sidewalk, away from the curb.
He'd gone half a block when he realized that he was casting three shadows. He stopped. The middle shadow stopped also, but the larger ones on either side kept advancing. The large bodies that cast those shadows were suddenly standing in front of Nudger. Two very big men were staring down at him-one was smiling, one not. Considering the kind of smile it was, that didn't make much difference.
'We noticed you talking to Miss Mann,' the one on the left said. He had a black mustache, wide cheekbones, dark, pockmarked skin, and gray eyes that gave no quarter. 'Whatever you said to her seemed to upset her.' His accent was a cross between a Southern drawl and clipped French. Nudger recognized it as Cajun. The Cajuns were a tough, predominantly French people who had settled southern Louisiana but never themselves.
Nudger allowed himself to hope the large men's interest in him was passing and started to walk on. The second man, who was shorter but had a massive neck and shoulders, glided on shuffling feet like a heavyweight boxer to block his way. Nudger swallowed his antacid tablet.
'You nervous, my friend?' the boxer asked in the same rich accent.
'Habitually,' Nudger managed to answer in a choked voice.
Pockmarked said, 'We have an interest in Miss Mann's welfare. What were you talking to her about?'
'The conversation was private.' Nudger's stomach was on spin cycle. 'Do you two fellows mind introducing yourselves?'
'We mind,' the boxer said. He was smiling again. God, it was a nasty smile. Nudger noticed that the tip of the man's right eyebrow had turned dead white where it was crossed by a thin scar.
'Then I'm sorry, but we have nothing to talk about.'
Pockmarked shook his head patiently in disagreement. 'We have this to talk about, my friend. There are parts of this great state of Looziahna that are vast swampland. Not far from where we stand, the bayou is wild and the home of a surprising number of alligators. People go into the bayou, and some of them never come out. Who knows about them? After a while, who cares?' The cold gray eyes had diamond chips in them. 'You understand my meaning?'
Nudger nodded. He understood. His stomach understood.
'I think we've made ourselves clear,' Pockmarked said. 'We aren't nice men, sir. It's our business not to be nice, and it's our pleasure. So a man like yourself, sir, a reasonable man in good health, should listen to us and stay away from Miss Mann.'
'You mean Miss Collins.'
'I mean Miss Ineida Mann.' He said it with the straight face of a true professional.
'Why don't you tell Willy Hollister to stay away from her?' Nudger asked. Some of his fear had left him now, supplanted by a curiosity of the kind that killed the cat.
'Mr. Hollister is a nice young man of Miss Mann's own choosing,' Pockmarked said with an odd courtliness. 'You she obviously doesn't like. You upset her. That upsets us.'
'And me and Frick don't like to be upset,' the boxer said. He closed a powerful hand on the lapel of Nudger's sport jacket, not pushing or pulling in the slightest, merely squeezing the material. Nudger could feel the vibrant force of the man's strength, as if it were electric current. 'Behave yourself,' the boxer hissed through his fixed smile.
He abruptly released his grip, and both men turned and walked away.
Nudger looked down at his abused lapel. It was as crimped as if it had been set wrinkled in a vise for days. He wondered if the dry cleaners could do anything about it when they pressed the coat.
Then he realized he was shaking. He loathed danger and had no taste for violence. He needed another antacid tablet and then, even though it was early, a drink.
New Orleans promised to be an exciting city, but not in the way the travel agencies and Chamber of Commerce advertised.
V
Nudger considered phoning Sam Judman to make sure he was home before dropping by to see him. Then he decided against calling. It would be better to talk to Judman without giving the drummer time to prepare for the conversation. The element of surprise would increase the chances that Judman, possibly still angry from being beaten by Hollister, would say something accidentally that might provide some insight into what was causing Fat Jack to worry.
Judman lived in a crumbling brick building in the French Quarter, in a spacious old second-floor apartment that was lined with screened windows. He was a small, intense, dark- haired man, in his early forties, with a narrow, lined face and an underlying pallor that suggested ill health. He was unmarked; there was no longer any sign of the beating at Hol- lister's hands. When Nudger introduced himself and asked to talk about Hollister, Judman nodded and invited him inside.
The apartment was cool after the noontime heat. Four large ceiling fans rotated slowly in unison, and all of the windows were open. One of the fans was making a faint rhythmic ticking sound, a lazy summer sound. Bamboo blinds were lowered exactly halfway down all the way around the spacious single room, their horizontal precision making the place seem even larger than it was. There were a few pieces of modern but comfortable-looking furniture. Books, record albums, and tapes lined one wall. Framed and glassed photos of Judman posed with various show-business personalities were hung in the narrow space above the windows, picking up reflections. The room was very bright where it was bright, very dark where the sun failed to penetrate. A door led to what appeared to be a small space for a dropdown Murphy bed; through another door Nudger could see into a kitchen. In the far corner near that door was a multimillion-dollar stereo setup.
Judman offered to get Nudger something to drink. Nudger had already had his day's ration of liquor, and coffee would send his stomach into acidic revolt. He declined Judman's offer and the two men sat facing each other in low-slung, plushly padded matching chairs.
'You said you were a private detective, Mr. Nudger,' Judman said. 'May I ask the identity of your client?'
'Right now,' Nudger said, 'I'd prefer to keep that confidential.'
'But you want to know about Willy Hollister.'
'Whatever you can tell me. I know you and he had a run-in at his apartment. Do you know why?'
Judman turned his hands palms-up in a perplexed gesture and then dropped them to his knees. 'He was upset because I let myself in to wait for him. I don't know why he was so touchy; he'd left the door unlocked. And it's not as if I was going through the drawers or testing for dust. I was just sitting on the couch waiting for him to show up after work. I didn't figure the guy was paranoid.'
'How long had you been there before Hollister arrived?'
'Not more than five minutes. Hell, I told him that, but it didn't seem to make any difference. He was in a freaked-out rage.'
There was a noise from the kitchen. Nudger turned.
Marty Sievers walked in, carrying a tall glass of dark liquid with ice in it. When he got closer, Nudger realized it was iced coffee. Nudger stood and shook hands with Siev- ers, who didn't seem surprised to see him.
'I know who you are,' Sievers said. 'I saw you at the club last night, and I heard you introduce yourself to Sam.'
Nudger was sure there was little that Sievers' bland brown eyes missed. Sievers sipped his iced coffee; he had about him the stillness and control of a man who had supreme confidence in his physical capabilities in any situation. Green Beret stuff.
'You handled that potential customer trouble very neatly last night at the club,' Nudger said.
Sievers swirled the ice in his glass. 'It's part of my job.'
'You're wondering why Marty's here,' Sam Judman said.
Nudger nodded, 'My line of work, wondering.'
'And finding answers,' Sievers added. 'I'll make it easy this time. I came here to tell Sam about some leads with other clubs around town.'
'Leads?'
