by John Lutz
“And me and Frick don't like to be upset,” the boxer said. He closed a powerful hand on the lapel of Nudger's sport jacket, not pushing or pulling in the slightest, merely squeezing the material. Nudger could feel the vibrant force of the man's strength, as if it were electric current. “Behave yourself,” the boxer hissed through his fixed smile.
He abruptly released his grip, and both men turned and walked away.
Nudger looked down at his abused lapel. It was as crimped as if it had been set wrinkled in a vise for days. He wondered if the dry cleaners could do anything about it when they pressed the coat.
Then he realized he was shaking. He loathed danger and had no taste for violence. He needed another antacid tablet and then, even though it was early, a drink.
New Orleans promised to be an exciting city, but not in the way the travel agencies and Chamber of Commerce advertised.
FIVE
Nudger considered phoning Sam Judman to make sure he was home before dropping by to see him. Then he decided against calling. It would be better to talk to Judman without giving the drummer time to prepare for the conversation. The element of surprise would increase the chances that Judman, possibly still angry from being beaten by Hollister, would say something accidentally that might provide some insight into what was causing Fat Jack to worry.
Judman lived in a crumbling brick building in the French Quarter, in a spacious old second-floor apartment that was lined with screened windows. He was a small, intense, dark-haired man, in his early forties, with a narrow, lined face and an underlying pallor that suggested ill health. He was unmarked; there was no longer any sign of the beating at Hollister's hands. When Nudger introduced himself and asked to talk about Hollister, Judman nodded and invited him inside.
The apartment was cool after the noontime heat. Four large ceiling fans rotated slowly in unison, and all of the windows were open. One of the fans was making a faint rhythmic ticking sound, a lazy summer sound. Bamboo blinds were lowered exactly halfway down all the way around the spacious single room, their horizontal precision making the place seem even larger than it was. There were a few pieces of modern but comfortable-looking furniture. Books, record albums, and tapes lined one wall. Framed and glassed photos of Judman posed with various show-business personalities were hung in the narrow space above the windows, picking up reflections. The room was very bright where it was bright, very dark where the sun failed to penetrate. A door led to what appeared to be a small space for a drop-down Murphy bed; through another door Nudger could see into a kitchen. In the far corner near that door was a multimillion-dollar stereo setup.
Judman offered to get Nudger something to drink. Nudger had already had his day's ration of liquor, and coffee would send his stomach into acidic revolt. He declined Judman's offer and the two men sat facing each other in low-slung, plushly padded matching chairs.
“You said you were a private detective, Mr. Nudger,” Judman said. “May I ask the identity of your client?”
“Right now,” Nudger said, “I'd prefer to keep that confidential.”
“But you want to know about Willy Hollister.”
“Whatever you can tell me. I know you and he had a run-in at his apartment. Do you know why?”
Judman turned his hands palms-up in a perplexed gesture and then dropped them to his knees. “He was upset because I let myself in to wait for him. I don't know why he was so touchy; he'd left the door unlocked. And it's not as if I was going through the drawers or testing for dust. I was just sitting on the couch waiting for him to show up after work. I didn't figure the guy was paranoid.”
“How long had you been there before Hollister arrived?”
“Not more than five minutes. Hell, I told him that, but it didn't seem to make any difference. He was in a freaked-out rage.”
There was a noise from the kitchen. Nudger turned.
Marty Sievers walked in, carrying a tall glass of dark liquid with ice in it. When he got closer, Nudger realized it was iced coffee. Nudger stood and shook hands with Sievers, who didn't seem surprised to see him.
“I know who you are,” Sievers said. “I saw you at the club last night, and I heard you introduce yourself to Sam.”
Nudger was sure there was little that Sievers' bland brown eyes missed. Sievers sipped his iced coffee; he had about him the stillness and control of a man who had supreme confidence in his physical capabilities in any situation. Green Beret stuff.
“You handled that potential customer trouble very neatly last night at the club,” Nudger said.
Sievers swirled the ice in his glass. “It's part of my job.”
“You're wondering why Marty's here,” Sam Judman said.
Nudger nodded, “My line of work, wondering.”
“And finding answers,” Sievers added. “I'll make it easy this time. I came here to tell Sam about some leads with other clubs around town.”
“Leads?”
“Employment opportunities.”
Nudger looked at Judman. “You're leaving the band at Fat Jack's?”
A passing anger momentarily darkened the drummer's pale features. “Not voluntarily. Fat Jack let me go, after my fight with Hollister.”
“He had to,” Sievers said, shrugging.
Judman nodded in reluctant understanding. “Yeah, Hollister saw to that, told Fat Jack it was me or him. Hollister's a bastard, but I have to admit I'm easier to replace than he is. This is a jazz town, full of top musicians looking to latch on someplace.”
“It's a raw deal,” Sievers said. “Fat Jack and I want to see that Sam lands on his feet.” He carried his drink to a flowered sofa, sat down in a corner, and became as relaxed and motionless as a wax-museum display. He was like an actor doing an upstage freeze, turning the scene over to Nudger and Sam Judman.
“Why did you go to see Hollister the day you had the fight?” Nudger asked Judman.
