by John Lutz
“You know how to hold your breath, Nudge. C’mon.” Hammersmith was already walking toward the body. He turned and said again, “C’mon, Nudge!” As if summoning a recalcitrant dog at obedience school.
Nudger knew he had to do it. Breathing through his mouth, he approached the illuminated scene in a dreadful dream. People not quite real made way for him. There was no sound in his dream. He held his breath. He held his courage. He looked.
At first it didn’t seem so bad, one of those experiences that was a relief after the anxiety of anticipation. Hammersmith was right. She wasn’t messed up. She was lying on her stomach as if sleeping, her head twisted to the side. Her wrists were wired behind her with what looked like brown electrical cord. Both hands were clenched into fists. There was no sign of blood, and her hair was barely mussed. It was the chalky paleness of her decomposing flesh that suddenly caught Nudger’s stomach and heart. It was obvious she’d died sobbing, even though her lips were purplish and slack in the lurid light and her closed eyes were sunken in her head. A fat black roach crawled across the whiteness of her neck and disappeared inside her collar. She should have shrieked, this ghastly parody of a young girl, and jumped up and tugged wildly at her blouse, trying to shake the insect out. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Not ever again.
Nudger gulped in a sob, swallowing the corrupt odor, and reeled away. His stomach was bucking violently. He leaned over and spat several times, but he didn’t vomit. He refused to do that.
Hammersmith was beside him. “Her?”
“Her,” Nudger said, straightening, breathing deeply. Several of the people around the body were staring at him. No one was smiling.
“Sorry, Nudge. Tummy okay?”
“Hell no!”
“Let’s walk over here.” Hammersmith touched his arm with an odd gentleness and guided him to a small clearing in the weeds, about twenty feet from the corpse. He fired up one of his huge greenish cigars, knowing Nudger wouldn’t mind under the circumstances. He knew what Nudger was still smelling, tasting. Cigar smoke would be preferable. “Sho,” Hammersmith said, puffing to get the thing lit, “how do you shee thish?” He removed the cigar from his mouth and blew a cloud of pungent green smoke, black against the night sky.
Nudger put his hands on his hips and stared straight up at the bright stars; the distance between them was so great it could be measured in time. Stared straight up from the squalor and death and crushed dreams all around him. It was clean and clear and forever up there. A vacuum that tugged at him, way down here on earth.
He said, “What was she doing in such a hell hole of a neighborhood? Half the buildings down here are condemned, along with most of the people.”
“I thought you might have some idea, Nudge. She was killed where she is; the body hasn’t been moved. Hands wired behind her back with ordinary electrical cord that’s crimped like it was cut with a wire cutters. Marks on her ankles where there’d been been more wire. Looks like she was driven here, had her legs untied so she could be walked into the lot, then shot. Single small-caliber bullet through the temple, still in her.”
“Execution style,” Nudger said.
“Uh-huh.” Hammersmith drew on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke that blocked out some stars. “Captain Springer’s gonna want to talk to you, get everything you know about Norva Beane.”
“I told Massinger out in Ladue all of that,” Nudger said, covering himself. Springer could be nasty. In fact, couldn’t be any other way. It was in his genes.
“Well, Springer won’t mind if you repeat yourself. He figures Norva’s good for this one.”
“She might abduct her own daughter,” Nudger said, “but she wouldn’t kill her.”
Hammersmith puffed out his jowls and blew more smoke. “You know better, Nudge. Things get out of hand. Norva might not have planned it this way, but she still might be responsible for the girl’s death.”
Thinking like a cop, Nudger thought. Well, Hammersmith was a cop, then a friend. It had to be that way when murder was involved. “I talked to Sydney Rand earlier today,” Nudger said. “She loved Luanne a lot. This is gonna rip her up.”
Hammersmith looked at the ground for a moment, then licked at the tooth-marked damp end of his cigar where it was beginning to peel. “I’m glad somebody out in Ladue’s gonna tell her about this,” he said.
Nudger said, “You really think Norva shot the kid, Jack?”
