The Nudger Dilemmas

by John Lutz

  "But you're right," Fleck said. "I figured the rich babe'd come around with more money, ask us to drop the charges. But she hasn't, and we haven't heard from her attorney." Fleck scratched his head, moving his bargain toupee another half inch toward his right ear. "What I got is guys watching me, I think. Following me."

  "You think?"

  "It's just an inkling, I admit. But Arty called me yesterday. He's got the same inkling. I—we figured it'd be smart to hire somebody to look into this, see what's happening."

  "See if that somebody gets beaten to a pulp or killed," Nudger said, "so you'd know for sure something serious is going on."

  "It could occur like that," Fleck admitted. "Are those pigeons over there on that ledge?" He was staring out the window at the building across the street.

  Fleck knew he hated pigeons and was trying to divert the conversation away from personal injury at the hands of thugs unknown. "I'd rather not be hurt or killed," Nudger said.

  "Goes without saying. How come they don't fly south in the winter like other birds? You'd think something smart as a pigeon would know to do that."

  Nudger considered calling off the deal. Then he thought about Eileen. About Shirley Knott. He shuddered. Both women were natural colliders.

  "I'm supposed to give a deposition tomorrow," he said to Fleck. "You're coming with me."

  At three the next afternoon, Nudger and Fleck sat side by side at a large mahogany table in a legal office across the street from the country courthouse. On the walls were framed photographs of Old West scenes. Some of them were shots of public hangings.

  "They rent these rooms for depositions," Fleck whispered knowledgeably to Nudger.

  A court stenographer was seated at the end of the table. The door opened and the despicable Henry Mercado, Eileen's divorce lawyer and live-in lover, entered with Shirley Knott. Mercado nodded and smiled. Even Nudger knew he was there not just as a witness but to shake Nudger's confidence.

  Shirley Knott was a small, erect woman in a severely tailored purple suit. She was wearing a white blouse with a man's tie that had on it what to Nudger looked like a design of tiny swastikas. Her black hair was combed in a high arc above a wide forehead and piercing dark eyes. Her features were harsh and symmetrical, with bloodless, thin lips set in a straight, thin fine. Had those lips ever kissed or smiled?

  She sat down across from Fleck and said, "You bastard! Is that real fur?"

  Fleck looked down at his cheap, mottled coat draped over the chair near him. "Of course not. I'd only wear synthetic fur. I'm a recovering hunter."

  Pretty nifty, Nudger thought. Fleck did have a survivor's quick instincts.

  Formality took over. All present gave names and addresses to the court stenographer, and the deposition began. "Remember you're under oath," Shirley Knott told Nudger. "Any of your lies will come back to haunt you." Nudger looked over at Fleck.

  "She's right," Fleck said.

  "You were the one in the marriage who didn't want children, Mr. Nudger?"

  "It was a joint decision. I was a cop and I—"

  "So that's why you alone decided?"

  "No! We agreed to wait."

  "And there was a period of . . . dysfunction on your part?"

  Nudger glanced at the court stenographer, a prim woman in her sixties. She was staring silently over the rims of her glasses at him. "Temporary. Only temporary. I was distressed because of a shooting incident. I've hated guns ever since."

  "Sometimes a gun isn't a gun, Mr. Nudger. Don't you agree?"

  Nudger looked at Fleck. "What does she mean?"

  "Technically, anything with grooves inside the barrel isn't a gun. Legal terminology, splitting hairs. I object to the question."

  "You are irrelevant," Shirley Knott told Nudger's attorney.

  The deposition went downhill then.

  Still trembling with anger and humiliation from both the deposition and his argument with Fleck afterward in the parking lot, Nudger drove across to talk with the aggrieved and litigious Arty Mason.

  Mason opened the door to his low-rent apartment and ushered Nudger in. He was a wizened little guy about fifty, wearing wrinkled blue pajamas. On his feet were gray fuzzy slippers that were supposed to look like rabbits, only the head was missing from the one on his right foot. He was moving with difficulty because of some kind of aluminum brace attached to his back. Nudger was suspicious of the brace. It was held together with adhesive tape and looked like something made from parts of a disassembled walker. It was, in fact, the only back brace Nudger had ever seen that had a wheel.

