The right to sing the blues

XIX

Nudger was standing patiently outside the club, in the red glare of the neon Fat Jack above the sidewalk, when Judy Villanova pushed through the door on her way home from work. It was nine forty-five; she had taken time to change out of her waitress uniform. She was wearing Levi's and a plain white blouse. Despite the red glare, she appeared pale, and even younger than she had inside the club.

Nudger stepped away from the building and moved in front of her, putting on the old sweet smile. "Judy," he said, as if they were longtime friends.

She was on to that approach. As soon as she realized she didn't know Nudger, she stepped nimbly around him and walked fast toward the corner.

Nudger skipped a few steps, then kept pace next to her. "My name is Nudger, Mrs. Villanova. We need to talk. I'm not trying to pick you up; this is business."

She didn't slow down. Didn't so much as glance in his direction. She was a speedy walker for such a small woman; Nudger knew he'd soon be short of breath.

"Please," he said.

The magic word. She dropped back to a pace he could keep up with, looked over at Nudger, studying him, then stopped and stood still near the corner.

"What is it we need to talk about?" she asked.

"Max Reckoner."

She began walking again, but slowly, strolling through the thick, warm evening. Night moths circling the streetlight above cast dappled, flitting shadows over her. Nudger fell into step beside her. She gave him a slow sideways glance. "Why ask me about Max?"

"I was told that you know him."

"I did. I don't anymore."

She began to step down off the curb to cross the street. Nudger stopped her, gripping her gently by the elbow. She was so daintily boned, so breakable. "Look, Judy, I don't want to pry into your private life."

"Then why do it?'

"It's part of my job, but only as far as Max Reckoner is concerned. I'm interested in him, not in you. I'm not even interested in your past relationship with him."

"Just what is your job, Mr. Nudger?"

"You might call me a journalist."

"I might, but I won't. You've been sniffing around Ineida Mann, asking the kind of questions a journalist wouldn't ask."

"Sniffing around?" Nudger said. He didn't like it expressed quite that way; it made him sound like some sort of sex-starved carnivore.

She smiled angelically at him and removed his hand from her elbow. Her pale, slender fingers were surprisingly strong. Possibly she was surprisingly strong in a lot of ways. And wiser than her youthful appearance suggested. "Level with me, Mr. Nudger," she said.

He walked beside her across Bourbon Street, then west on Royal. "Why don't we go in somewhere, have a cup of coffee, where we can talk without getting winded?"

"I don't want to miss the streetcar and have to stand and wait for another one."

"I'm working for Fat Jack," Nudger said. "If I ask him, he'll instruct you to cooperate with me. But he doesn't know about this conversation and he doesn't have to." Her pace became more deliberate and she glared at him. Oh, he was a bad one, the glare said. He shrugged. "You did say you wanted me to level with you."

She gave him something of a sneer and kept on walking. They were passing some nightspots now, jazz clubs. Music drifted out to them, mingling into a kind of discordant medley that was oddly pleasing to the ear. Nudger thought he picked up a few bars of "Satin Doll." He stayed silent and let Judy Villanova mull things over.

"You don't want to know about me and Max?" she said.

"No."

"Then what do you want to know?"

"About Max and Ineida Mann."

"Know about them how?"

"Man-and-woman stuff. Hanky-panky. Love in the afternoon, or at any hour."

"I don't know for sure, but I don't think there's anything between them. Not that Max wouldn't want there to be."

"How does Ineida feel about Max?"

"She likes him as a friend, but that's all. She's told him that. At first Max thought she was coming on to him, putting on a dumb act and not discouraging him. Then he realized she really is a little slow on the uptake when it comes to the kind of practiced moves he has."

"What was Max's reaction when she told him she wasn't interested in him?"

"A smile and a shrug and a let's-be-friends, and a waiting attitude. It really was nothing to Max. Ineida is just one of many pretty baubles out there for the taking. Like exotic tropical fish in a private lake. He casts his line; if they take the bait, fine. If they don't, that's okay, too. There's always tomorrow."

