by John Lutz
Nudger told her about last night and the contents of the tape. She sat quietly without interrupting, now and then sipping coffee, tapping a red-enameled fingernail on the table.
When he was finished, she said, “Look out.”
He flinched, thinking the dribbling waitress had returned with more hot coffee. But when he glanced around there was no one within twenty feet. “Look out for what?” he asked.
“I don’t know exactly, which makes it all the more difficult to look out for. But there might be something explosive in the Rand family. Didn’t you sense it when you listened to the tape?”
“I sensed it even before that,” he said, “when that guy pointed a gun at me.”
“These are not happy campers, Nudger.”
“They must get along to some extent. Remember how the tape ended, in their bedroom?”
“I thought you said it ended with her sobbing.”
“Tears of joy, maybe. Some women do that.”
Claudia grinned at that one. “Did he tell her he loved her?”
“No, but they’ve been married a while.”
“What you described sounded to me like marital rape.”
“I didn’t hear Sydney say no.”
She gave him a look that suggested he could only guess at his hopelessness.
“Anyway, they have a teenage daughter. My impression was they were trying to keep their lovemaking quiet out of habit, even though she wasn’t home.”
She shook her head. “Nudger, Nudger, maybe she was home.”
“What does that mean?”
But he had to wait for an answer because the Indian woman arrived with their orders. He placed his chin in his palm and stared out the window at the cars waiting for the traffic light to change. The intersection was in Clayton near the city line, and there were always attorneys who worked in Clayton driving past on the way to their offices. Or attorneys who lived in Clayton but worked downtown, going the other direction. That’s where most law offices were, downtown or in Clayton. Lots of expensive cars, and more people talking on car phones than at any other intersection in the metropolitan area. Nudger sometimes wondered who they were talking to, sitting staring at the traffic signal with their phones glued to their ears. Maybe they were talking to the guy in the next car. Nudger thought he might be able to afford a phone for the Granada soon, call Danny from anywhere and see if anyone had been by, or was waiting upstairs in the office. Actually, it wasn’t such a dumb idea.
The waitress had gone, leaving behind a machine-gun stitch pattern of coffee spots on the table. She’d barely missed Nudger’s hand. He began spreading cream cheese on his bagel, and Claudia said, “That furtive sex you heard might mean something else.”
He stopped what he was doing and set the knife down on the edge of the plate. She was looking knowingly at him. He didn’t like what he was thinking. “You suppose it’s possible?”
“I teach school. I know it’s not only possible, it happens more than most people imagine. It could be that Rand was in bed with the daughter and didn’t want to wake his wife.”
Nudger hadn’t considered it. He had to admit that Sydney had sounded unapproachable when she’d gone up to bed. And judging by the weariness in her slurred voice, she’d probably fallen into a deep alcohol slumber. Which might have encouraged Rand to sneak into Luanne’s room.
He began spreading cream cheese again. “You might be right.”
“I’m not saying that’s how it is,” Claudia said, “just how it seems. Maybe when you listen some more, you might find out for sure. Then, if it’s true, you’re going to have to do something about it.”
“That complicates everything,” he said, knowing that what she’d said was true, he’d have to act on that kind of information.
“And makes it more dangerous. Men do anything to keep that kind of information secret. Anything.”
Nudger was thinking of Norva Beane, how she’d take that kind of news. Maybe she suspected it. Maybe Sydney suspected, too. If it happened to be true. He couldn’t be sure. It was certainly something else to fret about and twist his intestines into complex knots. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t come here and had instead braved the double threat of a Dunker Delite and Danny’s coffee. It would have been free, and without the side order of worry.
Claudia said, “You mentioned this was your second stop this morning. What was your first?”
“My stockbroker.”
Claudia raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had one.
“I didn’t until this morning.”
Her eyes flared in alarm. “Nudger—”
“I bought some great stocks,” he said. “Benny Flit told me they were bound to increase in value. I’m getting the inside info on these securities from some real pros doing their own investing. Since they don’t know anyone’s listening, the information’s all the more valuable.”