“I got no opinion on it at this point. I wrestle with facts, not hunches. I do know Springer’s got Norva Beane down as the chief suspect. She took a shot at the girl’s father and she might have abducted her. Norva hasn’t exhibited what you’d call mental stability. Maybe this thing about her being Luanne’s mother is only a delusion.”
“I believe it,” Nudger said. “And it’ll be easy enough to prove. Adoption records, DNA. Sydney told me Luanne was adopted. Though I will say Nan Grant seemed surprised when I told her.”
“Nan Grant?”
“Luanne’s best friend at school. Somebody you definitely oughta talk to.”
“Oh, we will.” Hammersmith glanced over at the dead girl, for a second giving up his professional’s hard-ass act and looking furious. He started to toss away his half-smoked cigar, then remembered he was standing in the middle of a murder scene and crammed it back in his mouth. “We’ll talk to lotsh of people now.”
Captain Springer, a pinch-faced, unscrupulous, and ambitious bureaucrat, didn’t want to talk to Nudger tomorrow. He wanted to talk to him tonight, down at headquarters at Tucker and Clark.
In Springer’s office, Nudger told almost everything to Springer, another officer acting as witness, and to a recorder. Springer folded his arms tightly across his chest and paced—no, strutted—back and forth across the office as he interrogated Nudger, putting on a show for the other cop, trying to sound like Walter Cronkite for the recorder. He made no secret of the fact that he considered Nudger probably in some way involved in Luanne’s murder, the theft of the Hope diamond, and the Brink’s robbery. He didn’t mention either of the Kennedy assassinations.
Nudger’s statement was then transcribed and he signed it. He was exhausted. Springer looked sprightly and eager to interrogate six more evildoers.
It was past midnight when Nudger staggered wearily from the mausoleumlike headquarters building and over to City Hall where his car was parked. He hadn’t told Springer about Rand’s house and phone being bugged; he didn’t like not telling him about it, but his silence was part of the deal with the bug man. If anyone ever did find out about the sound job, Nudger would simply have to take his lumps. That was the agreement and it ran in both directions. The bug man, being among the few creditors who promptly received payment from Nudger, had by now destroyed all evidence that the bugging had occurred and would himself be silent unless tortured to an extent that would have long since broken Nudger.
Nudger also hadn’t mentioned the stock-market information to the ferret-faced and despicable Springer. It seemed irrelevant. Besides, there was no way to reveal some of it without admitting to Rand’s phone conversations being recorded. None of it figured to be any more pertinent than Sydney’s frequent liquor deliveries.
Anyway, Nudger studied the stock quotations daily, and neither Synpac nor Fortune Fashions had moved more than half a point in either direction. How important could they be? Luanne’s murder was about drugs and youth and prostitution by a minor, not about the Dow Jones Industrials. About double lives and bad company where you might least expect to find them.
So why had Springer merely sneered and continued to focus on Norva when Nudger suggested a prostitution or narcotics connection, possibly even a family friend or neighbor, might have murdered Luanne? Even Massinger would admit that some of the rich and respected in Ladue stole. So why wouldn’t some of them copulate illegally? Or sniff, smoke, or shoot up dope?
Why wouldn’t some of them kill?
CHAPTER 27
The man sitting in Nudger’s apartment, in the arm
chair where Nudger usually sat, said, “I don’t think you need to turn on the light. There’s enough glow from the streetlamp outside so I can see you.”
Nudger recognized the voice. Imagined the gun. He stepped the rest of the way into the apartment and closed the door. The instant the latch clicked, fear got a grip on him, deep in his bowels. He told himself that if Aaron planned to kill him, it would have been done by now. Hammersmith’s objective reasoning. Nudger still found it a logical argument. His stomach still didn’t buy it.
“Move over by the window so I can see you better,” Aaron said. He motioned with his head. Dim light glanced off his dangling swastika earring.
Nudger’s rubbery legs propelled him over to stand by the window. He stared out at Sutton Avenue, washed in the sickly glow of the streetlamp, deserted at 12:45 A.M. Not many people had places to go in this area after midnight. Oh, people who killed people. And the people who were afraid of being killed.
“Look over here, Nudger,” Aaron said. “We’re gonna have a face-to-face chat.”
