by John Lutz
At lobby level, half a dozen more business types squeezed in. Someone’s stomach growled loudly; Nudger was sure it hadn’t been his. Reasonably sure, anyway. A man in a chalk-striped blue suit hummed “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” beneath his breath.
At 17 the two women got out. One of the men exited at 19.
“ ’Scuse me,” Rand mumbled when the doors glided open at 24, and he slid between two other passengers and out into the hall.
Nudger hesitated a few seconds, then followed him, barely beating the closing elevator doors. He turned in the opposite direction, and stood staring at his palm as if reading instructions on a slip of paper. From the corner of his vision he saw Rand open a door near the end of the hall. Suddenly turning direction, Nudger walked toward it.
The door was heavily grained, polished oak, and lettered “Kearn-Wisdom Brokerage” in brass. Nudger gripped the gleaming brass handle and eased it open.
Ah! This was working out fine. Kearn-Wisdom was one of those brokerage firms with a space and chairs provided where speculators who played the market daily could sit and watch “real-time” quotes crawl past on a lighted screen. Behind a waist-high oak divider were six desks where brokers’ agents sat before computers. Nudger was just in time to see Rand walk past the rows of desks and enter one of three doors to what were presumably offices.
The market had opened less than an hour ago, but already there were half a dozen players seated in the chairs and gazing transfixed at the quotes rolling past. Putting on his “I belong here” attitude, Nudger made his way to an empty chair and sat with them, staring at the screen, and even now and then recognizing what corporations some of the symbols represented. There was General Motors, Anheuser Busch. And IBM was easy enough. Maybe there wasn’t much to this stock-market thing, after all.
After about five minutes, Nudger only seemed to watch the crawling symbols and numbers on the digital screen, while he actually watched the office door Rand had closed behind him.
An hour passed, and there was little activity at Kearn-Wisdom except for the reps who were seated at desks with computers taking orders by phone. Occasionally one of the traders seated near Nudger would get up and talk to a rep to place an order.
An old man next to Nudger, wearing a thick blue suit that smelled of mothballs, poked him in the ribs and said, “That Facile Industries got a P/E ratio high as outer space. Sold that one short yesterday and it’s already down two and a half.”
“Hm,” Nudger said.
“Bull market, shit!” the old guy said. “This many bulls around, I gotta sell against them.” He seemed angry. “You a contrarian?”
“Presbyterian,” Nudger said. It was what he usually said when pressed about religion. He didn’t actually attend church.
The old man said, “Oh,” and fixed his attention on the glowing numbers.
Finally Nudger realized that the time on his parking meter had expired. Nothing was happening here, and he was tired of smelling mothballs and listening to occasional comments he didn’t understand. (What was the “broad tape”? And why hadn’t the feminists neutered that terminology?)
He decided to change tactics. No one seemed to pay much attention to him when he stood up and walked out.
The meter’s time had just expired, but there was already a parking ticket tucked beneath the Granada’s windshield wiper. Nudger sighed. He wasn’t really surprised. Murphy’s law. He wished he could find Murphy. Kill him. But the police hadn’t had the car towed. A break there.
He waited until a parking space opened up where he’d be in a position to see the entrance of the Medwick Building as well as its garage. Then he shot the Granada out into traffic, provoking the ire of a grandmotherly sort of woman in a van, and maneuvered his way into the space. The woman glared at him, then made an obscene gesture, and drove on. Nudger hadn’t even suspected she wanted the parking space.
He got out of the car, snatched the ticket from beneath the wiper blade, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Then he crammed a quarter in the parking meter and got back in behind the steering wheel. Settled in to wait. The woman in the van drove past again. She’d apparently circled the block in search of a parking space. When she noticed Nudger still in the car, she gave the horn a light tap and made the same obscene gesture. She sure was combative.
A little after ten-thirty, Rand’s Caddy emerged from the Medwick Building garage and turned west on Chestnut. Nudger managed to get the Granada started on the third try and followed, vowing to use some of the fee for this job to have the carburetor rebuilt. He knew that when the weather turned cold he’d have to open the hood and use a screwdriver to get the car started, as he had most of last winter.
