by John Lutz
Norva came close to him as if to grab him and he shoved her away, then continued scooping up papers and bills from the ground.
He was in such a hurry that he lost his grip on a handful of bills and they scattered at his feet. He shouted, “Goddamnit!” and slapped his briefcase closed, as if he couldn’t spare any more time to gather what had dropped.
Nudger clutched the cuff of Rand’s pants, then his ankle. Joined his other hand to that one. He wasn’t going to let Rand leave.
Rand disagreed. He swung the briefcase at Nudger’s head again, but the angle was awkward and the case only glanced off Nudger’s shoulder. It hurt, but Nudger held on to Rand’s ankle. Rand took three lurching steps, dragging Nudger with a strength born of panic. Nudger clenched his teeth and tightened his grip. Rand grunted with effort, and again the briefcase crashed into Nudger’s shoulder. The case sprang open on the backswing as Rand prepared to strike another blow at Nudger. Slips of paper, white, pink, and green, littered the air in a wide and graceful arc above Rand’s head as he brought the case down, missing Nudger entirely this time. He sobbed and hurled the briefcase into the shrubbery, then reached inside his suit jacket.
“Mr. Nudger, he’s got a gun!”
Norva was on her feet and screaming.
Rand glanced at her as he pulled an ugly little snub-nosed pistol from his belt. Then he drew back his upper body as far as he could and aimed the pistol at Nudger.
Oh, Christ! Nudger immediately released Rand’s ankle and scooted away from him, giving him room to run. Run! Nudger screamed silently at him. Run at top speed forever!
The pistol followed Nudger. Rand was glaring at him with puzzlement and disgust, his lips twisted and his eyes wide and unblinking as he sighted down the barrel.
“Nooooo!” Nudger heard himself yell.
The explosion rang in his ears, through his skull, so loud it seemed to come from inside his head, and he clenched his eyes tightly shut. He felt something wet and warm spreading beneath his body.
There was no sound in the reverberating aftermath of the shot.
No movement.
Nudger slowly opened his eyes. He saw blood on his stomach and right arm.
There was more blood on Dale Rand, who was lying next to him. They were almost nose to nose. Nudger stared over at Rand, who only seemed to stare back at him through opaque, puzzled eyes.
“Don’t you try’n go away from here!” Norva was shouting.
Nudger craned his neck and saw Bobber standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand. He swaggered down off the porch, past Nudger and Rand. Norva yelled something at him again and leaped on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck like a lover unable to let him walk out of her life. Bobber spun several times and shoved her away so hard she was airborne for a long few seconds. She landed on the driveway and Nudger heard her head bounce off the concrete.
Bobber, his chest heaving and perspiration streaming down his face staining his jeans and sleeveless red shirt, ambled over to her and kicked her in the ribs. He drew back his foot to kick her again. Then he seemed to think about it and yanked the gun from where he’d tucked it his belt. It was a semi-automatic. He used his free hand to work its mechanism and pump a round into the chamber. That didn’t seem right, but Nudger couldn’t quite figure why at the moment. Bobber leveled the gun at Norva. She was where Nudger had been only minutes before, under the round, dark eye of death.
Nudger picked up Rand’s gun and shot Bobber in the leg.
Bobber roared and fell hard to the ground, thrashing around as if energized by a thousand volts. He scrambled furiously with his arms and good leg, making it all the way to a low crouch, then dropped onto his back, all so abruptly it looked like an inane break-dance step. Then he stopped trying to get up. He lay on his back, clutching his upraised thigh with both hands as if trying to prevent his leg from dropping off. His gun had flown from his hand and was in the grass only about six feet from where he lay, but he didn’t seem interested in retrieving it. He stayed very still, trying to stem the stream of blood finding its way between the fingers clamped to his leg, writhing like black snakes down his arms.
Nudger struggled to a sitting position, then to his feet. He knew he’d better get the gun before Bobber got his pain under control and remembered it. In the corner of his vision he saw Sydney Rand standing on the porch. She was looking at something beyond him.
Nudger turned and saw Hammersmith charging up the driveway, trailing half-a-dozen uniforms. Two of the uniforms tended to Bobber. A couple of plainclothes types were standing over Martinelli farther down the driveway.
Hammersmith glided over to Nudger with that odd grace of certain fat men, as if floating in a dream. He gripped Nudger’s elbow to help him remain standing. Nudger pushed the supporting hand away, took several unsteady steps, then leaned back against the sun-warmed fender of Rand’s rented Caddy. He could still hear the gunfire and smell the cordite hanging in the air, still feel the weighty jump of the gun in his hand, like something alive that had suddenly awakened. He’d shot someone. In the leg—but he’d shot someone. Bobber would live, he was sure. Unless the bullet had severed a main artery.
