by John Lutz
Kyle’s shadowed face was contorted, his mouth twisted and open wide. “Jack, don’t!”
The muzzle flashed brilliant orange in the dimness.
An iron fist slammed into Nudger’s shoulder, throwing him backward. He was on the floor, aware that the back of his head had struck hard. The shoulder was numb but his head hurt terribly. He knew he’d been shot, though he hadn’t heard the gun’s report. It had all been too sudden and mind-boggling.
It did seem, he realized in his cocoon of shock and silence, that the muzzle flare had been out of proportion to the size of the gun. Like a blossoming orange flower.
Someone was screaming. He craned his neck so he could see beyond his awkwardly twisted legs.
Palp was dancing in a circle, his right hand and arm on fire. The gunshot had ignited the cleaning fluid he’d slopped through on his tumble down the stairs. He’d dropped the gun and was struggling with the plastic raincoat’s buttons, waving the blazing arm as if the movement of air might put out the flames. But it was no use; the coat was melting, sticking to his clothing and skin, and the flames were spreading. Palp’s right side was on fire now. His back. His mad dance became more frantic. The basement was filled with a nauseating, acrid-sweet smell of burning plastic and flesh.
Kyle was yelling, “Roll on the floor, Jack! Roll on the floor!” Paralyzed by what he was seeing, he stood rigidly, leaning toward Palp but unable to budge, unable to help. The glow of the spectacle flickered across his horrified features.
Finally he moaned, “Oh, shit!” and turned and sprinted for the dusty rectangle of light that was the window in the basement door.
A blue uniform barged in through the door, framed for an instant by the angular glare of outside light. Gathered the fleeing Kyle into his arms like a possessive lover.
Then spurned him by shoving him hard against the concrete wall. Dug a gun barrel into the small of his back and yelled something at him.
More blue uniforms. Leather soles scraping concrete. Low curses. Scuffling and loud, rapid breathing.
Nudger tried to move but couldn’t. He was aware of someone choking, someone beating at Palp with a uniform jacket. The jacket threw madly waltzing shadows on the walls and sounded like a flag flapping in the wind. A voice yelled, “Fire extinguisher! Fast, dammit!”
More shadowed movement. Lights winking on, but not bright. The gurgling hiss of a fire extinguisher.
Another voice. Nearby. “Hey, this one’s hurt!”
God, the stench!
Then Hammersmith was there, but not smoking a cigar; couldn’t blame him for what had happened to the air in the basement. He was blocking the light, his bulk looming mountainous over Nudger. Bending down close.
Chanting in a chiding but genuinely concerned voice, “Nudge, Nudge, Nudge . . .”
Nudger rolled his eyes and saw the foam-coated, smoldering thing that had been Jack Palp. Thought about a long-ago campfire and toasted, burst marshmallows.
He wondered if Palp had lived long enough to realize the phone call to the law hadn’t been a bluff.
35
When Nudger floated to consciousness, Hammersmith was still standing over him. The reason eluded Nudger. His mouth was dry and tasted like cotton—no, there actually was a shred of cotton stuck to his upper gum, above his front teeth. Yuk! He peeled most of it away from the gum with the tip of his tongue. Pain. Not just his mouth. His body was stiff and his shoulder ached. Throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
Suddenly he remembered. He’d been shot!
He spat cotton and tried to sit up, but a jolt of real pain knocked him back down and his head sank into his pillow.
Which is when he realized he was in a bed. A minty, medicinal scent floated in the air; nothing like Max Hawk. His eyes darted around. Hospital room. A glucose bottle hung suspended like a bulbous spider alongside the bed, its clear plastic tube coiling down to a needle inserted into a vein in the back of his right hand. Patch of white tape there. Mottled purple bruise.
His abrupt movement had caused his head to explode in agony. The pain gradually lessened as he lay perfectly motionless.
Hammersmith leaned closer and said, “Ah, you’re awake!”
Nudger looked up into his smooth, broad face. Hammersmith appeared immensely pleased, his sharp blue eyes glinting in their pads of flesh. Were those tears? No, couldn’t be.
It was obvious to Nudger that he’d passed out in the basement of Adelaide Lacy’s apartment building and that he’d been rushed here and undergone an operation to have Palp’s bullet removed from his shoulder. But he was still groggy, his mind functioning in a haze. Anesthetic hangover, probably. With a pang of dread, he wondered how badly he was injured.
His disorientation and fear must have registered on his face, because Hammersmith said, “Don’t worry, Nudge, your shoulder’s gonna be okay. There can be bowling in your future. And Palp’s dead and Arnie Kyle’s in custody without bond.”
Palp and Kyle.
Nudger said, “What was in the envelope?”
Hammersmith grinned. “A detailed explanation of Nolander’s murder. Along with blueprints for the downtown Adamson Hotel, built shortly thereafter, with the spot marked where Del Westerson’s corpse was encased in concrete. A traditional way to get rid of a body, eh?” He shook his head as if disappointed by the lack of imagination in big-time crime. “What’s left of Westerson was recovered this morning, even though Kyle’s lawyers delayed things by claiming the hotel might collapse if a crew broke into the concrete at that point with jackhammers.”