Right now though, sweating profusely as he stayed a discreet distance behind the black Cadillac, he wished it were the air conditioner that worked.
His hopes rose as the Cadillac headed west on Highway 64, still and forever referred to by its old designation, “Highway Forty,” by St. Louisans, who generally tended to cling too long to the past. Rand drove toward the kind of high rent district where he’d be most likely to meet the infamous McMahon. If Nudger remembered correctly, McMahon lived in Clayton, which was only a kiss away from Highway 40 as it bisected the St. Louis metropolitan area.
But Rand didn’t drive anywhere that made it easy for Nudger. Instead he traveled out beyond the suburbs, pulled into the lot of the Chadwood Country Club, and hoisted a red golf bag out of the Caddy’s trunk.
Chadwood, a span of level greens and fairways beyond an English Tudor clubhouse nestled among tall oaks and spruce trees, was the kind of exclusive place where Nudger couldn’t follow. His car alone would have disqualified him, or at least made him a handicap golfer.
He drove along a road bordering the course until he could see a red pennant, then parked, and glanced around.
It was a secluded enough place, and he was parked in the shade. He got his binoculars from the glove compartment and fixed them on the pennant. He’d bought the binoculars from a mail-order catalogue, which also sold inflatable hair curlers and Elvis collector plates, and he had difficulty focusing them, but finally he made out a 2 on the flag.
Obviously Rand intended to play a round of golf, so he should come into view soon.
Nudger raised the binoculars to his eyes again, directing them on three men who’d just dismounted golf carts and walked onto the green. He could make out their faces all right, so he’d have no difficulty identifying McMahon if he was one of Rand’s golfing partners.
Half an hour and several foursomes passed before Rand and two other men appeared on the green. They stood aside while a fourth man’s chip shot landed ten feet from the hole, then the taller of the men walked up to the hole and removed the flag. He stood patiently, leaning his weight on the pole, while the chip shooter sank his long putt. The guy could really golf. Had a great short game, anyway.
Nudger studied each member of Rand’s foursome as they putted out on the second green. Rand left his easy putts well short, pretended to break his putter over his upraised knee, then finally sank the ball after long and intense concentration while the other three men stood by with polite, serious expressions.
Nudger moved the binoculars from one to the other. None of them was Fred McMahon, whose photo Nudger had seen plenty of times in the news media.
A nearby voice said, “Fore.”
Startled, Nudger dropped the binoculars in his lap and turned to look out the window.
He was staring into the muzzle of what he knew was a small, black automatic. Only it didn’t look small to him.
The man holding the gun said, “Fore’s what golfers yell just before somebody gets hit.”
CHAPTER 3
Nudger swallowed his heart and inched down a bit in the seat so he could look up at an angle and see the man’s face.
A black guy with straightened and oiled-back hair and a barely visible Errol Flynn mustache. Wearing dark slacks, a green shirt with the collar open to show off a
gold chain. A single gold earring, a small swastika dangling on the end of a three-inch chain, glinted beneath his left ear. Nice looking guy except for the gun and the flatness of the eyes. Eyes like that could watch what happened if the trigger got squeezed, and never take on a hint of expression.
“My God! A holdup!” Nudger said, trying to convince fate.
The gunman laughed. “You wish.” He hunkered down slightly and let out a long breath. “We both know what this is, and it ain’t a stickup.”
“You must have the wrong man,” Nudger said in a voice that sounded as if he’d just inhaled helium.
The gunman said, “Hmm,” as if that might be a possibility. “You the man following Dale Rand around, right?”
“Uh, not actually.”
“No shit? Then it could be I do have the wrong guy. Listen, let me apologize, sir. Hey, you wanna shoot me?”
“At least you’ve got a sense of humor,” Nudger said, as if that were a desirable characteristic in killers. His stomach was kicking against his belt buckle and he wondered if his heart might actually beat hard enough to crack a rib. “So let’s talk about this, why don’t we?”