"You paint him as a shallow, easy-going kind of lothario."

"He is. I know; I'm one of many authorities on Max Reckoner."

"You don't seem the type to get involved with someone like that, Judy."

"Listen, Nudger, Max is a charmer, an expert at exploiting weakness, and I was having trouble with my husband. I was vulnerable; most women are vulnerable at one time or another in their marriage."

"I've heard that theory."

"I'll just bet you have. You married?"

"Divorced."

"Uh-huh."

What did she mean by that? Nudger wondered. None of his business, he decided. Not much about Judy Villanova was any of his business. He said, "Sorry, I promised not to pry into your personal life."

"Gerald-that's my husband-never found out about me and Max. Not many people know about what happened between us. How did you find out?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"I promised someone I wouldn't."

"Maybe you could break that promise."

"No. I'd sooner break the law."

"Old-fashioned man of your word, huh?"

"That's not the kind of thing that's affected by time or fashion."

"No, I guess it isn't." She smiled up at him like the ethereal child she would be until she hit senility. The music trailing them, a sultry jazz number, didn't fit her image.

"What about Sandra Reckoner?" Nudger asked. "What's her attitude toward Ineida?"

"She knows her husband is hot to get into Ineida's unsoiled panties, but that doesn't put Ineida into any special category. My impression is that Sandra puts up with Max's swordsmanship because she has no choice. And she's smart enough not to blame the women Max gets involved with; she knows if it weren't his present lover, it would be another."

"Who's he involved with now?"

"I have no idea." She laughed. "Maybe he's resting; he must sometime."

"Have you heard anything about Sandra Reckoner taking her own lovers while Max is busy?"

Judy lifted her narrow shoulders in an elegant shrug. "I've heard stories about her. So what? If the stories are true, I don't blame her."

"Ever hear of her being involved in kinky sex?" Nudger asked.

"Why, Mr. Nudger, you're beginning to sound like a dirty old man."

Old? Nudger winced. But he knew that to Judy, he was old. So much depended on perspective. It was what made his job difficult.

"But no," Judy said, "I never heard anything like that about her. But then, maybe it's true and I just haven't heard about it."

She turned her head suddenly. They had reached the streetcar stop on St. Charles just in time. With a loud clinking and metallic squeaking of springs, a top-heavy, large box with square windows was swaying around the corner two blocks down.

"I would like for my husband not to know about this conversation, Mr. Nudger. I don't want old coals raked over."

"Gerald won't know. Fat Jack won't know."

"I hope your word really is good in all seasons."

"Oh, it is." The streetcar had stopped for passengers down the block and now was gliding toward them, moving smoothly for such an awkward object. "Is there really one?" Nudger asked.

"One what?"

"A streetcar named Desire."

"There was when Tennessee Williams made it famous. It's a bus route now, Mr. Nudger. Desire is a street." She dug into her white straw purse for change.

"Some street," Nudger said.

"Some street," she agreed.

"I'd appreciate your word that you won't tell Ineida or Willy Hollister about this conversation," Nudger said.

She smiled. "You have it. I won't tell Sandra Reckoner, either."

"Sandra Reckoner?"

"She's the one you really wanted to learn about, not Ineida."

The streetcar swayed to a stop in front of her. It was dirty dark green trimmed in red. The folding front door hissed open.

"Are you a student of psychology at Loyola," Nudger asked, "or do you teach it?"

She nodded good-night to him as she climbed up into the streetcar. He watched through the lighted windows as she paid her fare and found a seat. She didn't look out at him as the streetcar pulled smoothly away and with a faint whine of metal on strained metal continued down St. Charles.

Nudger watched it until it disappeared around a curve, orange sparks flaring from the overhead wire that gave it life.

Desire is a street, all right, he thought.