Sirens wailed out of unison, like an insane choir in practice, and two ambulances and another police car braked at the foot of the driveway and parked at angles blocking the street.
Hammersmith had followed him over to the Caddy and was staring intensely at him. His wide, flesh-padded face looked old, and there was concern in his pale blue eyes, compassion. “You shot or anything, Nudge?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Not hurt?”
“Not bad.”
Hammersmith’s expression changed. He was the deadpan cop again. “Then what is this, with people all over the ground, a rehearsal for the last act of Hamlet?”
“Huh?”
“Your idea of a practical joke?”
The stench of gunfire, the blood all over him, all around him, the steep and dizzying drop from his adrenaline high, made Nudger’s stomach lurch. Trembling, he sank to his knees. He bowed his head as if praying, and vomited, remembering Martinelli’s pain-distorted mouth emitting blood from an interior wound, like one of those gargoyle drains on medieval castles.
He felt Hammersmith’s hand rest softly on his shoulder, as if a gentle bird had lighted there.
“No,” Hammersmith said, “I guess it’s not a joke.”
CHAPTER 37
Hammersmith sat across from Nudger in Nudger’s office. Despite the fierce outside heat, it was more than cool enough with the window unit pumping out cold air, but Hammersmith had removed his jacket and sat overflowing the small chair in front of Nudger’s desk. Nudger studied the impassive and obese lieutenant and was sure he was looking at the only fat man in the city without perspiration stains beneath his arms.
After drawing a cellophane-wrapped cigar from his shirt pocket and absently tapping it on his knee a few times, as if maybe checking his reflexes, Hammersmith said, “Martinelli cut his deal with the prosecutor. He’s telling everything about everything. It was pretty much what you figured, Nudge. A major illegal drug shipment was hijacked a few months ago because Luanne Rand whispered something in the wrong ear in the sack. That world being what it is, somebody had to pay in human life. Martinelli left that task up to King Chambers. Dale Rand had been involved in the deal with Martinelli’s money, so Chambers decided the sacrifice could be either Luanne or Rand himself. It made little difference to him, so he gave Rand the choice. Either way, the survivor would be in no position to make any more mistakes or commit acts of disloyalty. It didn’t take Rand long to decide he wanted to live, even on the condition that if he didn’t repay the lost drug money, he was going to die anyway.”
Instead of satisfaction at having been right, Nudger felt a seething anger at Rand, tinged with a deep sadness. Incest had begotten murder. What chance had Luanne ever had in life? “Some decision. ”
“The narcotics trade causes people to make those ki
nds of choices, Nudge. The lure of wealth is a narcotic itself. It overpowers humanity and judgment. Then it becomes a question of survival.” He tapped especially hard on his knee with the wrapped cigar. “So the admirable Dale Rand murdered Luanne to save his own skin.”
Nudger wondered what Luanne must have thought in her final moments, when she’d known what was about to happen. Had she been surprised?
Probably not. That was the crux of the tragedy.
Hammersmith said, “When Bobber went with Rand to Rand’s house to get the money Rand had promised him in the trailer, they met Martinelli in the driveway. He was worried about the money Rand owed him for the aborted drug deal and had come to the house to talk to Rand. So there stood Martinelli and Bobber, each with a claim on Rand’s money and future, each dangerous in his own way. And Rand could only pay one of them. So he ran a bluff and went into the house while they waited outside. That was when Bobber got insistent and physical with Martinelli about Luanne’s death. Martinelli let slip to Bobber that Rand had killed Luanne. Bobber’s own daughter. Bobber knew who’d initiated the order, and he flew into a rage and beat Martinelli. But that was only an appetizer. When he was finished with Martinelli, he ran into the house after Rand.”
“That was when Norva and I arrived,” Nudger said.
“More or less,” Hammersmith said. “There was a big argument between Rand, Bobber, and Sydney, then Rand broke and ran outside, carrying money and incriminating paperwork on the stock swindle he was working to get the rest of what he owed. That was when you and Norva tried to stop him in the driveway.”
Nudger said, “Did Martinelli tell you about the stock swindle?”
Hammersmith shook his head no. “Sydney did.”
Nudger was astounded. “She knew about it?”
“In her way. Like she knew and didn’t know about what her husband was up to with Luanne.”
Nudger understood her denial, not blaming her but feeling again a hot and futile rage about what Rand had done to Luanne, and to his wife.
“To pay his overwhelming drug debt to Martinelli,” Hammersmith said, “Rand convinced Horace Walling, one of his investment clients and a hard-core user he supplied, to utilize Compu-Data to introduce a computer virus into Kearn-Wisdom Brokerage software, an electronic glitch that would, through computer linkage, soon spread to other brokerage firms as well as institutional investors such as mutual and pension funds. It was set to trigger automatic sell orders and cause select stocks to plunge the Friday before Labor Day. On the next trading day, Rand, having sold short or bought puts, would exercise his options and reap huge profits so he could pay King Chambers and have enough left over to regain safety and solvency.”
