’t place where she’d heard it. I’m beginning to think Vella Kling’s supposed profession is a front for something illegal or immoral.”
“Or both,” Nudger said. “Something happened last night in my office.” He told her about Danny being beaten by the giant with booze on his breath.
“Danny could have been killed,” she said with a reproachful tone that suggested Nudger was in some way responsible. And maybe he was.
“I’ve warned him not to rush in when it comes to some of the lowlife that appear on the scene in my business,” he said in a guilty voice that surprised him. “If my office walls could talk, they’d tell tales that would make the Mayflower Madam blush.”
“After they asked to be painted,” Claudia said.
“Yeah. I’ve told the landlord about that, too. He links a fresh coat of paint to my catching up on the rent.”
“How unreasonable. You sound like Ray.”
“Speaking of the devil, Ray could use a doctor’s care and a note to prove he really does have a bad back. I sent him to Dr. Fell.”
“Perfect,” Claudia said.
“Time’s running out on my client’s client,” Nudger said. “Can you help me out again today?”
“Can and will. Want me to cover some more of the St. Charles antique shops?”
“No,” Nudger said, “I’ll do that. What I need is for you to attend the trial today, let me know how it’s going, tell me your impression of Roger Dupont as he continues to sink.”
“What’s been his reaction so far?”
“He seems only mildly concerned, as if he’s facing a flu shot instead of dying at the hands of the state. It puzzles his lawyer more and more. I can read it between the lines of what he’s saying whenever he takes time between words to inhale.”
“What time does court convene?”
Nudger liked that; she was already talking like an attorney. “Ten o’clock.”
“It’s almost that now, and I just came back from breakfast.”
“That’s okay, they’ll begin without you. It’s impressions I want. Not just of the defendant, but of the jury. You’re perceptive, even intuitive. See if you can get some idea as to which way the jurors are leaning.”
“Which way to you think they’re leaning?”
“I think they’d like to stone Dupont.”
“If his guilt is such a foregone conclusion, what on earth was he doing walking around out on bail?”
“I think he was allowed bail so the police could keep an eye on him, hoping he’d lead them to more substantial clues, or maybe even to where his wife’s body is buried.”
“Apparently it didn’t work.”
“That’s because anyone with the intelligence of a houseplant would suspect what was going on. Dupont’s plenty smarter than that, despite the way he’s behaving.”
“Maybe he really is innocent and has a naive faith in the legal system.”
“It’s possible,” Nudger said. “A houseplant would feel that way. ”
“Cynic. I’m going to feel guilty sitting in an air-conditioned courtroom while you’re in St. Charles dragging your injured body from shop to shop in the hot sun.”
“I told you, I feel much better. And the exercise will be good therapy.”
“Does that awful-smelling gunk Dr. Fell prescribed really help your chest?”
“That depends on who rubs it in.”
She laughed softly in a way he liked, then broke the connection.
He thought their conversation suggested possibilities for tonight. But this was morning, and there were other things to think about.
He thought about them all the way to St. Charles.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nudger ignored the antique shops on 1st Street, already visited by Claudia. After the third shop, spelled “shoppe,” he decided Claudia was right about his discomfort in
dragging his aching body around in the hot sun. St. Charles lay on the west bank of the Missouri River, and the humidity in addition to the heat made the air seem like an extension of the river itself. Nudger occasionally wondered if he should walk or swim.
At the Calico Calliope—a name that made no sense to Nudger—an elderly man behind the counter squinted through wire-rimmed spectacles with interest when Nudger mentioned Vella Kling. He was small and stooped, maybe in his seventies, but his wrists were thick and his hands looked strong. He said his name was Barney Haupt. Something in the glint of his tiny dark eyes behind the thick, round lenses suggested he could be mean.
“Only met Vella Kling once,” he said, “but I sure do remember her.”
“She must have made an impression,” Nudger said.
Barney walked along the counter to the glassed-in display section and pointed to an old Bulova wristwatch with a rectangular case and a brown leather band. “She sold me that watch. It’s a collectible from the 1940s, still ticking with the original works. Antique and collectible watches are big business these days, so naturally there’s lots of imitations flooding the market.”
Nudger leaned close to the case and studied the watch. He didn’t see why anyone would pay the two hundred—dollar asking price scrawled on the attached tag. But then he wasn’t a collector. And he’d once seen a plate featuring a hand-painted portrait of Elvis sell for three hundred dollars. It hadn’t even looked much like Elvis.
“The watch must be genuine, considering the price,” Nudger said. “Or are you going to tell me the fakes are worth that much and the originals sell for even more?”
“Nope, the price is right in line. And it’s an original, all right. Trouble is, I bought a dozen originals from Vella Kling for a hundred dollars each, all in excellent condition.”
“Let me guess. The other eleven were imitations?”
“Not only that, their cases contained no works at all. Nothing but some wadded silver foil to give them weight. It didn’t bother me that they didn’t run, but they’re not worth much without the original clockwork. They’re worth even less if their cases are downright empty. Vella Kling used the valuable watch there in the counter for a sample, and like an idiot I trusted her and thought the others were as good as they looked.”