“No reason out of the ordinary. I had a few suggestions on the arrangement of one of Hollister's numbers. I wanted to change the background beat.”
“Does Hollister do his own arranging?”
“Yep,” Judman said. “He does everything. And even though he cost me my job, I gotta say he does it well.”
“So how come he got so excited when he came home and saw you in his apartment? Did he act as if he had something to hide?”
“What he acted like was mad. He didn't give me a chance to explain why I was there, just started in on me with his fists. And he didn't explain to me why he didn't want me there.”
“Is he dealing in drugs?” Nudger asked.
“No,” Sievers said definitely from the corner of the couch.
“A user?” Nudger asked.
“Sure,” Judman said. “Nothing hard, though, a little coke, a little good grass now and then. Means nothing.”
“Did he apologize or try to patch things up after the fight?”
Judman laughed. “Apologize? Not Hollister.”
“And he didn't tell you or anyone else why he beat up on you?”
“When I asked him the next day,” Judman said, “all he'd say was that he didn't like his privacy invaded.”
“Maybe that's all there is to it,” Sievers suggested.
“Maybe,” Nudger agreed, not believing it. “What do you know about Hollister and Ineida Mann?” he asked Judman.
“Only that they're chummy. Ineida seems like a nice kid; she don't deserve Hollister.”
“What do you think of her as a performer?”
“A nice kid.”
Nudger looked over and saw that Sievers' bland face was as unreadable as a turnip. He wondered if Sievers knew that Ineida Mann was the daughter of David Collins. That was one he'd have to ask Fat Jack.
“If Fat Jack fired you,” Nudger said to Judman,”then Hollister doesn't carry his own backup band.”
“That's right,” Judman said. “The club uses its own backup music; I've been playing there a couple of years.”
“It won't be long befo
re Hollister takes his own musicians wherever he plays,” Sievers said. “They'll line up for the job. He's that good.”
Nudger looked at Judman. “Do you think he's that good? A rising star?”
“Star? The son of a bitch is a meteor.” He didn't like saying it, but he got the words out at a cost. Dean Martin, his arm flung around Judman's shoulders, smiled down approvingly from an eight-by-ten glossy.
“Meteors are bright,” Nudger said, “but they travel in a downward direction and burn out fast.”
Judman grinned at the thought, but said, “I'm no astronomer, Nudger. I bang the drums.”
Nudger stood up and thanked Judman for taking the time to talk with him.
“No problem,” the drummer said, getting up to show Nudger out. “I figure to have plenty of free time for a while.”
“Not for long,” Sievers said, also standing. “You're too good a musician not to catch on somewhere soon. I'll leave with you, Nudger.” He gave Judman a reassuring smile. “Let me know about those auditions we set up over on Rampart.”
“I will, Mr. Sievers. And thanks again.”
At the door, Judman shook hands with Sievers, then Nudger. His eyes were weary and his hand felt cold and weak.
Sievers fell in step beside Nudger as they walked along the crooked sidewalks of St. Philip. “I wanted to talk to you alone,” he told Nudger. “Fat Jack hired you.” He stated it as a fact, not a question.
“Did he tell you that?” Nudger asked.
“No. I saw the way you and he were talking last night at the club. And I know he's plenty worried.”
“About what?”
“We both know what. Or rather who. Willy Hollister.”
“Do you think he's got good reason to worry?”
Sievers walked silently for a while before answering, his heels striking a soft rhythm on the sidewalk. “I'm not sure. The more you see of Hollister, the less you like him. Fat Jack tells me there's something uneven about his music, but you couldn't prove it by me. I only judge him by the number of customers he draws, and that seems constant. I'm tone deaf. It all sounds like ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ to me, even Hollister's music.”
“What about Hollister and Ineida?”
“They're lovers,” Sievers said. “That's no secret. What's their personal life got to do with anything?”
“I don't know,” Nudger said. “I'm still trying to get a slant on things, find a toehold.”
“Why specifically did Fat Jack hire you?” Sievers asked flatly.
“Maybe you better ask him.”
“Sure, I will.” Sievers didn't seem at all miffed by Nudger's refusal to answer. This was a man who never wasted anger.
“What exactly is your business relationship with Fat Jack?” Nudger asked. “I get the impression you're more than simply an employee.” He smiled. “If you'd prefer, I'll ask Fat Jack.”
Sievers laughed. “No, that's okay, I'll tell you. I'm a minority partner in the club—technically, we've got a limited partnership. But mainly I'm the floor manager. I keep the place running smoothly, do most of the hiring and firing, the procurement of supplies. Fat Jack hires the musical talent, does the paperwork, and reaps most of the profit. I get a salary and a percentage of the net.”
“How do you like that arrangement?”
“Fine. It's what we agreed on from the beginning. Fat Jack put up most of the seed money for the club, took most of the risk. Neither of us can bitch. We're both doing okay financially.”
“David Collins owns a piece of the club too, doesn't he?”
“Right. Twelve and a half percent, just like me. Only he doesn't need the money.”
“Are there any other minority partners?”
“Nope, the other seventy-five percent is all Fat Jack's.”
