by John Lutz
Without budging, he looked around as far as his field of vision would permit. Dark bare earth. In the distance, a chain-link fence, a line of pine trees. Movement—a car shadowing past beyond the trees. The sky had darkened and he estimated it was late afternoon. He’d been lying here unconscious for hours. He moved slightly so the arm of his sportcoat crawled up his wrist. His watch read 3:05.
When he glanced at it again it was 4:15, though he didn’t remember time passing. Maybe the sun had done a sudden sprint across the heavens.
Some of the pain had left him. Gingerly, he made himself sit up, leaning his back against the wall of the gray building. Looked out on a gray world. Beyond a corroded piece of industrial equipment, and the rusting railroad tracks, he could see the drab brick buildings on the north side of Manchester.
Using the wall for support, he managed to struggle to his feet. He brushed dirt from his clothes. Took a cautious step away from the wall. Teetered, but stood up all by himself. Baby’s first step. Quite a feat.
He thought about the vomit and wiped his sleeve over his face. That made him feel amazingly better, cleaner. He chanced taking another step or two and found the process less painful than he’d imagined.
A shard of dread pierced his mind. He spat most of a bitter taste from his mouth, then took lurching strides toward the street.
After a zigzag course across the field, he stumbled across the railroad tracks, kicking rocks and almost tripping over the ties. Then out beyond the line of sickly pines.
Traffic was heavier than he’d anticipated. Early rush hour, people heading west from their jobs downtown. Home to drink and dinner. Kids and mortgages. The straight life.
Ignoring the glances of passing drivers, he crossed the street and made his way into Skip Monohan’s apartment building.
The man with the gun hadn’t asked him why he’d seen Skip, though he must have known that was where Nudger had just come from.
Trusting the old wooden handrail to support his weight, Nudger fought his way up the stairs to the second floor and limped down the littered hall to Skip’s apartment. Saw the door standing open.
The trash-strewn apartment looked the same except for the cold kerosene heater lying on its side. A puddle of fuel was soaking into the bare floor, stinking up the place. At the edge of the puddle lay a ten-dollar bill, half of it discolored and plastered to the floor with kerosene.
Skip was gone.
When he’d finished with Nudger, the man in the black suit must have crossed the street.
17
Hammersmith said, “You oughta quit being stubborn, Nudge. Go see a doctor.”
Nudger squirmed painfully in the hard wooden chair before Hammersmith’s desk at the Third District station. It was too warm in the office, not making things easier. He could feel a sticky coating of perspiration inside his clothes. “I’d know if I was hurt bad enough to need a doctor.”
“Sure, you know all about the human anatomy. Whether anything’s broken, or you’re bleeding inside. Whether you’ll be able to have kids even though your balls have been wrung out like a dishrag.”
Nudger said, “I feel better.”
“From what you described, you’d have to with every passing second. Somebody does that to you, there’s no place to go but up when it comes to feeling better.” In something like disgust he dropped another cloth-bound mug book into Nudger’s lap. Dropped it harder than was necessary. Vicious way to make a point.
Making an effort not to show pain, Nudger placed the book on top of the one he’d been leafing through and opened it. Some of the holes around the metal ring binders were torn, causing a few of the pages to stick out at odd angles. Had to turn the pages carefully.
There, on the third page, was the man in the black suit, staring straight into the camera as if amused by it. Confidence and cruelty glittered in the dark eyes. The profile shot showed a handsome tilt of nose and strong chin. What made the face brutal came from inside.
Hammersmith noticed Nudger’s reaction and glided his bulk around to loom behind the chair. Nudger could hear him breathing like an asthmatic.
“Him,” Nudger said, pointing to the dark features set in the pale complexion. Eerie. There was something about the man’s mere photograph that inspired fear.
The photos were numbered and the identities of the subjects were listed on a separate sheet of paper in the back of the book. But Hammersmith didn’t have to consult the directory. He said, “Uh-hm. That’s Jack Palp. Works for Arnie Kyle.”
Nudger wasn’t surprised by the Kyle connection. “What do you know about Palp besides his employer?”
