Nightlines

XXIV

Early the next morning, Nudger began driving around the neighborhood of Kingshighway between Tholozan and Magnolia, when people were clustered at the bus stops on Kingshighway on their way to work. He stayed on Kingshighway for over an hour, bouncing along in the overheated Volkswagen, watching the number of people at the stops decrease, not seeing the ominous blond Kelly.

At eight-thirty he turned onto Magnolia and began cruising side streets lined with similar brick homes and apartment buildings, gradually working his way north to Tholozan. He noticed that the tires had begun humming on the rough pavement. The day was heating up, softening rubber and resolve. Summer in St. Louis. Wouldn't it be nice if the Volkswagen were air-conditioned?

The feeling that he was squandering his time crept into Nudger and spread debilitating tentacles. He had cause for discouragement. Not only might he be wrong about where Kelly had gotten off the bus, but Kelly might not even be the man he sought. "Murderer" wasn't a label to be pasted on lightly; if it didn't stick, there was trouble all around. Nudger had considered telling Hammersmith about Kelly, but there really wasn't much to tell. A vague match-up of descriptions wouldn't excite the police, and Hammersmith was no longer in charge of the investigation anyway. Captain Massey of the Major Case Squad was now running the operation, a meticulous officer competent at police work but overly concerned with PR and politics. Nudger knew Massey wouldn't take the information about Kelly seriously. And if by chance he did, he'd inundate the Kingshighway area, where Nudger was searching, with enough blue uniforms and news-media people to force Kelly, all traffic offenders with unpaid tickets, and all owners of unlicensed pets to flee the neighborhood and go into deep cover. Some things were better left unsaid.

Nudger drove around the neighborhood until noon, then dug deep in his pocket, gassed up the Volkswagen, and drove to his office. He didn't want to go there. The place was beginning to wear on him. It was becoming a den of depression.

He parked the car, then checked with Danny before going upstairs. Nobody had been by to see him on business, or to try to corrupt, coerce, or concuss him. Odd. But then, these things ran in cycles.

"Any sign of the monolithic Hugo Rumbo?" Nudger asked.

"Nope," Danny said, absently flicking his towel at a fly. "You miss him?"

"Like a fever blister."

After persistently declining the offer of a brace of doughnuts for lunch, Nudger went up to his office and checked his mail and answering machine.

Nothing interesting in the mail except a special offer on a quickdraw holster. The manufacturer promised it would shave half a second off the time between slapping leather and squeezing the trigger. If Nudger had owned a gun, he would have been intrigued. It might be fun slapping leather and yelling at people to freeze, then commanding them to thaw.

There was nothing on the answering machine other than some adolescent giggling and a loud raspberry. It cheered Nudger considerably.

He phoned Hammersmith and asked him to check Records for a rundown on Roger Davidson, the new client's suspect lawyer. Hammersmith told Nudger he shouldn't make a habit of using the tax-funded police computer for private business, especially since he probably didn't earn enough to pay taxes, then said he'd get back to him by phone when he had something on Davidson.

The instant Nudger replaced the receiver, the phone jangled to vibrant life beneath his hand, startling him. He raised the receiver to his ear and said hello. He wished he hadn't.

"This is Agnes Boyington, Mr. Nudger."

"This is a recording. Mr. Nudger isn't in the office. At the tone, please leave a message and he'll return your call."

"I know that's you-"

Nudger whistled a high C into the phone and hung up.

The phone began ringing again almost immediately. He let it ring twelve times before picking up the receiver again. He didn't want his phone line tied up. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want a headache.

"What is it, Agnes?" he asked.

"It's Mrs. Boyington. I've been trying to get through to you all day, Nudger." Her voice oozed annoyance.

"My answering machine was on. You could have left a message."

"I don't choose to talk to a machine, then be ignored by you."

"I don't choose to talk to you, then not be ignored by the police."

"Let's call that a misunderstanding."

"No."

"All right. However you view the matter makes no difference to me. I called to demand a report on what progress you've made in tracking down my daughter's murderer."

