The Nudger Dilemmas

by John Lutz

  "I'm told that you and Willy Hollister are pretty good friends."

  Her mood changed abruptly. Suspicion shone in her dark eyes, and the youthful smiling mouth became taut and suddenly ten years older.

  "You're not a magazine writer," she said, in a betrayed voice.

  Nudger's stomach gave a mule-like kick. "No, I'm not," he admitted.

  "Then who are you?"

  "Someone concerned about your well-being." Antacid time. He popped one of the white tablets into his mouth and chewed.

  "Father sent you."

  "No," Nudger said.

  "Liar," she told him. "Get out."

  "I'd like to talk with you about Willy Hollister," Nudger persisted. In his business persistence paid, one way or the other. He could only hope it wouldn't be the other.

  "Get out," Ineida repeated. "Or I'll call the police."

  Within half a minute Nudger was outside again on Beulah Street, looking at the uncompromising barrier of Ineida's closed door. Apparently she was touchy on the subject of Willy Hollister. Nudger slipped another antacid between his lips, turned his back to the warming sun, and began walking.

  He'd gone half a block when he realized that he was casting three shadows. He stopped. The middle shadow stopped also, but the larger shadows on either side kept advancing. The large bodies that cast those shadows were suddenly standing in front of Nudger, and two very big men were staring down it him. One was smiling, one wasn't. Considering the kind of smile it was, that didn't make much difference.

  "We noticed you talking to Miss Mann," the one on the left said. He had wide cheekbones, dark, pockmarked skin, and gray eyes that gave no quarter. "Whatever you said seemed to upset her." His accent was a cross between a southern drawl and clipped French. Nudger recognized it as Cajun. The Cajuns were a tough, predominantly French people who had settled southern Louisiana but never themselves.

  Nudger let himself hope and started to walk on. The second man, who was shorter but had a massive neck and shoulders, shuffled forward like a heavyweight boxer, to block his way. Nudger swallowed his antacid tablet.

  "You nervous, friend?" the boxer asked in the same rich Cajun accent.

  "Habitually."

  Pockmarked said, "We have an interest in Miss Mann's welfare. What were you talking to her about?"

  "The conversation was private. Do you two fellows mind introducing yourselves?"

  "We mind," the boxer said. He was smiling again, nastily. Nudger noticed that the tip of his right eyebrow had turned white where it was crossed by a thin scar.

  "Then I'm sorry, but we have nothing to talk about."

  Pockmarked shook his head patiently in disagreement. "We have this to talk about, my friend. There are parts of this great state of Looziahna that are vast swampland. Not far from where we stand, the bayou is wild. It's the home of a surprising number of alligators. People go into the bayou, and some of them never come out. Who knows about them? After a while, who cares?" The cold gray eyes had diamond chips in them. "You understand my meaning?"

  Nudger nodded. He understood. His stomach understood.

  "I think we've made ourselves clear," the boxer said. "We aren't nice men, sir. It's our business not to be nice, and it's our pleasure. So a man like yourself, sir, a reasonable man in good health, should listen to us and stay away from Miss Mann."

  "You mean Miss Collins."

  "I mean Miss Ineida Mann." He said it with the straight face of a true professional.

  "Why don't you tell Willy Hollister to stay away from her?" Nudger asked.

  "Mr. Hollister is a nice young man of Miss Mann's own choosing," Pockmarked said with an odd courtliness. "You she obviously doesn't like. You upset her. That upsets us."

  "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 electrical 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 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 was turning out to be an exciting city, but not in the way the travel agencies and the chamber of commerce advertised.

  "You're no jazz 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. Yellowed show posters featuring jazz greats were taped here and there behind the odd assortment of worn furniture. There were 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 even read music."

  "You have to read music," Hollister said rather haughtily, "to graduate from Juilliard."

  Even Nudger knew that Juilliard graduates weren't slouches. "So you have a classical background," he said.

  "That's nothing rare; lots of jazz musicians have classical roots."

  Nudger studied Hollister as the pianist spoke. Offstage, Hollister appeared older. His blond hair was thinning on top and his features were losing their boyishness, becoming craggy. His complexion was an unhealthy yellowish hue. He was a hunter, was this boy. Life's sad wisdom was in his eyes, resting on its haunches and ready to spring.

  "How well do you know Ineida Mann?" Nudger asked.

  "Well enough to know you've been bothering her," Hollister replied, with a bored yet wary expression. "We don't know what your angle is, but I suggest you stop. Don't bother trying to get any information out of me, either."

  "I'm interested in jazz," Nudger said.

  "Among other things."

  "Like most people, I have more than one interest."

  "Not like me, though," Hollister said. "My only interest is my music."

  "What about Miss Mann?"

  "That's none of your business." Hollister stood up, neatly but ineffectively snubbed out the cigarette he'd been smoking, and seemed to relish leaving it to smolder to death in the ashtray. "I've got a number coming up in a few minutes." He tucked in his Fat Jack's T-shirt and looked severe. "I don't particularly want to see you anymore, Nudger. Whoever, whatever you are, it doesn't mean burned grits to me as long as you leave Ineida alone."