  "How's the back?" Nudger asked, watching Mason lower himself sideways into a chair.

  "Pure agony," he said, wincing with pain. "I gotta lie flat or wear this thing." Nudger could see beyond him into the bedroom. The bed was made, and unruffled.

  Mason answered all Nudger's questions politely and through a grimace, pretty much substantiating what Fleck had said about the accident.

  "What makes you think you and Fleck are being watched?" Nudger asked, folding the sheet of paper he was taking notes on and slipping it into his pocket.

  Mason looked undeniably afraid. "Listen, Nudger, I used to work for a guy who ran a gambling joint, before the state horned in on the business. I know when I got the orange mark on me."

  "Orange mark?"

  "Like on a tree when it's scheduled to be chopped down." Nudger swallowed. He'd never heard that one. "You think somebody's going to try to kill you?"

  Mason nodded. "I know the signs. Somebody's tailing me, watching, sizing up the best place and time to act. Believe me, I know exactly how it's done."

  Nudger stared at him. "Do you know about this because you've done the same thing yourself?"

  "I done lots of things in my misguided youth," Mason said noncommittally.

  Good Lord! Nudger thought. What has Fleck got me into? He couldn't help checking his rearview mirror every few seconds as he drove away from his meeting with Mason.

  On Grand Avenue he stopped at White Castle and bought some of their little square hamburgers in a take-out sack, then went to Claudia's South Side apartment. Over an aromatic lunch of hamburgers, French fries, and an old bottle of refrigerated wine Nudger had uncapped, he discussed the case with Claudia. She loved him. She would understand and perhaps offer some advice.

  When he was finished talking she said, "There might be something to this nonchild-support idea."

  "I was thinking, is somebody going to try to kill me over this?" Nudger said.

  Claudia slowly tore a corner of bun off her last hamburger, then poked it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "The ticking biological clock . . ."

  "Just because lots of divorced women say they wasted the best years of their lives on their ex-husbands doesn't mean they're owed money," Nudger said.

  "What do I have to show for it?"

  "Huh?"

  "That's the rest of what women say about those wasted years, the question they ask. Especially if they don't even have children. Maybe they should be compensated for all that lost time, have something to show for it. I don't see why the ability to bear children couldn't be viewed legally as a diminishing asset."

  Nudger was getting frustrated. There was a disconnect here. "Right now I'm thinking I could have the orange mark on me. I might have to defend myself at some point. I'm wondering if I should go to the safety deposit box and get my gun."

  "They wouldn't necessarily need to have been married," Claudia said.

  My God! Nudger thought. He took a swig of wine. Years ago he'd saved Claudia from suicide. She was emotionally delicate and might go to see her psychiatrist, Dr. Oliver. As far as Nudger was concerned, Dr. Oliver caused more problems than he solved. From time to time he advised Claudia to see men other than Nudger in order to achieve self-actualization. Nudger wasn't sure what self-actualization was. He thought Claudia was actual. He should never have told her about Shirley Knott and WOO. Fleck should never have told him about Arty Mason and the collider
. But Nudger had. Fleck had. Nudger was knee-deep in it.

  Maybe sinking.

  The next morning Nudger decided to follow Nora Bosca.

  He sat parked in his old Ford Granada where he could watch the luxury condo on Hanley Road that matched the address Fleck had given him. His assumption was that eventually the Mercedes would exit the underground garage.

  A woman emerged from the building and strode to a nearby parking lot. She was eye candy even if she wasn't Nora Bosca, tall, mink-coated and blonde, with a model's way of walking that drew stares.

  And she was Nora Bosca. A few minutes after she'd disappeared, a late-model black Mercedes with her license number turned north from the lot onto Hanley. The big car's right front fender was dented, but not badly. It hadn't taken much to total Mason's old Chevy.

  Nudger started the Granada and chugged along behind the gliding Mercedes in heavy traffic.

  Nora Bosca didn't drive far, only to the Flam Building on Meramec Avenue, which Nudger knew housed a million lawyers, all of them more expensive and effective than Lawrence Fleck.