Nudger leaned back and felt the cool air from the window unit like an icy human touch on the side of his neck. “Sydney really knew about this?”
“Knew most of it, Nudge.”
“She did a good job of playing dumb.”
“The lady isn’t dumb, Nudge. She’s into it with the bottle and doesn’t think straight every waking hour, but stupid she’s not. She was unable to face losing her wealth and station in life, so she decided to do nothing.”
“Booze can do that to people,” Nudger said, “cause them to accept whatever’s going on and the hell with it.”
“Well, it was that way with Sydney until she overheard Bobber confront Rand with the truth about Luanne’s birth and death, and heard Rand admit he’d murdered her.”
“Which set Bobber off.”
“Until Rand went to work on him. Rand was persuasive and rich, a potent combination. Bobber, Luanne’s real father, calmed down, then agreed to Rand’s offer of a six-figure bribe to buy his silence. The girl was dead and going to stay that way, so Bobber figured what did it matter. The final betrayal of Luanne.”
“Six figures, high or low, is a lot of money,” the chronically poor Nudger said.
“Rand must have thought it was too much. After stuffing most of it into his briefcase with whatever else of value he could grab from his desk while Bobber was watching, he made a run for his car. That’s when you and Norva stopped him.”
“And when Bobber shot him.”
Hammersmith smiled, but with no hint of humor. “No, Nudge, it was Sydney who shot and killed her husband.”
Nudger went hollow inside. He was silent for a long time, thinking about the Rands, thinking back over the years.
Finally he said, “Family life.”
Hammersmith unwrapped his cigar and heaved himself to his feet to leave.
“And death,” he said, and flicked the lever on his flamethrower lighter.
CHAPTER 38
Nudger watched a piece of lettuce drop from his fork. It landed on the edge of his plate, but it splattered a stitch of oil-and-vinegar spots across his lap, leaving him looking as if he’d been careless in the restroom.
He was having the salad bar with Claudia at Shoney’s. He’d told her about everything, evoking in her the same pity for Sydney Rand that he felt. Bobber was a killer and deserved what he would get. Norva was a tragic figure, but she was a cause celebré and would doubtless soon walk away free and return to the Ozarks. Sydney was staring at conviction and lengthy imprisonment.
“Aren’t you gonna eat your salad?” Nudger asked. He took another bite, more careful this time, spearing a manageable tomato wedge.
She gazed out the window at the rain hitting the surface of Manchester Avenue and steaming in the hot summer air. “I lost my appetite.” After a moment she turned back and met his eyes. “What happened about the computer virus?”
“It was deprogrammed before it could trigger automatic sell orders. The stocks won’t plunge after Labor Day. And Horace Walling was taken into custody.”
She toyed with a breaded lump of something that might have been fish, might have been chicken. “At least that should give you an idea of the risks you’re taking in the stock market. If you hadn’t worked through to the end of this case in time, you would have lost money when the share prices plunged.”
Nudger took a sip of iced tea and looked away. “I’m out of the market,” he told her, but not very loud.
“What?” She was feigning mild interest, he knew. She’d heard what he said.
“I’m out of the market,” he repeated, louder. “Benny Flit phoned me and said the Bundesbank had raised interest rates in Germany.”
“Do you know what the Bundesbank is?”
“Sure. It’s this big bank in Germany. It has something to do with interest rates in this country. And that has something to do with the stock market. Benny advised me to sell everything as soon as possible.”
She looked at him for a while with something like pity, then said, “Well, how were you to know? You’re an expert in stocks, not interest rates.”
He said nothing in the face of her sarcasm.
“So how much did you make on your investments?”
Pushing now. Rubbing it in. “I took a loss, but I might have lost a lot more. ”
“You could say that about all losses,” she pointed out. “They might have started with Marie Antoinette’s fingers and toes. Jimmy Carter—”
“So you were right,” he interrupted, trying to shut her up. Sometimes total capitulation would do that. But her expression of mild disgust didn’t change. “You were right about the stock market, anyway,” he said, getting angry and forgetting about total surrender. “But you were wrong about my broker not being competent or not having my best interest at heart. He called me and got me out before I lost everything.”
“Okay,” she said, apparently sensing she’d gone too far. “You were right about the Rand case, and that’s what’s most important. That kind of thing is your life’s work, and you do it well.”
He felt better. Took a sip of sweetened tea.
Now she did begin to probe at her salad with her fork, building up to taking a bite.
“Nudger,” she said, “did Benny Flit explain to you about commissions?”
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