“You were career military, weren't you?” Nudger asked.
“Does it show that much?”
“It does. But I know because Fat Jack told me. You were Green Beret.”
“That's right. Vietnam and seven years after that.”
“How come you gave it up?”
“It was fine in the beginning, but I got tired of playing games.”
“Games?”
“That's right, Nudger. The kinds of wars we're fighting these days are bloody and tragic, but they're nothing more than games played by politicians, with too many rules and restrictions. Wars should be fought only when there's no other way, and they should be fought with all-out effort; you survive or the enemy survives. Wars shouldn't be anybody's games, played with guns without bullets.”
“How did you get involved with Fat Jack?”
“When I left the service, I came here because it's my hometown. My wife and I lived here before our divorce, a long time ago. I was a construction foreman for a while, up around Lake Pontchartrain. Then the building industry went bust, and I started doing some serious investing in the stock market—gambling, really—with some of the army severance money I had left. Fat Jack and I were in the same investment club. We got to know each other, thought the same way about certain investments. When I heard he was going to open his own jazz club, I wanted in. We talked, and then made the arrangements.”
“What kind of investment club were you in?” Nudger asked.
“One of those deals where the members pool their funds to purchase large blocks of stock or real estate partnerships. It fell apart several years ago when the stock market went into a swoon.”
“You must know most of the backup musicians at the club,” Nudger said.
“Sure. I know them all.”
“What do they think of Willy Hollister?”
“As a talent, they think he's God. As a person they don't particularly like him, but that doesn't bother them much. Or him. They know they're staying put, and he's heading for Grammy awards, Mount Olympus, and the David Letterman show.”
“Has he had trouble with any of the other musicians?”
“No, only Judman.” Sievers' voice became serious. “It's a good thing he didn't break any bones.”
“Judman seems okay.”
“I didn't mean Judman,” Sievers said, mildly surprised, “I meant Willy Hollister. He used his fists. He might have fractured a knuckle and been unable to play piano.”
“And that would cost the club,” Nudger said.
“That's right. Hollister packs in the paying customers and helps fatten my bank account.”
“Heartless capitalist,” Nudger said, only half joking.
“I've got a heart,” Sievers said with a grin. “It just happens to be stony and cold.” They'd reached an intersection. “You going to the club?”
“No,” Nudger said, “my hotel. It's the other way.”
“Okay,” Sievers said. “I guess I'll see you at the club later.”
“You will,” Nudger told him, and watched him walk away. Sievers walked with a measured, smooth military erectness that, from a distance, made him appear much taller than he was. It was a walk that suggested control and efficiency. As he reached the next corner, the traffic light seemed to change just for him, and he crossed the intersection without breaking stride.
Probably, Nudger thought, he was humming any number of tunes, all of which were “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
SIX
“You're no jazz-magazine writer,” Willy Hollister said to Nudger, in a small back room of Fat Jack's club. It wasn't exactly a dressing room, though at times it served as such. It was a sort of all-purpose place where quick costume changes were made and breaks were taken between sets. The room's pale green paint was faded and peeling, and a steam pipe jutted from floor to ceiling against one wall. Halfway up the pipe was a large paint-caked valve handle that looked as if it hadn't been turned in decades. Yellowed show posters featuring jazz greats were taped here and there on the walls behind the odd assortment of worn furniture. Duke Ellington, Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong. The room was filled with the mingled scents of stale booze and tobacco smoke.
“But I am a jazz fan,” Nudger said. “Enough of one to know how good you are, and that you play piano in a way that wasn't self-taught.” He smiled. “I'll bet you can even read music.”
“You have to read music,” Hollister said haughtily, “to graduate from the Juilliard School of Music.”
Impressive. Even Nudger knew that Juilliard graduates weren't slouches. You had to be able to whistle Beethoven's Fifth all the way through even to get into the place. “So you have a classical-music background.” he said to Hollister.
Hollister shrugged. “That's nothing rare; lots of jazz musicians have classical-music roots. You oughta know that, jazz man that you claim to be.”
Nudger studied Hollister as the pianist spoke. Offstage he appeared older. His blond hair was thinning on top and his features were losing their boyishness, becoming craggy. His complexion had an unhealthy nicotine-stain hue to it. Up close, there was a coarseness to Hollister that belied his elegant stage presence. He was a hunter, this boy was. Life's sad wisdom was in his eyes, resting on haunches and ready to spring.
The door opened and Marty Sievers poked his head in, glanced around as if looking for someone, then gave Nudger and Hollister a smile and a little half-salute and withdrew. Nudger wondered if Sievers had been listening outside and perhaps been forced by someone's presence to open the door and look in to avoid the appearance of eavesdropping.
“How well do you know Ineida Mann?” Nudger asked.
“Well enough to know you've been bothering her,” Hollister replied, with the bored yet wary expression of an animal sunning itself on a rock. “We don't know what your angle is, but I suggest you stop pestering Ineida.” He seemed almost lulled by his own smug confidence. “Don't bother trying to get any information out of me, either.”
“No angle,” Nudger said. “I'm interested in jazz.”
“Among other things.”
“Sure; like most people, I have more than one interest.”