  He trailed along behind her when she entered the building; then he rode the elevator with her and three other women to the fifth floor. Nudger stepped out of the elevator when Nora Bosca did. He walked fifteen paces, pretended to have forgotten something, and turned around just in time to see her enter the offices of Gird and Gird, Attorneys at Law.

  Nudger went back to his car and waited. It had become colder and the sky was spitting a combination of snow and sleet. The Granada's heater was keeping the interior warm, but the windshield kept fogging up on the inside where the wipers couldn't help.

  If Nora Bosca came out of the Flam Building within the next two hours Nudger missed seeing her. The gas gauge was almost on empty now, and he was getting drowsy. Exhaust leaks were a worry in the old car. He decided to give up on tailing Nora Bosca, at least for today and drove to his office. Before going upstairs, he ducked into Danny's Donuts, which was located directly below his office, and asked his ersatz receptionist Danny if anybody had been by to see him.

  Danny, who was wearing a greasy white apron and his usual basset hound expression, was alone in the shop, standing behind the stainless steel counter and reading a newspaper. The place smelled cloyingly of baked sugar, as did Nudger's office, as did Nudger. Sometimes women thought he was wearing cologne and were repelled.

  "Big guy looked something like a horse," Danny said, "wearing an expensive suit. 'Bout an hour ago. Didn't leave his name. Didn't have to."

  "Why's that? You recognize him?"

  "Recognized him as trouble, Nudge. You best be careful."

  "Did he leave a message?"

  "Said he'd be back is all."

  "Anything else about him?"

  "Breathed through his mouth instead of his nose. That kinda guy. That kinda nose." Danny's gaze slid to the fresh-baked lineup of Dunker Delites lying like feces on white butcher paper in the display case. "You had lunch?"

  "Sure did," Nudger said, moving toward the door. "Thanks anyway."

  "You best be careful, Nudge," Danny repeated, and went back to reading the sports pages spread out on the counter before him.

  Nudger chewed an antacid tablet as he entered through the street door next to the doughnut shop and climbed the creaking wood stairs to his office. The higher he climbed the warmer he got, until he entered the office, which was cold. The radiator was malfunctioning again.

  He kicked the old iron radiator, then swiveled its valve handle. It hissed angrily at him. Leaving his coat on, he sat at his desk, slid the phone over to him, and called Police Lieutenant Jack Hammersmith at the Third District station house. Hammersmith had been Nudger's partner years ago when they were uniformed officers in the St. Louis Police Department. That was before Nudger's nervous stomach and fear of guns had proved to be career obstacles and led to his present occupation.

  "I need a favor, Jack," Nudger said when finally he was put through to Hammersmith.

  "Couple of hundred," Hammersmith said.

  "I don't need money, Jack."

  "I didn't mean money. I meant that when you ask for a favor, you always wind up asking for a couple of hundred more of them."

  "I want to give you a woman's name. Also her car's license number. I'd like to know more about her. She was involved in a simple fender bender and offered to settle out of court with Lawrence Fleck's client rather than draw attention from the police or courts."

  "Fleck the lawyer? Why do you keep getting mixed up with that little ferret?"

  "So I don't have to borrow money from you, Jack."

  "Hmm. Give me the details."

  Nudger did.

  "I can tell you a lot without even checking," Hammersmith said when Nudger was finished. "Gird and Gird is a mob-connected law firm. Nora Bosca is the widow of Manny Boscanarro."

  Nudger gripped the receiver harder and sat back in his desk chair. The old radiator was hissing and clanking loudly now as if laughing uproariously at him, hurling heat into the room. He unbuttoned his coat. "Manny Boscanarro the drug czar?"

  "The same, Nudge."

  Six months ago Boscanarro's body had been found stuffed in a trash can, minus arms and legs. It took a while to identify him. Plastic surgery had been attempted and botched. He still looked enough like his old self for a rival drug cartel to recognize him and kill him. And for narcotics detectives and his wife, Nora, to identify him. The killer or killers were still at large.

  "The widow didn't seem too broke up over his death," Hammersmith said. "Just enough sentimentality to ask for the expensive gold chain and engraved heart the corpse was wearing as a necklace."