When Nudger did look, he was surprised to see another form in the room, standing near the black rectangle of the door to the kitchen. A tall, broad-shouldered figure who could only be King Chambers. Chambers was well back in the shadows, his face invisible. These guys used light and shadow like Orson Wells directing old black-and-white movies.
“I see you noticed my friend. He’s interested in our conversation. Can you guess the subject?”
“What I told the police about Luanne Rand’s murder?” Nudger said.
“Right. And what they told little old you.”
Nudger’s mind was darting and diving along with his stomach, trying to figure his strengths and weaknesses in this confrontation. Weaknesses were easy.
Then, out of a desperation near panic, he thought of one great strength. The truth. If Chambers knew he’d mentioned seeing him lunching with Rand, and had told the police about Aaron accosting him out by the golf course, Nudger’s death or even disappearance would trigger an investigation of Chambers and Aaron. The truth, Nudger thought with some irony, was what might set him free. Bold front, he urged himself. Time for a bold front. His stomach said, huh? Nudger said, “Hello, Mr. Chambers.”
The figure in the shadows didn’t move for a long time, but something in the atmosphere changed. The dynamics of the midnight meeting were in a state of flux. Somewhere in the dimness of the quiet apartment a fly was droning. Nudger envied its freedom and invisibility. The possibility that he knew more than was originally supposed, and maybe had said more, had tilted the balance in the room. Not much, but enough. Nudger hoped.
Chambers eased forward so the dim light struck his face at a severe angle, making his bony countenance a death’s head. Wells would have loved it.
“Maybe I oughta introduce you two formally,” Aaron said, “since you seem to know each other in a casual way.”
“No need,” Chambers snapped, boss to uppity flunky. The death’s-head turned to face Nudger. “Nudger. That’s what everybody calls you. That’s how you’re listed in the phone book. You got a first name?”
“I’m just Nudger.” He noticed Chambers wore a peculiar kind of cologne or aftershave. Smelled like nutmeg.
“One name,” Chambers said in an amused voice, “like that rock star Sting.”
“Like that dwarf Dopey,” Aaron said, “if we’re comparing him to show-business types.”
Chambers said, “Mr. Nudger’s no dope, even if he’s not Mensa material. Tell us what we want to know, Nudger. Tell us all of it.”
Nudger described the statement he’d given the police, how it contained reference to Aaron warning him not to follow Rand, how Nudger had seen Rand having lunch in Clayton with Chambers. That should be enough to protect him somewhat. Best not to mention seeing Rand, Chambers, and Aaron in the dead man’s house on Latimer Lane. That might make it worth the risk for Chambers to see that Nudger disappeared. Anyway, Nudger hadn’t told Springer about that one. There was no need, unless the suicide was recategorized as a homicide. Such a fine and indistinct line Nudger had to walk. He said, “Right now, the police like Norva Beane for Luanne’s murder. They think she abducted her, then Luanne gave her trouble, and she killed her.”
“Kinda thing that happens,” Aaron said.
“What do you think?” Chambers asked Nudger.
Nudger hesitated.
“He’s afraid to answer,” Aaron said.
“You think Aaron did the girl, Nudger?” Chambers asked.
“I see it as a possibility.”
“It’s a distinct possibility,” Chambers said. “It’s more than a distinct possibility that if you continue playing in my backyard, you’re gonna die much slower than that girl, but just as certainly. We clear on that, Nudger?”
“Sure. Clear.” Nudger was ashamed how his voice had risen several octaves. In a firmer tone, he said, “I don’t have a client anymore. Why should I care how it all plays out?”
“He’s the kinda guy who’d care,” Aaron said. “He whistles while he works.”
“No, I think Nudger grasps the situation and he’ll stop mucking around where he doesn’t belong. Right, Nudger?”
“Yep.”
Aaron stood up. “Shall I underline for him why we came here?” he asked Chambers. “Make sure he keeps his keen grasp of the issues?”
“Maybe. What do you think, Nudger? You need any underlining to guarantee you won’t need undertaking?”
“No,” Nudger said, “I promise not to muck anymore.”