  "Before you leave," Nudger said, "can I have your autograph?"

  Incredibly, far from being insulted by this sarcasm, Hollister scrawled his signature on a nearby folded newspaper and tossed it to him. Nudger took that as a measure of the man's artistic ego, and despite himself he was impressed. All the ingredients of greatness resided in Willy Hollister, along with something else.

  Nudger went back out into the club proper. He peered through the throng of jazz lovers and saw Fat Jack leaning against the bar. As Nudger was making his way across the dim room toward him, he spotted Ineida at one of the tables. She was wearing a green sequined blouse that set off her dark hair and eyes, and Nudger regretted that she couldn't sing as well as she looked. She glanced at him, recognized him, and quickly turned away to listen to a graying, bearded man who was one of her party.

  "Hey, Nudger," Fat Jack said, when Nudger had reached the bar, "you sure you know what you're doing, old sleuth? You ain't exactly pussy-footing. Ineida asked me about you, said you'd bothered her at home. Hollister asked me who you were. The precinct captain asked me the same question."

  Nudge
r's stomach tightened. "A New Orleans police captain?"

  Fat Jack nodded. "Captain Marrivale." He smiled broad and bold, took a sip of absinthe. "You make ripples big enough to swamp boats."

  "What I'd like to do now," Nudger said, "is take a short trip."

  "Lots of folks would like for you to do that."

  "I need to go to Cleveland, Kansas City, and Chicago," Nudger said. "A couple of days in each city. I've got to find out more about Willy Hollister. Are you willing to pick up the tab?"

  "I don't suppose you could get this information with long-distance phone calls?"

  "Not and get it right."

  "When do you plan on leaving?"

  "As soon as I can. Tonight."

  Fat Jack nodded. He produced an alligator-covered checkbook, scribbled in it, tore out a check, and handed it to Nudger. Nudger couldn't make out the amount in the faint light. "If you need more, let me know," Fat Jack said. His smile was luminous in the dimness. "Hey, make it a fast trip, Nudger."

  A week later Nudger was back in New Orleans, sitting across from Fat Jack McGee in the club owner's second floor office. "There's a pattern," he said, "sometimes subtle, sometimes strong, but always there, like in a forties Ellington piece."

  "So tell me about it," Fat Jack said. "I'm an Ellington fan."

  "I did some research," Nudger said, "read some old reviews, went to clubs and musicians' union halls and talked to people in the jazz communities where Willy Hollister played. He always started strong, but his musical career was checkered with flat spots, lapses. During those times, Hollister was just an ordinary performer."

  Fat Jack appeared concerned, tucked his chin back into folds of flesh, and said, "That explains why he's falling off here."

  "But the man is still making great music," Nudger said. "Slipping from great to good," Fat Jack said. "Good jazz artists in New Orleans I can hire by the barrelful."

  "There's something else about Willy Hollister," Nudger said. "Something that nobody picked up on because it spanned several years and three cities."

  Fat Jack looked interested. If his ears hadn't been almost enveloped by overblown flesh, they would have perked up.

  "Hollister had a steady girlfriend in each of these cities. All three women disappeared. Two were rumored to have left town on their own, but nobody knows where they went. The girlfriend in Cleveland, the first one, simply disappeared. She's still on the missing persons list."

  "Whoo boy!" Fat Jack said. He began to sweat. He pulled a white handkerchief the size of a flag from the pocket of his sport jacket and mopped his brow, just like Satchmo but without the grin and trumpet.

  "Sorry," Nudger said. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

  "You're doing your job, is all," Fat Jack assured him. "But that's bad information to lay on me. You think Hollister had anything to do with the disappearances?"

  Nudger shrugged. "Maybe the women themselves, and not Hollister, had to do with it. They were all the sort that traveled light and often. Maybe they left town of their own accord. Maybe for some reason they felt they had to get away from Hollister."

  "I wish Ineida would want to get away from him," Fat Jack muttered. "But Jeez, not like that. Her old man'd boil me down for axle grease. But then she's not cut from the same mold as those other girls; she's not what she's trying to be and she's strictly local."

  "The only thing she and those other women have in common is Willy Hollister."

  Fat Jack leaned back, and the desk chair creaked in protest. Nudger, who had been hired to solve a problem, had so far only brought to light the seriousness of that problem. The big man didn't have to ask "What now?" It was written in capital letters on his face.

  "You could fire Willy Hollister," Nudger said.

  Fat Jack shook his head. "Ineida would follow him, maybe get mad at me and sic her dad on the club."

  "And Hollister is still packing customers into the club every night."

  "That, too," Fat Jack admitted. Even the loosest businessman could see the profit in Willy Hollister's genius. "For now," he said, "we'll let things slide while you continue to watch." He dabbed at his forehead again with the wadded handkerchief.

  "Hollister doesn't know who I am," Nudger said, "but he knows who I'm not and he's worried. My presence might keep him aboveboard for a while."

  "Fine, as long as a change of scenery isn't involved. I can't afford to have her wind up like those other women, Nudger."