“Sure you wanna hear?”
“I asked.”
“Guy’s a bad, bad boy, Nudge. Got into trouble in the early seventies and had his choice of going to prison or into the army and Vietnam. Chose Vietnam and won a lotta medals for upping the body count. Came back and got involved with the sorta people who appreciated his unique talents. Palp’s barely missed homicide indictments twice that I know of in the last five years. Who knows how many other jobs he’s pulled we never linked with him. He’s a neat, clean worker.” There was a touch of admiration in Hammersmith’s tone; pro acknowledging pro, however grudgingly. “A craftsman.”
Nudger felt a chill. “What are you saying, that this guy’s a hit man?”
“He was,” Hammersmith said. “Kind that liked his work. Kind that was born to it. Then a couple of years ago he went to work for Kyle.”
“Doing what?”
“Sorta thing was done to you.”
Nudger took a last look at the amused, confident face staring up at him from the photograph. Handsome guy who reminded him of death. Who’d made death his trade. The heavy cover of the book fell closed with a flat, slapping sound. The End. “What about Skip Monohan?”
Hammersmith took the mug books from Nudger and dropped them on his desk, moved back around the desk, and sat down. Laced his pudgy pink fingers. “Monohan’s gone, that’s all. You’re the one thinks there’s some connection between that and what happened to you.”
“What do you think?”
“Unofficially, same as you. But maybe I’m not as firm on it. People like Monohan move around like they sit down someplace it bums their ass. Odds are always good you wouldn’t find him where you saw him last. Especially after the kind of conversation you had with him. Bound to make him itchy.”
“If you assign a detail to search Scullin Steel,” Nudger said, “you might find Monohan.”
Hammersmith smiled with maddening tolerance. “One of your hunches?”
“Guess you could call it that.”
“Monohan might be off on a high somewhere, or busy doing whatever it is creeps like him do when they’re not tripping or stealing money for drugs.”
“Maybe in Fiji helping Paul Dobbs snap photographs.”
Hammersmith arched a white eyebrow. “Smart mouth’ll get you nowhere, Nudge.”
Hadn’t so far, Nudger conceded.
His stomach was twitching and he felt as if a mule had kicked him in the genitals. He didn’t feel like arguing with Hammersmith; he felt like driving home and soaking in a hot bath. Maybe after that going over to Claudia’s for some sympathetic sex of whatever sort he could manage with his damaged equipment. He hadn’t forgotten the “Something better” she’d mentioned this morning. It had stuck on the fringes of his mind like a catchy melody. He wouldn’t be able to perform but she could soothe him, hold him, make it all well. Almost well, anyway. Certainly better.
“I guess you want me to put out a pickup order on Palp,” Hammersmith said.
“It’s a thought.”
“A thought’s all it is, Nudge. No witnesses. And he’ll be able to account for his time, probably working for a charitable cause. Your word against his any of this even happened.”
“That oughta count for something—my word against his.”
“Counts only with me, Nudge. You know that.”
Nudger knew. It would be futile trying to tie P
alp in with Nudger’s aching core. Or with the disappearance of Skip Monohan, who wasn’t called Skip for nothing. Unless Skip’s body was found and it offered some kind of lead. If he was actually Palp’s latest victim.
“I’ll see to it somebody takes a thorough look around the grounds at Scullin Steel,” Hammersmith said. “Another waste of time, but a favor for you.”
“I guess you’ll apologize if they find Monohan’s corpse.”
“In that eventuality it’s Palp should apologize. For being so uncharacteristically stupid. He’s not like most goons, Nudge; guy’s got a brain. Went two years with top grades down at the University of Missouri in Columbia before he maimed an instructor after an argument over a coed. Professor of history. Palp spent a few hours with the poor guy, and now the professor’s history himself; went off to teach in Guatemala or some such place. Too scared even to press charges against Palp, though Palp didn’t know that at the time and agreed to the army deal.”