The death’s-head emitted a nasty chuckle. “That’s how I like you,” Chambers said. “Meek. Stay that way and you’ll stay alive. You don’t strike me as a particularly brave man.”
“Oh, I’m not.”
“Sometimes he substitutes stupidity,” Aaron said. “I’d like to knock that notion out of him before it takes hold.”
“I don’t think Mr. Meek will entertain any such notion. You don’t plan on being difficult, do you, Mr. Meek?”
“Nope. I’d rather stay alive and inherit the earth.”
Aaron said, “I’d rather put you under it.”
“The police got any leads on Norva Beane?” Chambers asked.
“Nobody does,” Nudger said. “Nobody has the slightest idea where she is.”
“If you find out, Mr. Meek, you call Happy Nights Escort Service and ask for Alice. Then tell Alice you’ve got a message for me. She’ll page me and I’ll call you wherever you are. You be glued to the phone waiting for my call like its the night before the prom and you need a date. Understood?”
“Happy Nights. Alice. No problem.”
“Well, I hope not.”
“Guy like him,” Aaron said to Chambers, “there’ll always be a problem. He’s fuckin’ problematical.”
“But he hasn’t really told the law anything important about us, and he can’t prove we were here. Maybe he’s Mensa smart after all. What he did tell them is enough to tie us neatly together, so if anything happens to him, the cops come after us like killer bees. You that smart, Mr. Meek?”
“Naw!”
Aaron said, “Let me just shoot out one of his eyes.”
“Maybe later,” Chambers said. He walked to the door and stood very still. “Ciao, Mr. Meek.”
“Take care,” Aaron said, moving to the door and opening it for Chambers. The two men slid noiselessly into the hall.
“Have a good one,” Nudger said.
He didn’t think they heard him. That was okay, he didn’t mean it.
CHAPTER 28
My God, they’re back!
That’s what a sleep-fogged Nudger thought when a slight sound and the sensation he wasn’t alone jarred him awake and caused him to sit up in bed. His heart and stomach collided when he saw the two figures standing in the dimness of his bedroom.
“I agreed!” he moaned. “I promised I’d stay out of the Luanne Rand case!” He didn’t remember actually having promised, but he was doing that now.
> “We sure didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Nudger.” The ceiling fixture winked on, washing the room in light that hurt Nudger’s eyes. He squinted. Peered.
Norva Beane stood near the door, her hand still on the light switch. A huge redheaded man with thick arms, a bull neck, and a stomach that sagged over his belt like an overfilled sack, stood near the foot of the bed. He was about forty but his thinning, slicked-back hair would probably have him looking fifty in a few years. Despite his bearlike build, he appeared amiable. His even, florid features were arranged in a smile that seemed used to being on his face. He was wearing jeans and a red muscle shirt lettered “Say No to Drugs.” His leg-sized arms were decorated with faded tattoos. A U.S. Marines insignia was on one bulging bicep. Nudger figured it was one of those formidable arms that had choked him unconscious the last time Norva had appeared in his apartment.
“This here’s my own cousin Bobber Beane,” Norva said. “When he heard about my troubles, he right away found his way here to help me.”
“Here from where?” Nudger asked. “Possum Run?”
“Thereabouts,” Bobber said. He had a deep, lazy voice that suggested white lightning and slowly flowing rivers at their widest points.
“This is a dream,” Nudger said.
“Nope,” Bobber said.
Norva said, “I been hearing about Luanne on the news.” And suddenly neither of the Beanes looked amiable. Bobber’s tiny blue eyes glinted steel, and Norva’s haggard features became set in a way that somehow reminded Nudger of King Chambers. “I do dearly need to talk to you, Mr. Nudger.”
“The police are looking for you,” Nudger said inanely. Why would she be here at—he glanced at his watch—4 A.M. if she didn’t know that.
“Lookin’ for her and nobody else,” Bobber said. “Tha’s exactly the problem.” One of his tattoos, Nudger saw, was a Confederate flag flying over crossed sabers. Good Lord!
Norva’s earnestness carried her a few steps toward the bed. “They say I killed my own sweet daughter, Mr. Nudger, but I didn’t! I swear it!”