The lady had chutzpah in all its pronunciations. Nudger was awed, but it wore off fast. "I'm working for Jeanette," he reminded Agnes Boyington. "Any information I obtain will be reported to her."

"Any and all information, Nudger?"

"Of course, Boyington."

"I've given more consideration to your proposal that I pay you to withdraw from the case without informing Jeanette," Agnes Boyington said slowly and precisely, choosing her words with a care that suggested she thought the conversation might be bugged or recorded. "I think five thousand dollars would be a reasonable sum."

"It was you who offered to pay me to drop the case," Nudger pointed out, also thinking the conversation might be bugged or recorded. Suspicion breeds suspicion.

Not differing with him now that they were both on record, if there was a record, she said, "I know that five thousand dollars is a great deal of money to a man who lives your sort of life. Think about it, right now. It could mean a lot to you."

Sitting there in his sparsely furnished office, gazing at shirt cuffs that would soon fall into the frayed category, Nudger couldn't disagree with her. He said nothing. He was afraid that if he did it might be yes.

"Are you considering my offer," Agnes Boyington asked, "or are you one of those increasingly rare Quixotic fools who won't put a price on client loyalty? On a dreamer's code of conduct that is nothing more than a vestige of youth. Or misplaced romanticism."

"You forgot professional honor," Nudger told her.

"There is no such thing in a dishonorable profession."

"Be glad you're not a windmill," Nudger said, and hung up.

He sat for a long time thinking about what he might have bought for five thousand dollars, not the least of which was escape from his creditors, and from troubled sleep fragmented by dreams of debt and destruction. Agnes knew how to negotiate, how to tempt. She hadn't offered him an astronomical amount of money, but when a man was treading shark-infested water, you might as well throw him a raft as a boat. He'd climb on. Usually. If he wasn't a Quixotic fool.

Then he considered the vulnerable position he'd be in if he accepted Agnes Boyington's offer. She would have him sealed like a bug in a jar, and she would remove the lid only to stick pins in him. He was sure that eventually he'd lose his livelihood as well as his self-respect. He told himself that, and not an antiquated code of honor, was why he'd hung up on her. It was an explanation he could live with and suffer no embarrassment.

As he sat staring at the phone, it occurred to him that he'd doubtless be seeing more of Hugo Rumbo. An unsettling notion. Almost as unsettling as being five thousand dollars poorer than he might have been.

Nudger looked around the office to make sure he wasn't leaving anything switched on and unnecessarily running up his electric bill, then locked the door behind him and descended the hollow-sounding steep wooden stairs to the street door.

He would accept Danny's offer of a two-doughnut lunch, then return to the neighborhood where he'd lost track of Kelly. If he didn't have persistence, what did he have?

Three days later he was wondering if persistence paid. He'd covered the side streets along Kingshighway again and again, jarring over potholed pavement in the cramped, clattering Volkswagen, probably doing irreparable harm to his and the car's insides.

Time was becoming a prime factor. Nudger had only so much of it to waste. He'd phoned his new client yesterday afternoon and reported that there were three Roger Davidsons practicing law in the state of Missouri. None of them had the office address of the client's Roger Davidson; none of them had ever heard of Nudger's client. The Bar Association pleaded ignorantia. The Roger Davidson in question wasn't even a lawyer. Case closed. A nice profit for Nudger for doing nothing but making phone calls, but not so much profit that it amounted to more than carrion for his creditors. If something didn't happen soon on the Jeanette Boyington case, or if Natalie Mallowan didn't pay him for finding Ringo, he'd have to contact some bona fide lawyers he knew who sometimes threw business his way at the end of ambulance chases.

Nudger bounced in his seat, almost bumping his head on the car roof, as the Volkswagen hit a high seam in the pavement. The little car's suspension was about ruined, and the engine was laboring as if overheated. He decided to give car and driver a rest by taking time out for a cheap lunch at the diner on the corner of Kingshighway and Kemper; the place was built of glass and white metal and looked clean.