“Gotta have a sense of humor for what I do.” The man backed away a short step, so Nudger couldn’t reach the gun, and glanced up and down the road to make sure nobody was around. Bad sign. “Takes two to have a conversation, though, and in a couple seconds there’s only gonna be one of us.”
He moved in close again. Nudger picked up the acrid scent of the oil and bluing of the gun. The shooter took care of his equipment; he was a pro who wouldn’t miss, a craftsman, not a sadist who’d make death as painful as possible. Odd, what somebody could be thankful for at a time like this. Also, if he left Nudger only badly wounded, an invalid, Nudger was behind on his Blue Cross insurance. Another point in favor of a quick death.
“Hand me your wallet,” the man said.
“Huh?”
“Don’t get the idea this really is just a holdup. I wouldn’t want you starting to hope. I wanna know who you, are—were. Before you get all messy and your driver’s license gets hard to read.”
Nudger was reaching carefully into his pocket when he heard something. The crunch of tires on the gravel road shoulder.
His eyes darted to the rearview mirror. A car had pulled up close to the Granada’s back bumper.
Nudger glanced at the gun barrel, then again at the rearview mirror. The car behind his was a big one, an American luxury model, too close for him to discern the make. An elderly woman sat on the passenger side. A man was climbing out from behind the steering wheel.
The gunman angled his body to conceal the automatic, then slid the weapon into his pants pocket, leaving the hand in the pocket. Leaning very close to Nudger, he said, “You play it right or I kill the old man, the cunt, and you.”
The man who’d gotten out of the car was tall and was wearing expensive casual clothes, a white leather belt. He was bald but for a fringe of gray hair. Probably in his late sixties. He shouldn’t have stopped but Nudger was gloriously grateful that he had.
“Problem, huh?” he said as he approached Nudger and the gunman, wearing a big smile to go with his big mistake. He looked like a glad-handing Shriner doing whatever they do between conventions. Nudger went from praying he’d escape this alive to praying somebody would.
The gunman returned the old guy’s smile, then he glanced down at Nudger.
“Oh, car trouble,” Nudger said. “It died on me all of a sudden and I pulled over and parked.”
“I saw him stranded here and thought maybe I could help,” the gunman said.
Still with the big dumb smile, the old man propped his fists on his hips and looked around. “Where’s your car?” he asked the gunman.
The gunman patted his pockets, as if he’d forgotten and left something at home, making a joke of it. “Don’t have it with me. I was out walking. Doctor’s orders.”
“Bad heart?”
“Hypertension. Something in me causes a lotta that.”
It was an unlikely place for a black man to be out for a stroll, but the old man seemed satisfied with the explanation. Didn’t have much choice, really. “Well, you fellas are in some kinda luck,” he said. “I retired last year from running a Pontiac dealership. Been working on cars since I was a kid.” He grinned at Nudger. “Pop the hood and I bet I can get you running again in a New York minute.”
That was what Nudger wanted to do, run. “Let me try it one more time,” he said. “There’s a little life left in the battery.” The gunman stared hard at him, but with a tight little smile. His eyes hadn’t changed expression—rather, lack of expression.
Nudger tapped the accelerator and twisted the ignition key.
The Granada’s engine sputtered but refused to start. Nudger’s stomach started, though, diving and zooming like a drunken bat at twilight. This was terrific—his car was in cahoots with his killer.
“Careful! Don’t flood it,” the old guy said, kind of testily.
The gunman was still smiling. Nudger didn’t necessarily regard that as a good sign. But he didn’t figure the man would murder him in front of two witnesses. And he’d surely walk away and bide his time before he’d kill three people in a fouled up hit, stirring up the news media and the law. That wouldn’t be professional. It might cost him future business.
But Nudger knew that if he called attention to the danger, the gunman wouldn’t have much choice other than to make it a triple killing. Probably he’d do it, not liking it, then forget about it by dinner, and sleep soundly tonight.
“Just pop the hood latch and I’ll take a quick look,” the old man urged.
