by John Lutz
Life under the rock, Nudger thought, where I work.
Claudia had been right about one thing. Nowhere on the tape was love mentioned.
The phone’s jangle startled him, making him tip even farther backward. The chair screamed and Nudger’s frantic, clawing hand found the corner of the desk. He managed to steady himself and sit upright. Realizing he’d bent back a fingernail on the desk, he lifted the receiver and identified himself.
Hammersmith’s voice said, “Mirabelle Rogers.”
Nudger said, “You can’t fool me, Jack. I recognize your voice.”
“She lives at 4360 Waterman,” Hammersmith said, not acknowledging Nudger’s stab at humor. “She’s the owner of a 1993 Mercedes 560 SL sedan, color silver. You already know the license plate number.”
“The driver I saw this afternoon didn’t look like a Mirabelle,” Nudger said.
“Mr. Mirabelle, maybe. Some kinda foreign name, huh?”
“Could be,” Nudger said, trying without success to envision a country where a man would be named Mirabelle Rogers.
“Those Mercedes sedans are very expensive machines,” Hammersmith said.
“I can imagine.” Nudger asked for the address again, and wrote it down on a past-due phone bill. “Possibly you could find out,” he said to Hammersmith, “if this Mirabelle has any sort of arrest record.”
“Possibly,” Hammersmith said, and hung up, perhaps made even more abrupt by the heat that plagued the city.
Nudger replaced the receiver, then went into the tiny half-bath and drank a glass of cool tap water. He let the water run for a while over his wrists, staring at himself in the mirror and wondering which of him was real. St. Louis summers could do that to people’s minds.
Feeling better, he returned to sit behind his desk. He played the tape again, listening even more closely to the soft pleas and moans.
He still couldn’t be positive that the woman was—or wasn’t—Sydney Rand.
He ran the tape again.
He wondered if Claudia was home.
CHAPTER 11
Nudger slipped the recorder into his pocket, then locked the office behind him and went downstairs to Danny’s Donuts. He’d gotten tired of calling Claudia’s number and getting no answer.
Danny was behind the stainless-steel counter, draining black sludge from the bowels of the huge coffee urn. “Got plans for tonight, Nudge?”
“Gotta work,” Nudger said. Which was true. Not that he wasn’t going to take time for supper, or at least a snack. MunchaBunches, maybe. Not what Danny was sure to offer.
Danny absently polished the steel urn with the grayish towel he kept tucked in his belt. He nodded toward the display case where Dunker Delites lay on white napkins like casualties after a major battle. “Help yourself if you want,” he said.
Nudger thought he would help himself by not eating a Dunker Delite. “No thanks, Danny. I’m supposed to meet Claudia for dinner.”
“Thought you was gonna work.” Danny’s basset-hound features revealed no suspicion. His somber dark eyes remained trusting and innocent.
“Afterward,” Nudger said. “You know how it is, lots of my work’s done at night.”
“Like a real-estate agent,” Danny said.
“Something like that. What I came in for was to see if you were done with this morning’s Post-Dispatch.”
“Sure. Take it with you if you want. I’m gonna be here another half hour before I close up.”
Nudger watched the last of the day’s dark brew ooze from the urn’s spigot. “What if somebody comes in and orders coffee?” It was always possible.
“I got some in a pot just in case. Shame you’re having dinner with Claudia tonight. I was gonna see if you wanted to have supper with me and Ray.”
Ray was Danny’s incredibly lazy nephew who lived down on Manchester in the St. James Apartments, surviving on various disability pensions, government handouts, and interest from a generous out-of-court settlement after faking (Nudger was sure) an injured back after a bus he was on five years ago had a minor accident.
“Ray gonna cook?” Nudger’s delicate stomach twitched at the mere suggestion.
“Naw. I’m picking up some White Castle hamburgers on the way over there. We’re gonna sit around and watch the ball game outa Chicago on WGN.”
“Sorry to miss it,” Nudger said. Ray was a Chicago Cubs fan. Another reason to despise him.
