The right to sing the blues

XI

When Nudger got back to his hotel, he was surprised to open the door to his room and see a man sitting in a chair by the window. It was the big blue armchair that belonged near the door. The man had dragged it over to where he could sit comfortably and have a view.

As Nudger entered, the man turned as if resenting the interruption, as if it were his room and Nudger the interloper. He stood up and smoothed his light-tan suit coat. He was a smallish man with a triangular face and very bushy red hair that grew in a sharp widow's peak. His eyes were dark and intense. He resembled a fox more than anyone Nudger had ever seen. With a quick and graceful motion he reached a paw into a pocket for a wallet-size leather folder. He flipped the folder open to reveal a badge. Not an ordinary patrolman's badge, but an officer's fancy three-color one.

"Captain Livingston, I presume," Nudger said. He shut the door and came the rest of the way into the room.

The redheaded man nodded and replaced the badge in his pocket. "I'm Raoul Livingston," he confirmed. "I think we should talk, Nudger." He shoved the armchair around to face the room instead of the window and sat back down comfortably, as familiar as old shoes.

Nudger pulled out the small wooden desk chair and also sat, facing Livingston. "Are you here on official business, Captain Livingston?"

Livingston smiled. He had tiny sharp teeth behind thin lips that folded back peculiarly when he grinned. "You know how it is, Nudger, a cop is always a cop."

"Sure. And that's the way it is when we go private. A confidential investigator is always that, no matter where he is or who he's talking to."

"Which is kinda why I'm here," Livingston said, tapping a light tattoo on the chair arm with his forefinger. "It might be better if you were someplace else, someplace other than New Orleans."

Nudger was incredulous. His nervous stomach believed what he'd just heard, but his brain didn't. "You're actually telling me to get out of town?"

Livingston gave a snippy kind of laugh, but there was no glint of amusement in his sharp eyes. "I'm not authorized to tell anyone to get out of town, Nudger. I'm not the sheriff and this isn't Dodge City."

"I'm glad you realize that," Nudger told him, "because I can't leave yet. I've got business here."

"I know about your business."

"Did David Collins send you?"

Livingston had a good face for police work; there was only the slightest change of expression in his eyes while his features remained set. "We can let that question go by," he said, "and I'll take my turn. Why did Fat Jack McGee hire you?"

"Have you asked him?"

"No."

"He'd rather I kept his reasons confidential," Nudger said. "I'm required to honor the wishes of my client. It's a professional obligation."

"You don't have a Louisiana PI license," Livingston pointed out.

Nudger smiled. "I know. Nothing to be revoked."

Livingston gave him a nasty little smirk, a man faintly annoyed but a long way from losing his temper. "There are consequences a lot more serious than having your investigator's license pulled, Nudger. Mr. Collins would prefer that you stay away from Ineida Mann."

"You mean Ineida Collins."

"I mean what I say."

"David Collins already had someone deliver that brief but succinct message to me."

"It's not a message from anyone but me this time," Livingston said. "I'm telling you this because I'm concerned about your safety while you're within my jurisdiction. It's part of my job."

Nudger kept a straight face, stood up, and walked to the door and opened it. He said, "I appreciate your concern, Captain. Right now, I've got things to do."

Livingston smiled with his mean little mouth. He didn't seem rattled by Nudger's impolite invitation to leave; he'd said what needed saying. He got up out of the armchair and adjusted his suit, smoothing the wrinkles from his pants and pulling the jacket straight with little jerks of the lapels. Nudger noticed that the suit hung on him just so and had to be tailored and expensive. No cop's salary wardrobe for Livingston.

As he walked past Nudger, Livingston paused and said, "It'd behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger."

"You don't often hear the word 'behoove' anymore," Nudger told him.

" 'Discern,' either," Livingston said. He went out and trod lightly down the hall toward the elevators, not looking back.

Nudger shut and locked the door. Then he went over to the bed, removed his shoes, and stretched out on his back on the mattress. He lay with his right hand behind his head, his left resting lightly on his stomach, which was not too steady. He sucked on an antacid tablet and studied the faint water stains on the ceiling in the corner directly above him. They were old but still damp, covered with a thin green film of mold. Looking at them reminded Nudger of the bayou.

It'd behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger.

He had to admit that Livingston had left him with solid parting advice.

And an added measure of worry.