“How’d Palp get hooked up with Arnie Kyle?” Hammersmith laughed. “How would he not? They complement each other. Kyle’s full of meanness, but he’s no physical tough guy. Comes to maybe having to spit blood, Kyle’ll bluff and then back away. There’s no bluff in Palp. He was a dog, he’d bite without a warning growl.”
“He warned me today.”
“That was Arnie Kyle warning you.”
“Which means there’s more to the Virgil Hiller disappearance than a political hack absconding with the funds and his secretary.”
“Not necessarily. It looks like Mary Lacy and her envelope and Kyle are mixed up together, but it probably has to do with drugs and not Virgil Hiller’s disappearance. Or maybe Kyle was supplying her with a lesbian prostitute and blackmailing her. Be just like him. Lots of possibilities with these kinda folks.”
Nudger had thought of that, but hoped Hammersmith wouldn’t. Should have known better. Time to get him back on track. “That photo of Dobbs’s shows Hiller dead, and you know it.”
“To know is not to prove, Nudge.”
“Especially when the powers that be don’t want something proved.” Nudger knew Hammersmith would take only so much of this. He was himself a masterful politician in a limited arena, which was what had enabled him to rise in rank. But he was also an honest cop.
The conflict in Hammersmith must have made him feel ornery. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and unwrapped it. Fired it up and puffed mushroom clouds like a series of atomic detonations.
Nudger decided not to fight the inevitable nausea. He braced himself for the pain in his groin, stood up, and moved toward the door. Walking was a chore.
Hammersmith said, “I heard someplace acupuncture’s the best thing for what’s bothering you, Nudge.”
Nudger winced. “Let me know what you find at Scullin, all right?”
“Or don’t find.”
Hammersmith was determined to be difficult. Nudger knew he didn’t like it that his superiors had put him in a position where he had to act against his cop’s instincts. Didn’t like being squeezed in a vise.
Wishing he hadn’t thought of that vise analogy, Nudger waved good-bye and left Hammersmith squatting like a corrupt Buddah in his desk chair, obscured by foul green incense of his own making.
Nudger had slipped a Fathead Newman jazz tape in his Sony portable, then slowly and painfully lowered himself into a bathtub full of hot water, when the phone in the other room rang.
He said, “Damn!” and gripped the smooth rim of the tub to lever himself to his feet. Slipped and almost fell, splashing water out of the tub to spread over the tile floor. Hit your head, good way to drown. He straightened up gradually and high-stepped carefully out of the tub. Wrapped a towel around himself. A clumsy kind of dance. Newman played accompaniment.
Five rings already. Whoever was calling might hang up.
Dripping water and leaving damp footprints on the carpet, he hurried toward the jangling phone. After the hot, humid bathroom, he felt chilled. That made his testicles feel as if they were being twisted like taffy again and caused him to walk hunched over, shivering. God, this was fun!
He snatched up the receiver on the seventh ring, gazing at his glistening hand and wondering if phones ever electrocuted the wet and the hasty. Pressed the plastic to his ear anyway. Might as well get it in the brain direct. Zap! End it quickly; lots of pain but brief. Over.
Bonnie’s voice said, “Thought you might not be home.”
Bonnie, Bonnie. Nudger liked and admired this woman, but he was increasingly sure they were hopelessly incompatible. Bonnie and her brood of unruly kids, her noisy suburban lifestyle. Her hostile son. But Nudger always had trouble summoning up the courage to break off relationships clean. And he had to admit he was flattered by the healthily attractive Bonnie’s persistent adulation.
“Home,” he said cheerily.
“Catch you at a bad time?”
“Naw.”
“I delivered some Nora Dove to Gina Hiller today and we had quite a conversation.”
Nudger got a better grip on his damp towel, which threatened to fall. “Oh, about what?”
“I think it’d be better if I told you in person.” Very coy. Cute, even on the phone. “Want to meet at Denny’s restaurant tonight for coffee?”
Nudger hesitated.
“Nudger?”
“Okay, I’ll be there. About seven?”
“We better make it eight, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure. See you then.”
He hung up. So much for Claudia. So much for “Something better.”
He backtracked along his damp footprints and again lowered himself painfully into the bathtub.