After leaving the doughnut shop, Nudger sat in his car for a few minutes, leafing through the grease-stained newspaper until he found the Jack in the Box coupons he knew were in there. After creasing the paper with his thumbnail, he tore out the coupons with reasonable neatness, then studied them. He decided on the grilled chicken sandwich, french fries, and a chocolate milk shake, then drove down Manchester through the heart of Maplewood and went through the drive-thru. He was glad he no longer had to speak to a clown.
After he ate supper his stomach felt a little tender, so he bought some MunchaBunch doughnuts and had them for dessert as he drove toward the address Hammersmith had given him for Mirabelle Rogers.
It was a brick apartment building that looked as if it had gone condo. This was a good block of Waterman, a fairly expensive neighborhood in the Central West End. Mirabelle’s building was old but in excellent condition and looked as if it contained eight or ten units. There was a fancy black-iron fence, and an iron-barred gate between two brick pillars topped by what looked like stone wolfhounds resting on their haunches. Beyond the gate were some well-tended yews, a carpetlike green lawn, and a stone-arch entrance with an intercom box mounted by the door. All of the windows had identical rust-colored canvas awnings for eyebrows, and there was a similar awning over the entrance.
Nudger parked across the street and wiped grease and sugar from his fingers with his napkin, then stuffed the napkin into the white paper sack the doughnuts had been in, wadded the sack tight so the “MunchaBunch” lettering wouldn’t show, and dropped it on the floor on the passenger side. He looked around but didn’t see the silver Mercedes parked anywhere.
That figured. There was probably an alley and garage behind the building. The Mercedes wasn’t the kind of car to leave parked overnight at the curb.
He drove down the block and made a left turn, then another left into a narrow alley lined with the little gray dumpsters that the city provided for trash.
There was a garage, all right. Brick, like the main building. All of its metal overhead doors were closed, and all had locks. Each door was marked with the owner’s unit number.
Nudger decided to park down the street on Waterman, then walk into the building’s vestibule, if that was possible without using the intercom, and find out which unit belonged to Mirabelle Rogers.
He didn’t get the chance. As he turned the corner he saw the big silver Mercedes parked in front of the building. A petite blond in a yellow summer dress was climbing into the passenger side. The tall man who didn’t quite look like Jack Palance was walking around the back of the car. He was wearing gray slacks and a navy-blue blazer tonight, still flashing gold rings, watch, and cuff links, using them like a neon sign that blinked M-O-N-E-Y.
Out of sight of the woman, he broke stride for a moment and used the nail of a little finger to dislodge something stuck between his teeth. Then he climbed into the car, steered it away from the curb, and headed slowly down the street, away from Nudger.
Heaven-sent, Nudger thought, slipping the Granada into Drive and following.
Or maybe hell-sent.
He wasn’t sure which and didn’t want to think about it.
CHAPTER 12
They drove west on the Forest Park Expressway, then north on the Inner Belt. Near the airport, the Mercedes crowded out some lesser vehicles and exited on Interstate 70. A few minutes later it left the highway and wound through a maze of side streets.
Nudger followed at a distance, getting uneasy. This was a rough neighborhood. The streets were lined with small houses that hadn’t seen fr
esh paint in years and yards that were bare earth, which contained either piles of trash or old cars up on blocks and in various stages of repair. Now and then someone on the sidewalk or in one of the yards stared after the Mercedes with curiosity and hostility. Nudger was glad he was driving the rusty old Granada, which seldom drew second looks. Homeboy Nudger.
The houses got farther apart and were somewhat better maintained. Then the Mercedes turned onto a narrow street, which wound around trees, past a cemetery. A sign identified it as Latimer Lane. It curved sharply and became a badly paved road in an area behind the cemetery.
The Mercedes’s brake lights flared. It came to a stop in the middle of the desolate strip of pocked pavement.
Nudger eased the Granada to the shoulder and watched as the tall man climbed out and stood in the road while the blond woman scooted over behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. The man leaned low to kiss her, then stood with his hands on his hips, watching as she drove away.
