make me change my mind about her proposition.'
Rumbo flexed his bulging biceps by way of a shrug. 'I don't know nothin' about any of that stuff. You tell her whatever you want her to know.'
'I already have. She doesn't seem willing to accept it. She's a headstrong woman, your employer. Or is she more than just your employer?'
Rumbo didn't respond to Nudger's probe. He got his rubber ball out of his pocket, looked for a moment as if he might ask Nudger to play catch, then hunched his powerful shoulders and began his rhythmic squeezing, working the red ball as if it were a tiny detached heart that he had to keep pumping.
'The kind of people who wear white gloves usually have flip sides,' Nudger said. Silence. In, out, in, out went the ball. Talking to Rumbo was some chore. Nudger decided to be direct. 'Do you sleep with Agnes Boyington?'
Rumbo stopped working the agonized ball. His glittering little eyes widened in shock as color rose on his bull neck. 'That ain't a very nice thing to say, Nudger.'
'I didn't say it, I asked it.'
Now Rumbo was shuffling his huge feet in embarrassment. Like Agnes Boyington's, his was a puritanical heart, capable of limitless cruelty for a cause thought just. That really was the thing about the massive and ineffectual Rumbo that frightened Nudger.
'Same thing,' Rumbo mumbled accusingly.
'Maybe so,' Nudger conceded, still wondering if what he'd suggested happened to be true. The prospect was enough to make the imagination run riot. But Rumbo probably would have responded to the question the same way whatever his relationship with Agnes Boyington.
'I like you less every time I see you,' Rumbo said, using bluff to regain his composure. 'But that's okay.'
'Why is it okay?'
' 'Cause eventually the time'll come when I'm gonna enjoy your company, Nudger, but you ain't gonna enjoy mine.' Rumbo flipped the ball into the air, caught it one- handed, and walked ponderously away in the direction of Sears.
Nudger thought that, considering Hugo Rumbo's obviously limited mental capacity, his message had been succinctly put. No doubt he and Nudger shared a piece of the troubled future.
Trying not to think about that future in graphic detail, Nudger turned and resumed walking toward the parking lot.
Halfway there, he noticed that he was walking too fast and made himself slow down. He had places to go, but since Jock hadn't shown up and occupied his time, there was no need to hurry.
Fools didn't always rush in.
XVI
Nudger drove out to Westport, a modern business community five miles beyond the western city limits. Most of the buildings had been constructed ten or fifteen years ago-brick, squarish single- and multiple- story office buildings and warehouses, many of them still sitting vacant with FOR LEASE signs in front of them. There were also a high-priced pseudo-English Tudor-style shopping mall and apartments, on the western edge of Westport next to the interstate highway. The developers had wanted to attract all manner of businesses, and had. Westport was a profitable venture, with a number of thriving companies located here, not a few of which would thrive only briefly before being forced into liquidation or relocation by the fast-rising rents. Law of the three-piece-suit jungle.
Several of the streets in Westport were named after astronauts. Javers' Tire-O-Rama was on Grissom Drive, in a low tan building that was shared with an electronics distributor. Nudger parked in the freshly blacktopped parking lot and listened to the soft tar suck at the soles of his shoes as he walked to the east entrance.
He found that he'd opened the wrong door and was in the warehouse. A sign proclaimed that Javers' Tire- O-Rama made direct retail sales here at discount prices. An equally large sign read MOUNT YOUR OWN AND SAVE! Tires were piled high and leaning crookedly in hundreds of stacks, fitted into and on top of metal tier racks. Against one wall rose a mountain of used tires. The acrid, oily smell of all that rubber was overpowering.
A hefty little man with a clipboard and an air of authority came over and directed Nudger to the door of the office.
Nudger thanked him and shoved open a green swinging door. He found himself in a large room containing an even dozen desks in two rows of six. Behind each desk sat someone working diligently, either poring over papers or talking on the phone. The oily rubber smell was as strong here as in the warehouse. It had probably permeated the entire building.
At the far end of the room, near the entrance Nudger should have come in, sat a receptionist at a curved counter. Nudger walked over and smiled down at her. She was a star- tlingly pretty dark-haired girl with rimless glasses and a turned-up nose. There was a decal of a tire with arms and legs and a happy hubcap face on her IBM Selectric.
'How long does it take to get used to the smell?' Nudger asked.
'What smell?'
'Never mind. Is Mr. Javers in?'
'Do you have an appointment?'
'No. My name is Nudger.'
She rang her boss's office with apparent trepidation.
'Tell him it concerns Grace Valpone,' Nudger added.
The receptionist did, then hung up the phone.
'Mr. Javers says to come right in,' she told him. She seemed relieved that Javers had agreed to see Nudger. 'Through that door on the left.'
As Nudger crossed the room he overheard some of the phone conversations. Most of the people behind the desks were salespeople, using WATS lines to coax orders from out- of-town retail tire outlets.
Javers stood up from behind his desk when Nudger entered. He wasn't a very tall man, though well proportioned inside an expensive gray suit. He was about fifty, balding, with jet-black wings of hair that were meant to disguise protruding ears. Though his complexion was swarthy, there was an underlying pastiness to it. A small, neatly trimmed mustache writhed in an attempted smile that evolved into more of a grimace. Grief had made inroads on his face, lending it a wise but helpless expression that might soon become permanent.
Nudger introduced himself and shook Javers' hand.
'I thought you were from the police,' Javers said, sitting back down behind his desk.
'I used to be,' Nudger said. 'Right now I'm working for a woman whose twin sister was murdered in much the same way as your fiancee. I'm sorry to intrude on such short notice, but I thought it would be a good idea if I asked you a few questions.'
The mention of Grace Valpone's murder brought a momentary look of deep anguish to Javers' face. Nudger wouldn't have blamed the man for asking him to leave. Misery didn't really love company.
But Javers had as much control over his grief as he had over his employees conducting business as usual in the next room. He leaned forward over his wide desk. There was nothing on the gleaming surface of the desk except a pen set, a small Lucite clock, and an ashtray; Javers hadn't been hard at work. 'Do you think the same man committed both murders?' he asked.
'It's an odds-on possibility,' Nudger told him. 'There are parallels. There are also inconsistencies.'
'If you think one case might have a bearing on the other,' Javers said, 'I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know. I want more than anything to see Grace's killer…' He let the words fade away, then swallowed hard and bowed his head. Light glanced off his taut, bald crown between the black wings of hair.
'I understand,' Nudger said. He felt like walking over and patting Javers on the shoulder. But he didn't. Sympathy from a stranger was sometimes more confusing than comforting. He wondered how he'd be able to ask Javers what he needed to know.
'I want the man caught and punished,' Javers said in a level voice, sitting up straighter. He had himself back in check.