Soaked.
Probably the wrong end.
18
Nudger sat alone sipping coffee at Denny’s until 8:20, when a waitress veered over to his booth and asked his name, then told him he had a phone call.
Bonnie.
She apologized for standing him up, explained that she had car trouble, and asked if he’d drive over to her house and pick her up. Nudger thought it was almost as if she were planning on using enough time to prevent him from possibly dropping by Claudia’s apartment later tonight. Did women have this subtle telepathic thing going? Like dolphins?
Twenty minutes later, still tasting the bitterness of four cups of coffee, he pulled into Bonnie’s grease-stained driveway on Pleasant Lane and saw her Nora Dove station wagon, its hood raised, parked at an angle near the garage. Tad’s long, jaybird legs, clad in faded jeans, were all that was visible of him as he lay over a front fender to worm as far as possible into the unfortunate car’s engine compartment. He was wearing beat-up, club-toed brown boots that made his feet look like Frankenstein’s monster’s.
Nudger got out of the Granada, hop-stepped over a grease stain, and walked toward the front porch. Tad must have heard him drive up, heard the car door slam, but remained draped over the Chevy like a slain deer.
Ten-year-old Carlotta answered Nudger’s ring and stood smiling wistfully up at him without speaking, somber brown eyes like deep-glazed saucers, holding onto the knob of the open door with one tense hand for security. Did this one always look like a poster girl for waifs?
Nudger smiled back. “Your mother home?”
Carlotta nodded, her smile fixed, her dark eyes unblinking. She was so small and vulnerable. How could she not have been adopted? Nudger was ready to adopt her now. She released the knob and stepped back, jamming her tiny fists into the pockets of her flowered skirt.
Nudger stepped inside. Called, “Bonnie?”
It was Janet who wandered in from the kitchen, sipping from a two-liter bottle of sugar-free Pepsi. Dabs of flesh-colored makeup were visible on her forehead. Much changed from one generation of teens to another, but the war against zits was constant. “Mom’s putting on different clothes. Belinda like spit up on her.”
Nudger said, “Oh.”
Janet was wearing a white blouse and amazingly tight Levi’s that i
nhibited her walk and probably hurt. She set the Pepsi bottle on a table where it would leave a ring and said, “I’m goin’ someplace. Gotta look tough. You think I should wear my blouse like this?” She tucked it in tightly. “Or like this?” She plucked at the material with her thumb and forefinger so it wasn’t quite as taut. Nudger saw no significant difference.
He said, “First way. Definitely.” He was wising up.
She crammed the material back into her Levi’s around her seventeen-inch waist. Sort of wobbled about in the painted-on pants and raised and lowered her arms tentatively, as if testing. Yep, she could still move, though some compressed internal organs might have ceased functioning.
She ducked her head, looked at Nudger with a hopeful grin, and said, “Got any loose weed?”
“Nope. Don’t smoke the stuff.”
“You one of those Reefer Madness geeks?”
“One of those who don’t do dope,” he told her. He sounded, even to himself, like a moralist on a soapbox.
“Why don’t you?”
“I know people who do and wish they didn’t. A few who don’t and wish they never had.”
Janet said, “I’m not sure if that makes sense.”
James ran into the room, carrying a plastic automatic weapon that looked so real it gave Nudger the creeps. A replica of an Israeli Uzi, the terrorists’ favorite. Leveling the gun expertly, he took a shot at Nudger, then at Janet, each time making a repetitive chucking sound and spraying saliva. His eyes were fierce. He was dressed in tiny camouflage pants and shirt, wore a red bandanna around his blond head. Said, “Both you’s dead!”
Janet said, “Fuckin’ geek!” and was immediately blasted again. James curled his upper lip at her, as if annoyed she’d survived the first hail of bullets.
Nudger wondered why Carlotta had been spared. Turned to ask her and found she’d faded from the room. Maybe she waged silent guerrilla warfare against James.
“Wanna stick wif a knife on it,” James said. “For my birfday.”
Nudger said, “What?”
“Stick wif a knife!”