before. Fat Jack McGee hadn't, except on long-playing albums.
The phone jangled, making Nudger jump and the swivel chair cry Eek!
He waited three rings before answering; mustn't seem anxious. Then he dragged the phone across the desk toward him, lifted the receiver, and with a heart full of hope identified himself.
'It's me,' said his former wife Eileen. 'You know why I'm calling.'
Nudger knew. 'Not our anniversary?'
'I don't want to make tiny, tiny small talk,' she said. 'I want the back alimony you owe me. Five hundred dollars.'
'Right now, that isn't possible,' Nudger said.
'Hauling you back into court is possible.'
Nudger wasn't really sure she would do that. The alimony she'd been granted was exorbitant, thanks to her lawyer who had descended from sharks. And though Eileen didn't have the means to earn a living at the time of the divorce, she was now at the top of a sales pyramid in one of those home products rackets, drawing an obscene percentage of the earnings of the salespeople under her, plus a commission whenever they recruited someone into the company. She was a district manager. Pyramid Power was hers. She was making a better living than Nudger was now, or ever had, for that matter. Surely a judge would take that into consideration. Well, maybe…
'Are you there?'
'Here.'
'I talked with my lawyer. He says give you a week, then we'll skin you alive and scrape the fat off your hide.'
'He has a way of putting things.'
'And of getting things. I don't want to spend more time in court, but I will if I have to. I want my money. Soon.' She'd sure gotten assertive since getting into sales. She seemed especially voracious today.
'Will you send cash? Or a check?'
Nudger sighed. 'A check. As soon as possible.'
'Which will be?'
'Days. Weeks at the most. I'm getting a retainer soon.'
'Probably to straighten your teeth with my money.'
'No, the other kind of retainer. I've got a job in New Orleans. And my teeth are straight.'
'Okay, you've got one week,' she said. 'And no more. Seven days. Understand?'
'Sure. Are you getting any sex, Eileen?' He just had to aggravate her, couldn't stop himself. Sick.
As she slammed down the receiver she shouted something he couldn't understand, but it had the word 'God' in it. Could she have found religion?
Nudger listened to the lonely sound of the broken connection for a few seconds, then replaced the receiver. Nothing like having your mind made up for you. He phoned the airport to confirm his reservation for New Orleans, and a very pleasant woman named Rhonda assured him that he was booked first class. Nudger locked the airline ticket in his top desk drawer, thinking he'd rather talk on the phone to Rhonda than Eileen any day.
He diligently filled out the $100,000 sweepstakes form, then, whistling out of tune, went downstairs to get another cup of coffee and a cream horn.
II
The flight to New Orleans took a little over an hour in a sky as uniformly blue and unmarred as the inside of a fine china bowl.
Nudger rented a car-a cheap subcompact, since he didn't know if he'd take this job and have his expenses cov- ered-at New Orleans International Airport and drove toward the city. Louisiana was just as hot as Missouri, only here Spanish moss drooped from the roadside trees like gloomy black Christmas tinsel somebody had forgotten to take down. Just looking at the graceful yet oppressive stuff made the heat seem fiercer and stickier. Nudger reached out and switched the little red car's air conditioner on high. Dust and debris blew up into his face with the sudden blast of cold air, then settled back down rearranged.
New Orleans is an old city of pastel stucco, ornate black wrought iron, colorful clinging bougainvillea, white- and- gray tropical-weight clothing, French-Cajun cooking, and black music. The Hotel Majestueux fit right into that scene, an old ten-story building with a fake but weathered stucco facade. There was a gold awning out over the sidewalk in front of the entrance, with the name of the hotel lettered in delicate white script along the sides. A uniformed doorman stood in the deep shade beneath the awning, studiously reading a folded newspaper.
Nudger parked the subcompact half a block down, climbed from the tiny bucket seat, and checked to make sure his limbs would still extend to their fullest. Subcompactness could be catching. He unlocked the car's miniature trunk and got out his luggage.
As he carried his single brown nylon suitcase toward the hotel, he looked over the neighborhood. It was old, gone a measure to seed, but not all that bad. The Chamber of Commerce would describe it as colorful. Tourists would agree, but would spend their money on Bourbon Street and at the Superdome.
'Carry that for you, sir?' the doorman asked, when it became apparent that Nudger was about to enter the lobby with his suitcase.
Nudger declined by shaking his head no and walked on past. Up close, the doorman's ornate uniform had the same genteel seediness about it as the neighborhood. He was an elderly black man, wiry and stooped. It was a racing form he'd been studying, Nudger noted, as he pushed open the glass doors. The doorman didn't look as if he had an eye for winners.
The Majestueux lobby was large, carpeted in red, and furnished in a kind of hotel French provincial that lent an air of hominess. There was plenty of aged oak paneling, setting off large potted ferns and flowering plants that looked real. A fancy brass clock and elaborate brass floor indicators were built into rich paneling above the elevator doors. Behind the polished wood desk loomed a seven-foot-tall, narrow, gray-haired man. A bellman was on the far side of the lobby doing something to a stuck window to make it go either farther up or farther down. With a kind of condescending nobility, a tall Creole beauty dressed in the manner of a restaurant hostess stood with her arms crossed in the doorway of the hotel coffee shop and idly watched the bellman's efforts. Another bellman was behind her, looking out over her shoulder. Nobody here rushed to take Nudger's luggage.
The human tower behind the desk checked and said sure enough, there was a reservation in Nudger's name. Nudger produced his VISA card, wondering if he had enough credit left on it to impress the desk clerk if it became necessary.
But there was no need for clout here. The clerk shook his cadaverous narrow head and said, 'Room's been prepaid, Mr. Nudger.'
While Nudger returned the credit card to his wallet, the tall guy slapped a big old-fashioned desk bell. It had too beautiful and resonating a ring to serve such a mundane purpose. The clerk yelled, 'Front,' in a brisk, commanding voice, and the bellman by the window tore himself away from his handyman puttering and started to walk across the lobby toward the desk.
'Three-oh-four, Larry,' the desk clerk said from on high.
Larry took the key from him and picked up Nudger's suitcase. He was a chunky, medium-height man with thick raven-black hair and a mottled complexion like heavily creamed coffee that hadn't been stirred. Pausing to avoid a young couple with the self-involved look of honeymooners, he stepped nimbly around them into the elevator, punched a floor button, and moved back to make room for Nudger.
The third-floor room was large, on the verge of needing redecorating, but on the whole very pleasant. It was done in shades of blue, with thick draperies that matched the bedspread. The headboard, dresser, and writing desk didn't match and were of heavy walnut construction, not the usual mass-produced hotel furnishings. Larry smoothly showed Nudger that the color TV worked, introduced him to the white-tiled bathroom but not the small roach that scurried behind the washbasin, then handed over the room key.
Larry had black, intense eyes. He hadn't said a word, and maybe he couldn't talk, but he was a hell of a watcher. Nudger tipped him two dollars, eager to be rid of his presence. Larry grunted as he pocketed the bills, shot a mechanical smile in Nudger's direction, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Nudger walked
