The right to sing the blues

XIV

Though plenty of interested parties had warned Nudger to stay away from Ineida Collins, everyone had neglected to tell him to give wide berth to Willy Hollister. After Nudger left his unsettling verbal joust with Sandra Reckoner, it was Hollister who claimed his interest.

Hollister lived on Rue St. Francois, within a few blocks of Ineida. Their apartments were similar. Hollister's was the end unit of a low, tan brick-and-stucco building that sat almost flush with the sidewalk. What yard there was had to be in the rear. Through the glossy-green low branches of a huge magnolia tree, Nudger saw some of the raw cedar fencing, weathered almost black, that sectioned off the back premises into private courtyards.

Hollister might be home, sleeping after his late-night gig at Fat Jack's. Nudger rapped on the wooden door three times, then casually leaned toward it and listened, trying to blank out the street sounds from his mind.

He heard no sound from inside. He straightened and turned his head slightly, looking around; no one on the street seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him. After a few seconds' wait, he idly gave the doorknob a twist.

It rotated all the way, giving a sharp click. The door opened about six inches on its own, because of weight and balance. Sort of an invitation. Nudger pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped quietly inside.

The apartment no doubt came furnished; it had that hodgepodge, multi-user look about it. The furniture was old but not too worn; some of it probably had antique value. Nudger thought the building's owner and Max Reckoner ought to get together and strike a deal. There was a milky- white vase on a shelf, not so unlike the vase Nudger had admired in Reckoner's office.

The floor in Hollister's apartment was dull hardwood where it showed around the borders of a faded blue carpet. Muted sunlight caught the faint fuzziness of dust on the wood surface and on the fancy corner molding; Hollister wasn't the best of housekeepers. From where Nudger stood he could see into the bedroom. The bed was unmade but empty.

The living room was dim. The wooden shutters on its windows were closed, allowing slanted light to filter in through narrow slits. Most of the illumination in the room came from the bedroom and a short hall that led to a bathroom, then to a small kitchen and sliding glass doors that opened to the courtyard.

Wondering if he was actually alone, Nudger glanced around nervously, called, "Mr. Hollister? Gallup Poll!"

No answer. Only buzzing silence. Fine.

Nudger walked around the living room for a few minutes, examining the contents of drawers, picking up some sealed mail that turned out to be an insurance pitch and a utility bill. He was still haunted by the worrisome knowledge that Hollister wasn't the type to go away and leave his apartment unlocked. Especially not after his run-in with Sam Judman.

As he entered the bedroom, he heard a noise from outside the curtained window, which was open about four inches for ventilation. It was a dull thunking sound he thought he recognized. He went to the window, parted the breeze-swayed gauzy white curtains, and bent low to peer outside.

The window looked out on the courtyard. What Nudger saw confirmed his guess about the sound. It was made by a shovel knifing into soft earth. Willy Hollister was in the garden, digging. Nudger crouched low so he could see better, brushing a gossamer, caressing curtain away like a web from his face.

Hollister was planting rosebushes. They were young plants, but they already had red and white buds on them. Hollister had started on the left with the red roses and was alternating colors. He was planting half a dozen bushes and was working on the fifth plant, which lay with its roots wrapped in burlap beside the waiting, freshly dug hole.

Hollister was on both knees on the ground, using his hands to scoop some dirt back into the hole. He was carefully shaping a small dome over which to spread the soon- to-be-exposed roots before adding more loose earth. He knew how to plant rosebushes, all right, and he was doing his best to ensure that these would live.

Nudger's stomach went into a series of spasms as Hollis- ter stood up and glanced at the apartment as if he'd sensed someone's presence. The musician wiped one of the rolled- up sleeves of his tan shirt across his perspiring forehead. He must have been working hard for quite a while; he stood angled forward at the waist, like a man whose back ached. For a few seconds he seemed to debate about whether to return to the apartment. Then he absently massaged one of his corded forearms, picked up the long-handled shovel, and began digging the sixth and final hole.

Letting out a long, hissing breath, Nudger drew back from the open window and stood up straight. He'd go out by the front door now, then walk around to the courtyard and call Hollister's name, as if he'd just arrived and gotten no answer at the front door and decided to check the courtyard. He wanted to talk to Hollister, to probe for the man's own version of his past.

As Nudger was leaving the bedroom, he noticed a stack of pale blue envelopes on the dresser, beside a comb-and- brush set monogrammed with Hollister's initials. The envelopes were held together by a fat rubber band. Nudger saw the Beulah Street address penned neatly in black ink in a corner of the top envelope.

Here was one of the nasty aspects of his work; ends justifying means, gain outweighing scruples. How much of himself did he lose each time he did something like this?

But he paused for only a few seconds before he picked up the envelopes and slipped them into his pocket. Then he left Hollister's apartment the same way he'd entered.

There was no point in talking to Hollister now. It would be foolish to place himself in the apartment at the approximate time of the disappearance of the stack of letters written by Ineida Collins.

He walked up Rue St. Francois for several blocks, then took a cab to his hotel. Though the morning was still more muggy than hot, the cab's air conditioner was on high and the interior was near freezing. The letters seemed to grow heavier in Nudger's pocket, and to glow with a kind of warmth that gave no comfort.