Nudger managed a smile. Lawyers were some pumpkins. He’d split his upper lip. Tasted the salt of blood. He said, “Then I was right.”
“Sure. All the way down the line. You’re slicker’n okra, Nudge.”
“Charges gonna stick?”
Hammersmith nodded firmly, his smooth jowls jiggling and spilling over his blue collar. “They’ll stick, all right. We’ll see indictments for Kyle, Gray, and just about everybody else we find in the net. Maybe even hizzoner the mayor. The corruption spread, like it always does, just like Kyle planned. You’ve stirred up enough of the past to bring down most of the city government. Make it crash and burn like Nolander’s plane. The news media and Board of Aldermen are going nuts. Lots of clamor for a special general election. My guess is it’ll come to pass. Change politics in this city forever.”
Hammersmith was as ebullient as Nudger had ever seen him. Some of the police department higher-ups had to know they’d be implicated in the cover-up if not the crime, and right now they were sweating blood; Hammersmith was an honest cop and enjoyed that. He absently pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, then remembered where he was and slid it back in, still in its cellophane wrapper. The crinkling of the wrapper reminded Nudger of Palp and his plastic raincoat. His stomach lurched and bile rose like acid in his throat.
“You all right, Nudge?”
Nudger swallowed. Coughed. His throat still burned. “Sure.”
Hammersmith gently patted Nudger’s good shoulder. “You did one helluva job. Got the bad guys falling all over themselves trying to cover their asses.”
Something Hammersmith had said echoed in Nudger’s mind. “You mentioned Kyle’s lawyers delayed you, but that Westerson’s body was recovered this morning.”
“Sure. ‘Bout two hours ago.”
“But I was at Adelaide Lacy’s—got shot—just yesterday evening.”
“Two evenings ago, to be exact,” Hammersmith said. “You were zonked out all day yesterday and last night, Nudge.”
Yesterday and last night!
Nudger ignored the pain and sat up straight.
Said, “Claudia!”
36
She said, “I still can’t get over it. You were in the hospital longer than I was.”
Nudger watched Claudia walk across her living room toward the kitchen. His favorite walk to watch. She was wearing her blue robe and slippers but still had on her pantyhose from work. Even in floppy slippers
, the line of her ankles was exquisite ; every part of her seemed to move with the rhythm of the universe. Maybe, to Nudger, she was indeed the universe. The deep emerald mystery of life.
The conization tissue sample taken from her cervix had tested benign. A noncancerous infection only, which had been easily removed during a D and C after her operation. She’d come home from Deaconess Hospital that same day, while Nudger still lay unconscious at Incarnate Word after the operation on his shoulder.
Claudia—young and healthy Claudia—sauntered back into the living room, carrying a whiskey sour for her and a glass of beer for Nudger. He was slouched on her sofa, watching the second inning of a scoreless Cardinals ball game with the despised New York Mets on television. The Cards were driving for the Eastern Division championship, but they had to play consistently well. Better than well. The pressure was on them. Nudger thought it was a nice change to witness someone else under pressure.
Claudia handed him his beer and settled down beside him. Close to him. Sipped her drink and sighed. He caught the fresh scent of her perfumed shampoo, felt the warmth of her hip and thigh. God, it was good to have her alive and near him!
Ozzie Smith, the Cards acrobatic shortstop, made a diving catch of a Mets line drive. Pressure didn’t bother him. Nudger slopped beer onto his chin and said, “The guy has no equal!”
Claudia said, “Neither do you.”
Her interest in baseball was minimal. And it had been a long time since Nudger had played a tentative center field in a kids league in Forest Park. No equal. She couldn’t be talking about baseball.
He wiped his chin with the palm of his hand and wriggled his fingers as the dampness evaporated. Then he leaned back into the soft cushions and considered recent events and where they had left the people involved. Took one of those infrequent time-outs from life and assessed the game from the bench.
Most important: Claudia was healthy.
Mary Lacy was dead. Had been dead when her sister, Adelaide, hired him to find her. She’d been found, all right, and Adelaide’s nightmare had proved true. As in most of Nudger’s cases, he’d merely confirmed his client’s despair; that was the nature of his business.
Virgil Hiller was dead. His and Mary’s bodies had been recovered at the same construction site.
Jack Palp was dead.
Arnie Kyle, Mayor Faherty, and at least a dozen lesser local politicians, police brass, and crime figures were on the conveyer belt to prison. The city would never be the same, even if the world hadn’t changed.
Paul Dobbs had read the papers and ventured back home.
Bonnie and her brood had adjusted with apparent ease to life without Nudger. Especially Tad.
Nudger was alive, a condition that, for a while, had been in serious doubt. He’d almost recovered the full range of motion in his right shoulder. The doctors had told him it would ache on damp days but would otherwise not inhibit him, and that was pretty much how it had shaped up.
Claudia rested her head on his uninjured shoulder. The Cards were taking their turn at bat.
With a warm rush of contentment, Nudger sipped his beer and waited for the next pitch. All in all, his life was approximately as it had been before Adelaide Lacy jogged across the street toward the doughnut shop and hired him.
Could be worse. For the first time in a while, the future seemed manageable.
The next pitch was a curve.