'Back in St. Louis is where you oughta be.'
'That seems to be the prevailing logic.'
Livingston stood up; it wasn't easy to catch behind that big desk. 'Keep yourself out of trouble, Nudger. My men have better things to do than tail you around the city.'
Nudger got up out of the creamy velour chair, listening to his knees pop; he was getting old-like Billy Weep. No, he corrected himself, Billy wasn't getting older now. Nudger hadn't seen any point in telling Livingston about Weep's death. He looked out the window again at the world made gloomy by what went on inside Livingston's office, the way Livingston's world was clouded by what went on inside his head.
'What are you staring at?' Livingston asked.
'Nothing in particular,' Nudger told him. 'Nice suit. Wool?'
Livingston said nothing; Nudger left the office in silence, closing the door behind him softly. Wool, Nudger decided. A fox in sheep's clothing, that was Livingston. What was going on in his cunning little mind?
Out on the sidewalk, Nudger paused. His stomach was rumbling, threatening to make itself felt in ways unpleasant. He reached for his roll of spearmint-flavored antacid tablets.
An explosion behind him made him jump and whirl.
It was Chambers, popping his gum. The scent of Juicy Fruit wafted to Nudger.
The detective grinned at him, holding the pale wad of gum between his front teeth so it was visible when he smiled, like a kid proving to his mother that he hasn't swallowed it. 'Give you a lift back to your hotel?' he offered, motioning with his head toward where the blue-gray sedan that had brought Nudger to the station house was parked across the street.
Nudger nodded. 'Why not?'
Chambers winced. 'That's a terrible philosophy. Better to ask yourself why.' Then he shrugged. 'On the other hand, people who ask themselves 'Why not?' keep me in a job.' Pop! went the gum.
'They're both tough questions,' Nudger said.
He broke the seal on a fresh role of antacid tablets and he and Chambers walked across the street side by side. Juicy Fruit and Spearmint.
XVII
After Chambers had dropped him off at the Hotel Majestueux, Nudger was surprised to notice a slip of folded white paper in his message box behind the desk. He asked the towering desk clerk for it, unfolded it, and read:
Mr. Nudger, I'm sorry I missed you. I'll try to contact you again as soon as possible. It's important that we talk. Marilyn Eeker
Nudger examined the paper. It was cheap unlined notepaper, folded once and deeply creased as if a thumbnail had been run hard across it. The handwriting was in pale blue ink, concise and feminine, and at a slight downward angle to the top edge of the paper.
'When was this delivered?' Nudger asked the desk clerk.
'About an hour ago,' the clerk said, jackknifing his long body downward over the desk to pencil figures into a ledger book. He was a busy man; taking time to talk with Nudger was obviously an imposition.
'Did the woman say anything?' Nudger asked.
Not looking up, the tall clerk said, 'Just told me to please put this in Mr. Nudger's message box.' He began applying pencil point to paper.
'What did she look like?'
'Oh, smallish-petite, I guess you'd say-blond, in her forties, kinda pretty. Seemed in a hurry.'
Nudger searched his mental file, couldn't imagine who the woman might be. He couldn't remember ever hearing the name Marilyn Eeker.
The clerk scratched his gray head and began to struggle with a miniature calculator. Nudger left him in the hands of science and went up to his room.
The New Orleans phone directory listed only one Eeker. Joseph Eeker. Nudger phoned his number, asked to speak to him, and was immediately connected. It was all so easy Nudger knew it wouldn't bear fruit.
He was right. Joseph Eeker was seventy-nine years old and had never heard of Marilyn Eeker and didn't want to hear of her again. Nudger apologized for being such a bother and hung up. He would have to wait for Marilyn Eeker to come to him. He hoped she didn't represent someone he owed.
His conversation with Livingston, and his time cooped up in the car with Chambers and his ominously silent partner, had made Nudger perspire. He washed his face with cold water, then put on a fresh shirt and went back downstairs and outside.
He drove the red subcompact in the direction of Fat Jack's club, wondering why Livingston hadn't mentioned his entering and leaving Hollister's apartment. It could be that police surveillance had already been called off at that time and Livingston simply didn't know about Nudger's being at Hollister's. Livingston was speaking the truth when he'd said his men had better things to do than trail Nudger. The New Orleans police force was as overworked as any other police department. Or it could be that Livingston knew about Nudger's going to Hollister's and deliberately hadn't mentioned it, playing his cards close to his little fox vest. Another possibility was that Livingston's man had seen Nudger at Hollister's and assumed a conversation had occurred, and Livingston hadn't thought the visit worth mentioning.
Nudger decided to quit worrying about Livingston. Trying to analyze the motives of a cop like that was the sort of thing that ate holes in stomachs. He didn't need that.
He parked the car, then pushed in through the door of Fat Jack's, leaving the heat and brightness of outside for the cool dimness of the club.
The bartender-not the young unflappable one, but an elderly gray guy with a polka-dot bow tie-told Nudger that Fat Jack was out. Nobody knew for sure when he'd be back; he might not return until the evening, when business started picking up, or he might have just strolled over to the Magnolia Blossom for a croissant and coffee and would be back any minute.
Nudger sat at the end of the bar, nursing a beer he didn't really want, and waited. He watched the bartender, who had the air of a natty dresser despite the wrinkled white apron tied around his waist, get things ready behind the bar for the night. It was almost as if the long bar were a barricade, and he was making sure there was plenty of ammunition to deal with an imminent siege. He arranged bottles on the backbar so he could reach them easily, counted gleaming upside- down glasses as if they were artillery shells. It looked to Nudger like a boring job, nothing like sitting awake in a parked car all night waiting for a client's errant spouse to leave a motel room.
Marty Sievers walked in from the back room. He stood for a while watching some of the early customers wander in and be shown to tables. He was wearing the same conservative brown suit he'd had on the first time Nudger saw him. Mr. Average; if they built an Everyman robot, it would look like Sievers. When he caught sight of Nudger, he walked over and stood next to him at the bar.
'Looks like it's going to be a busy night,' Nudger said.
'It will be. Hollister makes for busy nights. In fact, we've had a busy month.' The bartender brought him over a glass of what looked like pure club soda over ice. Maybe Perrier water. Sievers raised the glass in an amiable toast, smiling at Nudger, and sipped.
'Do you happen to know Max Reckoner?' Nudger asked.
'Sure, the guy who owns the antique shops. He's a regular. So's his wife Sandra, but she doesn't come in as often as Max.'
'I've heard Max does his hunting in here,' Nudger said.
'Hunting?'
'Yeah. Max and Cupid.'
Sievers gave him a level look. 'I don't talk about the customers, Nudger. It's bad business.'
'I could get my information from Fat Jack if you don't want to tell me.'
'Maybe you should do that.'
'It has to do with the welfare of the club.'
The cash-register bell sounded behind the bar. Or was it Sievers' heart?