“Flit? He’s your broker?”
Nudger nodded.
“Who’s he with?”
“With?”
“Which brokerage firm?”
“Just Flit. He’s in business for himself. He’s Danny’s cousin.”
She stared out the window in apparent disbelief. “Well, he’s certainly made Danny a wealthy man.”
“I’m not relying on his advice,” Nudger said. “And I’m not telling him where I’m getting my recommendations, or even that I have access to inside information. The SPCA has very strict rules against that.”
“SEC,” Claudia corrected. “The SPCA is the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Come to think of it—”
“I don’t see how I can miss,” Nudger interrupted. “Fortune Fashions is supposed to have a dynamite new fall line, and I found out on my own that Synpac Industries manufactures guidance systems for nuclear missiles.”
“Isn’t the government destroying nuclear missiles?”
“That has nothing to do with the price/earnings ratio of the manufacturer. And Fortune Fashions is reintroducing the feather boa. Flit thinks, anyway.”
She leaned toward him and placed both her hands over his. Gently. “SPCA, price/earnings ratio . . . Nudger, you have a little amount of knowledge, which is the dangerous thing. Please don’t invest in these enterprises.”
“I told you, I already have. This morning. My retainer for this case will cover the check.”
“What about the back alimony you owe?”
He was getting exasperated. She simply refused to understand that a small risk could mean a great gain. “Damnit, that’s the main reason I’m doing this—so I can pay off Eileen and get her and Henry Mercato off my back!”
Claudia released his hands and sat back, an expression of weary resignation on her lean features. “Okay, I’m convinced.”
Nudger grinned. “Good.”
“Convinced that you’re beyond reason.” She spread strawberry jam on her toast, then took another bite of egg. “How much have you gambled?”
“Invested. Twelve hundred dollars. At least that was the value of my holdings this morning.”
“Uh-hm. Well, it could be worse.” She sighed and smiled and patted his wrist. “It could work out. You might double your money.” Swinging over to his side now. Finally grasping the possibilities.
Feeling better, Nudger finished his coffee and signaled the waitress for more. Only half a cup. He intended to drive downtown and make sure Rand’s car was in the Medwick Building garage, then follow him when he left the office for lunch and his golf game.
Maybe Rand would meet Horace Walling for lunch before they played golf, this time someplace where Nudger could work into position to overhear their conversation. It wasn’t out of the question that Nudger would purchase more stock. He could borrow some money. Or write some Visa and MasterCard checks on his charge accounts, invest the money, then pay it back with a neat profit left over even after paying off the balance due on the accounts. It should be easy to come out ahead that way, as long as he settled the accounts in full wi
thin a reasonable amount of time; those credit-card interest rates were criminal.
Rand was doubtless in his office at Kearn-Wisdom, which meant he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. So Nudger had some extra time this morning.
He smiled at Claudia. “Suppose after breakfast we drive to your apartment?”
She shook her head. She seemed angry at him for some reason. “No, I’m going out to the school early. It’s cool and quiet there and I can grade some papers without interruption.”
“You could grade them tonight.”
“They have to be ready for today’s English class.” She forked the last bite of her Number Seven into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, then downed the rest of her coffee. “In fact, I’d better get going or I won’t have time to finish.” She slid gracefully out of the booth and stood up, fishing in her purse for her wallet.
“I’ll take care of it,” Nudger said, picking up the two checks and moving them to the far side of the table, well out of her reach.
“I forgot,” she said, “you have investments and can afford to treat.” Keeping her legs straight, she bent low from the waist and kissed his forehead.
“Soon we’ll be having breakfast someplace with tablecloths,” he assured her.
As she was walking away, he heard her say, “I promise to buy a feather boa, but I have more use for a nuclear missile.”