When the Mercedes was out of sight, he strode across the road and into the yard of a small, flat-roofed house isolated on a large lot overgrown with weeds. It had a flat porch roof, which was angled sharply to one side, as if half of it might be missing. A medium-sized maple tree grew from the wheel cavity of a truck tire that had been painted white and laid flat in the front yard years ago when the tree was a sapling. Nudger thought it must have been a real conversation piece in its day, when flowers were planted inside the tire.
The nearest neighbor was about a hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the road, near where Nudger was parked. On the far side of the house was what looked like a drainage ditch and a grove of locust trees, with thicker woods beyond. The house itself was surrounded by out-of-control shrubbery trying to act like trees, some of it entwined with vines bearing beautiful red roses. Here and there were the broken remains of wooden trellises, which had once disciplined and displayed the magnificent roses.
Nudger began to sweat. His stomach growled. The sun was low, but at least an hour away from setting. He knew that what he must do would be safer under cover of darkness, yet he couldn’t afford to wait.
Something like duty called. Or identity. If he couldn’t do this, what was he? What was his future? This wasn’t like refusing to drive out to the golf course to spy on Rand; there was no self-serving rationale available for him to cower behind with mock dignity.
Thunder roared overhead as an airliner passed low enough for him to glimpse faces in the windows. Apparently he was in the flight pattern of planes landing at Lambert International Airport. The car seemed to rock with the airliner’s violent passage.
He drove down the street and parked on the other side of the crumbling concrete bridge that crossed the drainage creek. Since St. Louis was suffering one of its summer droughts, he was sure the creek would be dry.
With a glance in both directions to make sure he wasn’t being observed, he got out of the car and walked into the shade of the trees.
Another aircraft racketed overhead, seeming to shake the leaves. It left a low, shrieking whistle hanging in the disturbed air, like a futile protest of its passing.
Moving through the brown carpet of last year’s leaves, Nudger made his way down the slope to the creek bed—dry, as he’d assumed—then up the other side, into low underbrush. It was still hot in the dappled shade of the woods, and mosquitoes found him and feasted. A squirrel gave him a horrified look and skittered up a tree. Nudger crept forward and was shocked to find himself only twenty feet from the side of the house.
All of the windows were open and had rusty, torn, and patched-up screens. Except for the end one, where a window fan was humming and rattling loud enough to cover his stealthy advance to the rose-strewn shrubbery near the house. Fine. He wouldn’t have to wait for airliners to blast overhead so he could make his moves.
Ignoring the urging of his stomach to emulate the squirrel and run in the opposite direction, he made his way to one of the windows and peered inside.
A bathroom, with an old pedestal washbasin and a sagging shower curtain. Unoccupied, thank God. Nudger didn’t want the embarrassment of being mistaken for a peeping Tom added to the agony of being beaten or killed if he were discovered. He knew thinking that way didn’t make much sense, but some priorities you couldn’t choose. He remembered the time someone had tried to run him down with a truck, and his deep regret as he became resigned to impending death was that he happened to be wearing the ripped underwear he’d long intended to replace, while just the day before, he’d had on jockey shorts so current that they still had the label firmly attached at both ends.
He could hear voices as he crept along the side of the house to the next window. Ouch! He almost yelped as a thorn from the climbing roses bit the back of his hand like a snake. Sucking on the puncture to numb its pain, he leaned forward and looked in the window.
It was dim on the other side of the screen, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. He stayed very still, holding his breath.
There was the Mercedes driver, talking to another man. Nudger’s stomach tightened as the listener turned slightly and his face became visible. He was the black man with the gun and earring.
“ . . . thought it’d be a good idea for you to see this,” the tall man from the Mercedes was saying. Now, though, he wasn’t talking to the gunman from the golf course, but to someone off to the side.
Nudger brushed a mosquito from his cheek and quietly shifted position to gain a better angle of vision. His body grew rigid and still.
The third man was Dale Rand.