There was a shady parking space not far from the corner. Nudger maneuvered the Volkswagen into it and listened to the tiny engine putt and clatter for several revolutions after he'd switched off the ignition. He thought it might be a good idea to pop the trunk a few inches on the rear-engine car so the tired old motor would cool faster.

He'd just gotten out of the car and was about to close the door when he saw Kelly emerge from the diner, clutching a white carryout bag beneath his arm like a football, and jog across Kingshighway.

Nudger caught his breath, then in one hurried motion climbed back into the Volkswagen, bumped his knee on the dashboard, and inserted and twisted the ignition key. The engine turned over but refused to start, grinding and popping as if protesting this fresh abuse at the hands of Nudger. He twisted the key again. Again. Heat-warped metal ticked and moaned. The overheated little car sputtered something guttural and nasty at Nudger and the battery went dead. If yet another war with Germany were in the offing, Nudger would be among the first to know.

Legwork time. Nudger could still see Kelly walking along Kingshighway with his carryout order. He wouldn't be going far if he was planning on a hot lunch. Slamming the car door hard behind him, as if that might cause well- deserved pain in the carburetor, Nudger followed.

Kelly didn't appear worried about being watched. He never glanced back as he crossed Kingshighway at the traffic light and began walking east on Arsenal. Nudger stayed well behind him, watching his easy, powerful stride. Kelly looked as if he were merely sauntering, but Nudger had to walk fast to maintain the same distance between them.

When Kelly turned right on Morganford and was out of sight, Nudger broke into a casual jog to close distance, then paused at the corner and saw Kelly crossing the street to walk east on Hartford. Nudger walked swiftly to the corner and peered down Hartford. Kelly was half a block away, climbing some steps with a black curlicued wrought-iron railing. He took the steps two at a time, effortlessly.

Nudger waited a few minutes, then approached the spot where Kelly had gone up the steps.

The steps led to a small brick house with green metal awnings, almost exactly like the houses on either side. Without pausing, Nudger memorized the address as he walked past.

When he reached the corner and was out of sight of the house, he jogged back to his car. He was getting tired, getting old.

The Volkswagen was still miffed at him. Its engine had cooled, but the battery hadn't built up enough of a charge to turn it over. Nudger talked two summer-school students from the high school across the street into pushing the car down Kingshighway. They thought it was great fun, as they held their half-eaten hamburgers from the diner in their mouths like dogs with bones, and leaned into the task with strong backs and young legs. At fifteen miles per hour, Nudger popped the clutch and the engine thunked and clattered to life.

With a grateful beep of the horn to the two scholarly stalwarts, he drove for his office. In the rearview mirror a hamburger hit the pavement.

The three-year-old reverse directory Nudger kept in his filing cabinet listed the occupant of the Hartford address as Luther Kell. He looked up "Kell" in the phone directory, ran his finger down the page, and found a Luther Kell at the same address. So far so good. Unless Luther Kell had moved recently and the blond man was someone else.

There was an easy way to confirm his identity. Maybe. Nudger dragged the phone over to himself and punched out Kell's listed number.

"Hello," said a monotonous deep male voice.

"Mr. Luther Kell?" Nudger asked, trying to sound like Monty Hall.

"Yeah."

"This is Mike at J, T, and L Insulation and Remodeling. We understand you own your home on Hartford. We're running our summer special on insulation-"

"The house is warm enough," Kell said. "It don't need any more insulation." A slight drawl now, distorted by the phone.

"What about siding? We're having a sale on our never- paint white vinyl siding."

"It's a brick house. It don't need any siding. Anyway, I rent."

"If you could give me the name of the house's owner…"

"Hey, get screwed, Mike! You friggin' pest!"

"You'll like our summer rebate offer."

But Kell had hung up. No tolerance.

Nudger sat back in his swivel chair, satisfied. He'd found Kell and knew where he lived. Damned if he couldn't do some mighty smooth sleuthing on occasion. The squeal of the chair's unoiled mechanism was like a trill of congratulation.