CHAPTER 10
At 11:45 A.M. Rand’s fancy black Caddy peeked shyly from the cavernous entrance of the Medwick Building parking garage, as if checking to make sure a wicked summer shower wouldn’t mar its glossy wax job. Then the car emerged into benign sunshine and headed like a parade down Chestnut.
Nudger followed in the rusty Granada, like the detail assigned to clean up after the horses.
When the Caddy drove south on Tenth, then took the ramp onto Highway 40, Nudger figured Rand was on his way to his golf date with Horace Walling, so he settled back in the seat and listened to blues on KDHX, letting the Caddy run far ahead so Rand wouldn’t notice him in the rearview mirror. Chadwood Country Club was fifteen minutes away.
He was almost caught daydreaming with Dr. John in New Orleans when the Cadillac veered onto an exit ramp and drove north on Hanley Road. Nudger almost lost his life cutting in front of a madly speeding trash truck as he switched lanes in order to follow.
Here was something interesting. Rand was driving toward Clayton, where Fred McMahon had his office.
Rand made a left onto Bonhomme and steered the Caddy into the tiny lot of a luxury hotel. He eased the big car into the lot’s only remaining parking slot. Parking spaces were even rarer in Clayton than downtown.
Nudger pulled the Granada to the curb and sat alongside a Bus Stop sign. He watched as Rand got out of the Caddy, shrugged into his suit jacket, then skirted the swimming pool and entered the hotel’s restaurant.
There was a growl and a hiss behind Nudger. His startled glance darted to his rearview mirror and found it full of bus. He raised both hands helplessly, then meekly waved what he hoped was an “I’m sorry” and pulled back into the stream of traffic on Bonhomme. Didn’t even look.
Brakes squealed, tires Eeeeeped. A guy in a shiny BMW convertible shook the receiver of a cellular phone at Nudger as if he might hurl it in anger. Nudger waved another “I’m sorry” and made a right turn at the next intersection.
There was a parking space! A florist’s van was angling out into traffic. Nudger double-parked and waited patiently until the van had left, then he tapped the accelerator and zoomed forward before anyone else could swoop into the space. Once the Granada was safely tucked against the curb, he fed the meter and hurried back to the hotel.
He was walking past the pool when he glanced over and saw that he didn’t have to go inside to keep tabs on Rand. The restaurant’s wall of windows looked out on the pool, and there was Rand at a window-side table with another man, having lunch.
Nudger casually wandered into the pool area, then over to a white plastic chair and sat down, as if he were a guest, maybe with a kid or wife in the pool. He sat at an angle, his hand raised as if shielding his eyes from the sun, as if watching the half dozen people in the water splash around. But he could also keep an eye on the back of Rand’s neck and would know when he got up to leave.
Right now Rand showed no inclination to get up. He gestured as he talked to the man across the table, whose features Nudger couldn’t make out through the reflections on the glass, then raised a goblet of wine.
The plastic chair heated up, and sunlight glancing off the glittering water was making Nudger uncomfortable. He continued to sit calmly, as if there were nowhere else he’d rather be, hoping no one would notice the sweat rolling down his face and neck, dampening his collar. Within fifteen minutes the back of his shirt and the backs of his pants legs were molded by heat and perspiration to the plastic chair. He was learning how it felt to be sculpture.
An obese woman in a remarkably skimpy swimsuit climbed laboriously out of the pool and walked toward the hotel entrance, dripping a trail of water and carrying a towel. As she passed the area where Rand and his companion were sitting inside the restaurant, her shadow muted the reflecting glass and Nudger got a look at the other man.
He was neither Horace Walling nor Fred McMahon. He was a big man with broad shoulders, a gaunt face with dark hair growing to a sharp widow’s peak, extremely arched, thick dark eyebrows, a prognathous jaw. It was a face a mother would describe as strong rather than ugly, actually knowing better. Also a face vaguely familiar to Nudger, though he couldn’t place it.
He figured if he might have seen the man somewhere before, it might be vice versa, so he stood up casually, peeling the chair off his back and buttocks, then ambled out of the pool area.
