them witnesses myself, get them to see Curtis' innocence, his goodness. Gantner's the only one I seen. After him, I knew how hopeless it was for me and that I needed the help of an expert.' She looked up and smiled. 'That's when I called you, Mr. Nudger.'
'So Gantner found out where you lived.'
'I ain't sure he knows where I live, but he came by the Right Steer a few times. He… made advances.'
'That sounds like something out of the nineteenth century,' Nudger said.
'Huh?'
'Never mind. What kind of advances?'
'Improper.'
'Oh, I'm sure. But was the implication that if you slept with him he might change his story about Curtis?'
'No, he never came right out and said that.' She rubbed her nose vertically with the palm of her hand, as a child might, and looked pensive. 'Tell you the truth, Mr. Nudger, though I shouldn't say it-if it would really save Curtis' life, I'd even sleep with that Gantner. Would in a minute.'
'I don't think it would make much difference,' Nudger said. 'And I don't think Curtis would approve.'
'You're probably right about both those things.'
Nudger shook his head slowly. 'I'm sorry, but the evidence looks exactly the same as it did at the time of the trial.'
Candy Ann drew her bare feet up off the floor and hugged her knees to her chest with both arms as if she were crazy about her legs. It was almost a gesture of unconscious, undeveloped sexuality, the sort of thing you might see in a ten-year-old. Her little-girl posture matched her little-girl faith in her lover's innocence. She believed the white knight must arrive at any moment and snatch handsome Curtis Colt from the electrical jaws of death. She believed hard, this child-woman. Nudger could almost hear his armor clank when he walked.
She wanted him to believe just as hard. 'I see you need to be convinced of Curtis' innocence,' she said wistfully. There was no doubt he'd forced her into some kind of a corner with his lack of faith and his disheartening report of unshakable witnesses. 'If you come by here at midnight, Mr. Nudger, I'll convince you.'
'Can't we make it earlier?' Nudger said. 'My old car turns into a pumpkin at midnight.'
She smiled slowly, her slightly protruding teeth separating her lips. 'I seen cars was lemons, Mr. Nudger, but never pumpkins.'
'How do you intend to prove Colt's innocence?'
'I can't say. You'll understand why later tonight.'
'But why do we have to wait until midnight?'
'Oh, you'll see.'
Nudger looked at the waiflike creature curled in the corner of the sofa. He felt as if they were playing a childhood guessing game while Curtis Colt waited his turn in the electric chair. Nudger had never seen an execution; he'd heard it took longer than most people thought for the condemned to die. There were spasms, wisps of smoke, the scent of charred flesh.
His stomach actually twitched. How did he ever get pulled into this case? How did he get pulled into this odd occupation? But he knew how. It had something to do with unpaid bills. And with other kinds of obligations. With not being able to walk away like a sane man. He'd be there at midnight.
'Can't we do this now with twenty questions?' he asked, trying one more time to get to bed early tonight.
Candy Ann shook her head. More drops of water flew, playing bright tricks with the lamplight. For a moment there was magic in the trailer. 'No, Mr. Nudger. Sorry.'
Nudger sighed and stood up, feeling as if he were about to bump his head on the low ceiling even though he was barely six feet tall. 'All right, Candy Ann, we'll do it your way.'
She smiled again, as if thanking him, as if he'd had a choice.
'Make sure you're on time tonight, Mr. Nudger,' she called as he went out the door. 'It's important.'
Nudger wondered at the different worlds people lived in, while the real world had its way with them.
He didn't notice the car following him as he turned the Volkswagen out of the trailer park.
VII
Nudger drove to his office to wait for midnight. He checked his phone-answering machine again. Another call from Eileen, who demanded in her no- nonsense voice that he call her back as soon as possible. He reached for the phone, almost lifted the receiver, then slowly drew his hand back and settled down in his swivel chair, which gave a soft little squeal, as if assuring him he'd been wise not to call. He didn't feel like talking to Eileen right now. Ever again, actually.
In the yellowish glow from his desk lamp, he leafed once more through his file on Curtis Colt, hoping he'd notice something he'd missed. But there was nothing pointing toward Colt's possible innocence. Probably because Colt was guilty.
After half an hour, Nudger closed the file folder and abruptly shoved it away from him on the desk. There was frustration and quiet despair in the gesture. He wished Danny's Donuts was open downstairs; he could use someone to talk to. The Cardinals were still playing phenomenal baseball and had won five games in a row now; Danny, who was an avid fan, would be happy to discuss baseball for the next few hours.
Or it might not hurt to talk with Danny about Curtis Colt. Danny was a good sounding board and sometimes provided insight. He tended to think in terms of stereotypes, but once he saw someone like Colt as an individual, his soft heart took over. Danny was all for capital punishment, but if Jack the Ripper had been someone he knew, Danny would have figured those girls did something to provoke him.
Curtis Colt was no mad-dog killer, nothing exceptional as criminals went; he was a garden-variety holdup man who had panicked and pulled the trigger when the job went sour. Or was he only that? There were disturbing reverberations around the shots he'd fired. Nudger decided he'd better learn more about Colt.
The phone jangled, startling Nudger. The swivel chair cried out as he sat up straight. Eileen? For a moment his hand hesitated, then he lifted the receiver and held it tight to his ear, as if there were someone in the quiet office he didn't want to overhear the conversation.
It wasn't Eileen on the line; it was Harold Benedict, of the law firm of Benedict and Schill, for whom Nudger sometimes did work. He said he'd been trying to contact Nudger all day.
'Why didn't you leave a message, Harold?' Nudger asked.
'You never answer your messages, Nudger. I don't know why you even have a recorder.'
'I listen sometimes, I just don't call back. People who leave a message for you to call them back usually mean trouble. Besides, I don't like getting instructions from machines. But I'd have called you back because sometimes you pay me money.'
'You're a throwback to the primeval days before microchips.'
Nudger had no reply for that. Pointless to deny. Lawyers.
Benedict told him a guy named Cal Smith had an insurance disability claim in for a back injury sustained on his job as a warehouse worker. The insurance company was a Benedict and Schill client, and Benedict didn't think Smith's back was really injured or that his client should pay the claim. A hard man was Benedict. And a devious one. He wanted Nudger to do some camera work.
Nudger had done this sort of thing before for Benedict and Schill. He wrote Smith's address on his desk pad, then hung up the phone.
Smith, he thought, sitting back in his chair. Maybe the most common name of all, the butt of low-comedy motel jokes. Nothing like the improbable Biff Archway. Nudger swallowed a bitter taste on the edges of his tongue. His stomach stirred like a cranky, disturbed beast. Was there really someone named Biff Archway?
But he knew there was, and that the person so named wore ties that found their way into Claudia's bedroom.
Nudger wondered what was the full given name of someone called Biff. He'd have to ask Claudia. And what would a Biff look like? Nudger had a good idea of that: a medium-height, chesty guy, with a firm jaw, clear eyes, and all-American charm. That was a Biff, all right. A regular guy John Wayne would have liked instantly. Anger-no,