  "That could explain the guy who looked like a horse . . ."

  "Don't know who he'd be," Hammersmith said, "but I'd bet he's dangerous."

  "Speaking of dangerous," Nudger said, "you ever heard of WOO?"

  "Who?"

  "WOO."

  "Haven't a clue. He a Chinese gangster or something?"

  "Never mind," Nudger said.

  "I do know Fleck might not be dealing straight with you. If you're mixed up with Nora Bosca and Fleck, be extra careful."

  Nudger swallowed an antacid tablet almost whole. "I always am."

  "Sometimes to the point of paralysis," Hammersmith said, and hung up the phone.

  Nudger kept the receiver to his ear, depressed the phone's cradle button, then called Fleck and filled him in on the day's activities.

  "Don't believe everything Hammersmith tells you," Fleck said. "He's a cop; they got their own agenda."

  "There's something in your voice. You sound scared."

  "I am. So should you be, Nudger. It's unhealthy to be involved with drug criminals or their widows. But it could explain why Arty and I are being watched. Somebody probably wonders why the grieving widow's seeing a lawyer. I'm gonna call Arty and tell him we better drop the case."

  "Count me out, too."

  "Hah! You can't quit. You owe me, my friend. Remember, we're bartering here. I need to know for sure. I want you to find out exactly who's on my tail. Just like we agreed. Don't you recall me representing you during that deposition?"

  "I recall you were in the room," Nudger said.

  "Well, I got some other info for you. Listen and hear, Nudger. I met with Shirley Knott and found out Eileen's been examined by a doctor who's willing to testify she's forty percent fertile."

  "Forty percent what? I don't understand."

  "She's medically certified to be sixty percent less capable of achieving pregnancy than when she was married to you. The other side's got itself an expert witness."

  "What's all that mean?" Nudger asked, befuddled.

  "Means a whole lot of nonchild support, my friend."

  Nudger sank lower into his chair. He was sweating, full of woe, cursing WOO. "I already pay alimony," he said numbly. "Why should I have to pay for children? We never even had any children."

  "That's precisely the point. Didn't you hear, Nudger?" Nudg
er wanted to kill Fleck.

  "We still bartering, Nudger?"

  "Still are," Nudger said wearily. "Have you noticed a guy hanging around who looks something like a horse?"

  "What kind of horse?"

  "Dammit! What difference does it make?"

  "Well, a thoroughbred would be a tall, lean guy. A quarter horse or Shetland pony—"

  "A big, mean horse!" Nudger said.

  "No," Fleck said thoughtfully. "I noticed a guy you might say looked a lot like an ox."

  "Are you insane?"

  "No, and I'm a better lawyer than you think, Nudger. You'll see. I'm going to help you. But you've gotta keep working hard for me or—"

  Nudger slammed down the receiver.

  He fled from the sweatbox office and drove down Manchester to Citizen's Bank, where he reluctantly withdrew his old service revolver from his safety deposit box.

  After a late breakfast the next day he decided to drive to Fleck's office and looked the Napoleonic little lawyer in the eye when they talked about Arty Mason's suit against Nora Bosca, and about Eileen's claim for nonchild support.

  Fleck's office was in a small strip shopping center. It was sandwiched between a dollar store and a place called Hot Plants, which sold indoor and outdoor decorative plastic foliage.

  Nudger had parked and was about to get out of the Granada when he saw Fleck and Shirley Knott emerge from Fleck's office. Fleck was wearing an obviously vinyl jacket today. Shirley was bundled in blue denim with studs all over it. Nudger watched them walk together to a restaurant at the far end of the shopping strip. Fleck politely held the door open for Shirley Knott. They were probably going to have their idea of a power breakfast. Probably going to talk about Nudger. The prospect nauseated him so that he climbed back into his car. He sat for a while, sucking but not chewing an antacid tablet until the sizable chalky disk was completely dissolved. It brought some relief, though not much.

  The notion of joining two of the most contemptible people he'd ever met was out of the question. Who Nudger wanted to see was Claudia. Maybe he could meet her somewhere for coffee and they could talk. Maybe they could go to her apartment afterward.