That worked out very well. He found a seat in a soft leather chair in the air-conditioned lobby, where he could relax with an open magazine in his lap and see Rand’s car in the small parking lot out front. He was sure Rand would drive to his golf date after lunch. Maybe the big man with the skull-like features would play, too. Nudger wondered if he thought the guy looked familiar because he resembled the actor, Jack Palance, but rejected the idea. He didn’t really look like a young Palance; his eyebrows were bushier and peaked in those sharp V’s over what appeared to be pale eyes, and his hairline was different and had receded farther than Palance’s, even in the actor’s old age.
About one o’clock Rand appeared outside, standing in the bright sun next to his Cadillac along with the other man. The guy was taller than Palance; he was maybe six and a half feet. Despite the width of his shoulders he was lean; his expensive gray suit was draped elegantly on a rangy frame. He was wearing a white shirt, silky blue-and-gray striped tie, flashing gold jewelry in the summer sun. Nudger almost had who he was, when the man reached in his suit’s coat pocket and put on a pair of darkly tinted glasses.
After Rand and the man shook hands and Rand had climbed into the Caddy, the tall fashion plate stood with a hand raised to touch the frames of his glasses and watched the car glide out of the lot. Then he strode out of sight, moving with the liquid ease of an athlete. Maybe he’d played pro basketball, and that was where Nudger had seen him.
Nudger got up from his chair and went over to look out one of the hotel doors. He was just in time to see the tall man drive away in a late-model silver Mercedes sedan. Also in time to catch a look at the car’s license plate number, which he jotted down in the margin of one of the pages of the magazine he was carrying.
He tore the corner with the license number from the page, set the magazine on a table, and found the phones in the lobby.
Hammersmith would be happy to run the number through the system and give him the Mercedes owner’s name. Well, not exactly happy. But he’d do it.
After the ensuing telephone argument with Hammersmith, Nudger decided he didn’t want to go near the golf course this afternoon. It was too hot to sit in his parked car and watch people in loose clothes whack and chase small balls, and what
would he learn? Also, the guy with the gun and the earring might be out there.
That wasn’t the reason why Nudger wasn’t going there, the guy with the gun. And the earring. The reason was ... well, he was hired to see if Rand was going to make contact with Fred McMahon, so why not follow McMahon? It made just as much sense, in a way.
He drove over to McMahon’s office on Forsyth, but discovered McMahon wasn’t there. A smashing blond receptionist told him Mr. McMahon wasn’t due in today, eyeing him as if he might be the police. Which he might have been, considering McMahon’s problems.
From a public phone he called McMahon’s house. When a woman answered and asked who was calling, he used a name he’d noticed on one of the office doors where McMahon worked. McMahon wasn’t home, the woman said. She didn’t know when to expect him. Any message? “Naw, I’ll catch Fred later,” Nudger assured her, and hung up.
This was hard work, staying away from the golf course.
He drove back to his office and spent the afternoon doing paperwork and waiting for Hammersmith to call about the Mercedes license number.
Actually he did little work. Mostly he paced impatiently. Time and guilt hung heavy in the air.
When his back began to ache, he sat down and played the tape he’d picked up last night from the trunk of the blue Chevy. This time when it reached the bedroom part, he listened all the way through, to everything. The moans, the headboard banging against the wall, and something he hadn’t noticed before in the middle of that section of tape, a soft female voice, pleading, perhaps with passion. Perhaps. Nudger couldn’t make out her words.
He switched off the recorder and raised his arms to stretch. The swivel chair squealed as if in pain as he leaned farther back and meshed his fingers behind his neck and massaged stiff muscles with his thumbs.
He replayed the pleading and moans in his mind and thought they sounded like Sydney’s, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want what Claudia had suggested to be true. Couldn’t Rand be a simple coconspirator with McMahon, a swindler as Norva suspected, without molesting his daughter?