Instead, Nudger twisted the key again. He wanted out of there as soon as possible. Sput, sput, sput ... The engine seemed to be mocking him, siding with the man with the gun and rubbing it in.
“Sounds like it needs a tune-up,” the gunman said with a grin.
Nudger’s stomach was tying itself into every known knot. He was sweating hard, as if he’d just broken a fever.
The old guy shook his head. “No way to tell for sure about a tune-up until—”
This time the engine turned over. Nudger tromped the accelerator to keep it running, then backed his foot off to a point where the idle was rough but fast.
“You were right,” the old man said. “She sure as heck does need a tune-up.”
“Better get that taken care of,” the gunman advised Nudger. “You had a close call today. It could happen again and not end so nice.”
“Well, thanks to both you fellas,” Nudger called above the clatter of the motor, putting the car in Drive.
“Want me to give you a lift someplace?” the old man was asking the man with the earring and gun.
“No, I better continue my walk.” His right hand finally came out of his pocket. Without the gun.
Nudger couldn’t help it. He winked at the gunman as he fed the Granada gas. Gravel rattled off the insides of the fenders as he drove away.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the old man ambling back to get in his car.
The gunman was standing still on the side of the road, a hand raised to his forehead to shield his placid, killer’s eyes from the sun, staring after Nudger.
CHAPTER 4
Norva didn’t answer her phone. She hadn’t given Nudger an address, so he thumbed through his crisscross directory and got it off her phone number. It was on Virginia in South St. Louis, in an area he knew was mostly low-rent apartments.
After going down to the doughnut shop and telling Danny he’d be away for a while, and to keep an eye out for anyone going up to his office, he got in the Granada and drove to South St. Louis. Most of the way there, he chewed antacid tablets.
The building on Virginia was even worse than he’d expected, a mottled brick, six-family apartment with peeling, gray-wood trim and rusty, green-metal awnings, which had been dragged low by years of heavy snowfalls. Everything about the building suggested it had given up. Not even gentr
ification could save it.
Nudger parked the Granada across the street, behind a battered pickup truck with a dented and rusted hot-water heater propped in its bed. That was as valuable a cargo as anyone with good sense would leave parked unattended in this block. He stretched awkwardly to reach into the back of the Granada and got Car Guard from where it lay on the floor. It was one of those gadgets that clamped on a steering wheel and locked with a key, making it impossible to turn. The theory was that no one would steal a car they couldn’t steer. Car Guard advertising claimed it was made of a space-technology alloy so hard it could only be sawed through with a diamond blade—something your run-of-the-mill car thief wouldn’t have in his kit.
After locking Car Guard firmly onto the steering wheel, Nudger climbed out of the car and locked it behind him. He ignored the hostile stare of a deranged-looking old woman seated on a concrete stoop, crossed the street, and then the brown and barren lawn to reach the entrance to Norva’s building.
The vestibule needed a fresh coat of gray paint to cover the graffiti, though it probably wouldn’t entirely eliminate the stench of urine. The floor was a yellowed hexagonal tile, dirty but glittering here and there with an odd beauty where crack vials had been stepped on and ground to fine-glass filings beneath heels and soles. A small tricycle no one would bother stealing lay on its side in a corner, near the bank of mailboxes whose ancient brass doors were missing. A crudely printed card in the slot above one of them, near a doorbell button that somehow had survived, simply read, “Beane, 2B.” Nudger pressed the button, heard what sounded like the distant buzz of an angered insect, then trudged up creaking wooden stairs to the second floor.
The door to 2B was open a few inches when he got there, and Norva was peeking out from behind a tarnished-brass chain -lock. When she saw Nudger, the door closed, the chain clattered loose, and she reopened the door and smiled at him. “Gotta be careful in this neighborhood,” she explained. Then her gaunt features took on a pained expression and her green eyes got hard. “That Dale Rand took all my money and put me here in this place.” Her country drawl somehow added intensity to her words. The Hatfields had probably sounded like that talking about the McCoys.