“We wanted you convinced that it was serious,” the tall man said.
His head bowed, Rand said, “I was convinced of that from the beginning.”
“Not convinced enough,” said the gunman. He glanced at the floor as he spoke, and Nudger realized they’d been discussing some object at their feet.
“Can I count on you?” the tall man asked Rand.
“I told you at lunch you didn’t need to worry about me.
“And I wanted to believe you, but you weren’t very persuasive. So I’m asking again, can I count on—”
“—Of course you can. Do I really have a choice? I mean, what’ll happen to me if I say no.”
“Well,” the gunman said, “it’s one of the two things you have to do for sure in this world, and it isn’t taxes.”
“You never had a choice from the beginning,” the tall man said. “Guys like you always figure that out too late. But somehow you got lucky. With you, it doesn’t have to be too late for the big choice. I just wanna make sure you understand that.”
“You’ll get it all, I promise.”
“Getting it isn’t enough. Don’t we have that straight yet?”
Rand pressed his cupped hand to the side of his neck and looked down at the floor. “It’s straight, all right.” He jerked his head to the side to look away. “Oh, Jesus!”
“He’s found religion,” the gunman said. “I’ve seen that before. And how soon it can be lost.”
A plane roared overhead, shaking the house.
“You park where I told you?” the tall man asked, when the noise had faded.
Both Rand and the gunman nodded.
“Let’s leave the back way, then,” he said, “so we can lock up behind us. There’s a lotta crime in this neighborhood.”
They moved out of sight, toward the rear of the house.
Nudger backed away into the foliage, then moved parallel to the creek until he could see the backyard. Even over the hum and vibration of the window fan, he heard Rand say, “Oh, Jesus!” again inside the house. A moment later the three men emerged and trudged down the three rickety wooden steps to the walk that was overgrown with weeds. Rand was staring hard at the ground, clutching the back of his head now, as if trying to contain pain. The gunman was smiling. The big man looked unconcerned.
“Take him to his car, Aaron,” he said.
Aaron the gunman nodded and gripped Rand’s elbow, as if Rand might be
weak or ill. Rand glared at him but walked beside him toward an open wooden gate in the back of the yard.
Nudger saw two cars parked on a narrow gravel road that ran along the back of the property. One was Rand’s black Cadillac. The other was a low-slung red sports car, a convertible with its top raised. A Porsche, Nudger thought, but wasn’t sure. They weren’t parked directly behind the house, but instead were near the remains of a shack, which looked as if it had been gutted by fire years ago.
The big man followed Rand and Aaron to the cars. Aaron got in the sports car, Rand in his Caddy. The big man leaned on the roof of the Caddy for a few minutes, talking to Rand, then walked to the sports car and lowered himself into the passenger’s seat. Both cars drove away slowly.
Nudger’s heartbeat evened out as the dust they’d raised settled in a bright haze to the ground.
It was time to enter the house. His stomach knew what he might find there.
The front door was unlocked. Odd, since the big man had mentioned locking up when he’d suggested leaving the back way.
Nudger pushed tentatively on the door, expecting its hinges to squeal to match his mood. But it swung open quietly and smoothly and bumped against the wall. His stomach growled, “Waaaaait!” but he gulped down his fear and stepped inside.
He was in the living room. It was surprisingly dim in there, gloomy. He looked around and saw a brown couch with sagging cushions, an old console TV with a cable box and a ceramic panther lamp on it, a coffee table and end tables equipped with angled wood holders on each side for magazines, but with no magazines in them. On the wall behind the sofa hung a large, dime-store print of the crucifixion, which according to the artist had occurred during a brilliant sunset.
Feeling braver now that he was inside, Nudger crossed the threadbare carpet to the dining room. He stopped cold and his stomach churned as he saw on the floor what the three men had been discussing. A large dog with its throat slashed lay on its side beneath the chandelier, which was glowing as if to display the grisly object on the carpet. A table with steel legs and mismatched chairs had been shoved aside so this was possible.