He reached again for the phone, to call Jeanette Boying- ton.

She didn't answer. It wasn't yet five o'clock. She was probably working somewhere on one of her Personnel Pool journeywoman secretarial jobs. He replaced the receiver and leaned back once more in his chair. Greeeat! it shrilly proclaimed again. It was a fan, all right.

But Nudger's mood was more somber. There was danger here in getting carried away, "full of himself," as his old grandmother used to say. It was just as well that he hadn't contacted Jeanette. Sure, he'd found out where Kell lived, but where did that leave him? Kell had used the nightlines to make a date with Jeanette, and he fit the very general physical description of the killer, including the oversized hands, but it was a long leap in logic to assume his guilt on that evidence.

It was a leap the vengeful Jeanette might make with room to spare.

Nudger decided that it might be better if Jeanette didn't know Kell's address immediately. That way Nudger could observe the man for a while without having to worry about Jeanette ringing the doorbell on Hartford on a mission of sisterly revenge, and confronting and possibly harming or killing an unsuspecting man whose compulsions were only the usual and understandable urges of the flesh. After all, sex and food were the only things Nudger had seen Kell pursue. Who could cast stones at anyone for that?

Nudger picked up the phone again, but instead of calling Jeanette he called Hammersmith at the Third District.

Hammersmith wasn't on duty yet. Nudger punched out another number and reached the lieutenant at his home in Webster Groves.

"I need another rundown from Records," Nudger said. "On a Luther Kell. Spelled like 'bell' but with a K as in 'kite.' " He gave Hammersmith the Hartford address.

"This Kell another crooked lawyer?" Hammersmith asked.

"No, it has to do with the Jenine Boyington case." Nudger explained why he wanted the information on Kell. He could have predicted Hammersmith's reaction.

"Something might be there, Nudge, but it's vague. I'd never get Massey to act on it."

"I'm not asking you to," Nudger said. "But the ground rules are different for me. It's a hunch I have to follow up on for my client."

"Jeanette Boyington? Professional surviving twin?"

"The same."

"No need to caution you to tippy-toe."

"No need."

"Seen anything more of the mother shark?"

"Agnes? She phoned and wanted to up the ante," Nudger said, "or at least define the terms."

"Which are?"

"Five thousand dollars. For not working. I declined."

Hammersmith didn't ask Nudger why. Nudger appreciated that.

"Which means," Nudger said, "I'll probably be saying hello again to Hugo Rumbo."

"You want protection, Nudge?"

"Tough guy like me? Naw, I can handle cheap gunsels."

"Good. I don't have anyone we can spare to assign to you anyway. You'll just have to rely on your gut. Where can I reach you with the information on Kell?"

"At my office," Nudger said. "Or at this number." He gave Hammersmith the phone number of Claudia's apartment.

"Sometime this evening okay?" Hammersmith asked.

"Fine. Thanks, Jack."

"Forget it," Hammersmith said. "Everybody in Records thinks you're on the payroll." He hung up to phone Records, then return to whatever he'd been doing at home. Probably sorting through the collection of old baseball cards that Nudger knew he kept. Hammersmith figured a 1954 Stan Musial was better than a triple-A bond.

Nudger looked outside and saw that a wind was swirling and light rain was falling at crazy angles, whipping across the face of the building on the other side of the street in graceful, breeze-flung patterns. St. Louis, making good on its reputation for unpredictable, instantly changeable weather. This staid and schizophrenic city was a meteorologist's nightmare and a sociologist's sweet dream. So wave- less and conservative. So fractioned and fermented. So few meaningful changes on the surface; so many changes below that seldom reached the surface, or reached it distorted years later. People in this city could kid themselves, sometimes, about which century they were in. Nudger and the city were not unlike each other. They were usually short of funds. They had problems. Somehow they lurched ahead, maybe toward better times.

Nudger had a key to Claudia's apartment. He decided to go there and wait for her, put his feet up on the coffee table, drink a few cold Budweisers, and listen to FM music on the radio. When Claudia arrived, he might brag a bit.