'Fine.'
'Anything else?'
'Maybe. Do you still play the clarinet?'
'Does Andy Williams still sing 'Moon River'?'
Nudger smiled. A silly question deserved a silly question.
Fat Jack cocked his head and looked curiously at Nudger, one tiny eye squinting through the tobacco smoke that hazed the air around the bar. 'The truth is, I only play now and then, on special occasions. You aren't going to ask me to play at your wedding, are you?'
'It's too late for that,' Nudger said, 'but a blues number would have been perfect on that occasion. Why don't we make my price for this job my usual fee plus only ten percent plus you do a set with the clarinet here some Saturday night?'
Fat Jack beamed, then threw back his head and let out a roaring laugh that drew stares and seemed to rattle the bottles on the backbar. 'Agreed! You're a find, Nudger! First you trust me to pay you without a contract, then you lower your fee and ask for a clarinet solo instead of money. Hey, there's no place you can spend a clarinet solo! I like you, but you're not much of a businessman.'
Nudger kept a straight face and sipped his beer. Fat Jack hadn't bothered to find out the amount of Nudger's usual fee, so all this talk about percentages meant nothing. If detectives weren't good businessmen, neither were jazz musicians. He handed Fat Jack a pen and a club matchbook. 'How about those addresses?'
Still smiling expansively, Fat Jack flipped back the matchbook cover and wrote.
IV
Beulah Street was narrow and crooked, lined with low houses of French-Spanish architecture. It was an array of arches, ornate shutters, pastel stucco, and ornamental wrought iron and wood scrollwork. The houses long ago had been divided into apartments, each with a separate entrance. Behind each apartment was a small courtyard. A behemoth street-cleaning machine was roaring and hissing along the opposite curb at about three miles per hour, laboring as if its bulk were being dragged forward only by the rotating motion of its heavy-bristled disk brush digging against the curb. Nudger moved well over on the sidewalk so he wouldn't catch any of the spray from the water jetted out in front of the determinedly rotating brush.
He found Ineida Collins' address in the middle of the block. It belonged to a pale yellow structure with a weathered tile roof and a riot of multicolored bougainvillea blooming wild halfway up one cracked and much-patched stucco wall. Harsh sunlight washed half the wall in purifying brilliance; the other half was in deep shadow.
Nudger glanced at his wristwatch. Ten o'clock. Ineida might still be in bed. If the street-cleaning machine hadn't awakened her, he would. He stepped up onto the small red brick front porch and worked the lion's-head knocker on a plank door supported by huge black iron hinges pocked with rust. A fat honeybee buzzed lazily over from the bougainvil- lea to see what all the fuss was about.
Ineida came to the door without much delay, fully dressed in black slacks and a peach-colored silky blouse. She didn't appear at all sleepy after her late-night stint at Fat Jack's. Her dark hair was tied back in a French braid. Even the cruel sunlight was kind to her; she looked young, and as innocent and naive as Fat Jack said she was. A Brothers Grimm princess with the money to live the fairy tale.
Nudger smiled and told her he was a writer doing a piece on Fat Jack's club. 'I heard you sing last night,' he said, before she could question his identification. 'It really was something to see. I thought it might be a good idea if we talked.'
It was impossible for her to turn down what in her mind was a celebrity interview. The Big Break might arrive anytime from any source. She lit up brightly, even in the brilliant sunlight, and invited Nudger inside.
Her apartment was tastefully but inexpensively furnished; she really was living independently away from Daddy. There was an imitation oriental rug on the hardwood floor, lots of rattan furniture, a Casablanca ceiling fan rotating its wide flat blades slowly, not moving air but casting soothing flickering shadows. Through sheer beige curtains the apartment's courtyard was visible, well tended and colorful. A subtle sweet scent hung in the still air, either a trace of incense or from something growing in the courtyard garden. Some pale blue stationery and a pen lay on a small desk; Ineida had been preparing to write a letter.
'Can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Nudger?' she asked.
Nudger told her yes, thanks, then watched the sway of her trim hips as she walked into the small kitchen. From where he sat he could see a Mr. Coffee brewer on the sink, its glass pot half full. He watched Ineida pour, then return with two cups of coffee. She asked Nudger if he wanted cream or sugar and he declined.
He asked, 'How old are you, Ineida?'
'Twenty-two.' She placed his coffee on the table next to him.
'Young enough not to have to lie about your age,' he said.
Her smile was forced. 'I wish I were older.'
'You'll change your mind about that,' Nudger said. 'Everybody does. You can't have sung professionally for very long.'
She sat down, centering her steaming cup on a coaster. 'About four years, actually. I sang in school productions, then studied for a while in New York. I've been singing at Fat Jack's for about two months. I love it.'
'And the crowd seems to love you,' Nudger fibbed. He watched her smile and figured the lie was a worthy one. There was a vulnerability about her that needed protecting. Certain men might view it as something to exploit. Not Nudger. No, siree!
He pretended to take notes while he asked her a string of writerlike questions, pumping up her ego. It was an ego that would inflate only so far. Nudger decided that he liked Ineida Collins and hoped she would hurry up and realize she wasn't Ineida Mann.
The street cleaner roared past again, snailing along in the opposite direction to tidy up the near curb. Nudger could hear its coarse brush scraping on the pavement. He sat quietly, waiting patiently for the monster to pass.
'I'm told that you and Willy Hollister, the piano player, are pretty good friends,' he said, in the converging quiet.
Ineida's mood changed abruptly. Suspicion crept into her dark eyes. The youthful, smiling mouth became taut and suddenly ten years older. It was a preview of what she would be after life had fallen on her.
'You're not a magazine writer,' she said in a betrayed voice.
Nudger felt guilty about deceiving her, as if he'd tried to lure her into a car with candy. 'No, I'm not,' he admitted. His stomach gave a mulelike kick. What a profession he'd stumbled into!
'Then who are you?'
'Someone concerned about your well-being.'
She narrowed her eyes at him. Her smooth chin jutted forward in a way that suggested more than a mere streak of obstinacy. Nudger caught a glimpse of why Fat Jack saw her as trouble.
Antacid time. He popped one of the chalky white disks into his mouth and chewed. The sound of it breaking up was surprisingly loud.
'Father sent you,' she said.
'No,' Nudger said. Chomp, chomp.
'Liar!' She stood up and flounced to the door. She did a terrific flounce. 'Get out,' she said.
'I'd like to talk with you about Willy Hollister,' Nudger persisted. He knew that in his business persistence paid one way or the other. He could only hope that this time it wouldn't be the other.
'Get out,' Ineida repeated. 'Or I'll call the police. Better yet, I'll scream for them. Right here with the door open.'
Scream? Police?
Within ten seconds Nudger was outside again on Beulah Street, staring at the uncompromising barrier of Ineida's closed door. Apparently she was touchy on the subject of Willy Hollister. Nudger slipped another antacid tablet between his lips. He turned his back to the warming sun and began walking, keeping to the dry half of the