  "Speaking of winding up," Nudger said, "do you know anything about a couple of muscular robots? One has a scar across his right eyebrow and a face like an ex-pug's. His partner has a dark mustache, sniper's eyes, and is named Frick. Possibly the other is Frack. They both talk with thick Cajun accents."

  Fat Jack raised his eyebrows. "Rocko Boudreau and Dwayne Frick," he said, with soft, terror-inspired awe. "They work for David Collins."

  "I figured they did. They warned me to stay away from Ineida." Nudger felt his intestines twist into advanced Boy Scout knots. He got out his antacid tablets. "They suggested I might take up postmortem residence in the swamp." As he recalled his conversation with Frick and Frack, Nudger again felt a dark near-panic well up in him. Maybe it was because he was here in this small office with the huge and terrified Fat Jack McGee; maybe fear actually was contagious. He offered Fat Jack an antacid tablet.

  Fat Jack accepted.

  "I'm sure their job is to look after Ineida without her knowing it," Nudger said. "Incidentally, they seem to approve of her seeing Willy Hollister."

  "That won't help me if anything happens to Ineida that's in any way connected to the club," Fat Jack said.

  Nudger stood up. He was tired. His back still ached from sitting in an airline seat that wouldn't recline, and his stomach was still busy trying to digest itself. "I'll phone you if I hear any more good news."

  Fat Jack mumbled something unintelligible and nodded, lost in his own dark apprehensions, a ponderous man grappling with ponderous problems. One of his inflated hands floated up in a parting gesture as Nudger left the stifling office. What he hadn't told Fat Jack was that immediately after each woman had disappeared, Hollister had regained his tragic, soulful touch on the piano.

  When Nudger got back to his hotel, he was surprised to open the door to his room and see a man sitting in a chair by the window. It was the big blue armchair that belonged near the door.

  When Nudger entered, the man turned as if resenting the interruption, as if it were his room and Nudger the interloper. He stood up and smoothed his light tan suit coat. He was a smallish man with a triangular face and very springy red hair that grew in a sharp widow's peak. His eyes were dark and intense. He resembled a fox. With a quick and graceful motion he put a paw into a pocket for a wallet-sized leather folder, flipped it open to reveal a badge.

  "Police Captain Marrivale, I presume," Nudger said. He shut the door.

  The redheaded man nodded and replaced his badge in his pocket. "I'm Fred Marrivale," he confirmed. "I heard you were back in town. I think we should talk." He shoved the armchair around to face the room instead of the window and sat back down, as familiar as old shoes.

  Nudger pulled out the small wooden desk chair and also sat, facing Marrivale. "Are you here on official business, Captain Marrivale?"

  Marrivale smiled. He had tiny sharp teeth behind thin lips. "You know how it is, Nudger, a cop is always a cop."

  "Sure. And that's the way it is when we go private," Nudger told him. "A confidential investigator is always that, no matter where he is or whom he's talking to."

  "Which is kinda why I'm here," Marrivale said. "It might be better if you were someplace else."

  Nudger was incredulous. His nervous stomach believed what he'd just heard, but he didn't. "You're actually telling me to get out of town?"

  Marrivale gave a kind of laugh, but there was no glint of amusement in his sharp eyes. "I'm not authorized to tell anybody to get out of town, Nudger. I'm not the sheriff and this isn't Dodge City."


  "I'm glad you realize that," Nudger told him, "because I can't leave yet. I've got business here."

  "I know about your business."

  "Did David Collins send you to talk to me?"

  Marrivale had a good face for policework; there was only the slightest change of expression. "We can let that question go by," he said, "and I'll ask you one. Why did Fat Jack McGee hire you?"

  "Have you asked him?"

  "No."

  "He'd rather I kept his reasons confidential," Nudger said.

  "You don't have a Louisiana PI license," Marrivale pointed out.

  Nudger smiled. "I know. Nothing to be revoked."

  "There are consequences a lot more serious than having your investigator's license pulled, Nudger. Mr. Collins would prefer that you stay away from Ineida Mann."

  "You mean Ineida Collins."

  "I mean what I say."

  "David Collins already had someone deliver that message to me."

  "It's not a message from anyone but me," Marrivale said. "I'm telling you this because I'm concerned about your safety while you're within my jurisdiction. It's part of my job."

  Nudger kept a straight face, got up and walked to the door, and opened it. He said, "I appreciate your concern, Captain. Right now I've got things to do."

  Marrivale smiled with his mean little mouth. He didn't seem rattled by Nudger's impolite invitation to leave; he'd said what needed saying. He got up out of the armchair and adjusted his suit. Nudger noticed that the suit hung on him just right and must have been tailored and expensive. No cop's-salary, J. C. Penney wardrobe for Marrivale.

  As he walked past Nudger, Marrivale paused and said, "It'd behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger." He went out and trod lightly down the hall toward the elevators, not looking back.

  Nudger shut and locked the door. Then he went over to the bed, removed his shoes, and stretched out on his back on the mattress, his fingers laced behind his head. He studied the faint water stains on the ceiling in the corner above him. They were covered by a thin film of mold. That reminded Nudger of the bayou.