The right to sing the blues

XXXII

You turn back from our objective too easily," Sievers said to Fat Jack. "It's still obtainable." His tone was clipped, as if he were talking about a military operation.

Fat Jack wasn't swayed by Sievers' concise confidence. "Christ, Marty, this thing is blown. I mean, hey, let's face it and get out while we can. I mean-"

"Shut up," Sievers interrupted. "Stay shut up." Patton meets blues man, Nudger thought. New commander. Battlefield commission. "I was outside the door. I heard everything you and Nudger said. This operation isn't scratched; we simply have to tighten the time frame."

"Tighten what… how?" Fat Jack said, sounding vague and confused. Obviously not Green Beret material.

Sievers was looking directly at Fat Jack, but at an unnatural angle that kept Nudger fixed firmly in his peripheral vision. Nudger had never seen anyone do that before. It made the flesh on the back of his neck creep. "We get in touch with Collins as soon as possible," Sievers said. "We collect what money we can within the next hour, before Collins learns about Hollister's body being found and figures there's murder in the game and maybe his daughter's dead. He'll be more likely to balk at paying then and call in the law."

"Why is the money so important now?" Nudger asked. "Alive is better than rich, when you're staring at a homicide charge and the death penalty."

Sievers swiveled his head slightly to look at Nudger, keeping Fat Jack in sight to the side in that peculiar way of his. It was easier with Fat Jack because of his bulk, but the odd intensity stayed in Sievers' eyes. It was sheer concentration and calculation; his juices were flowing as they probably hadn't since Vietnam.

"The money's important because of who we owe it to," he said. "Fat Jack and I borrowed a lot of money to cover unwise investments made with the club's profits. We not only dipped into David Collins' till, we took out loans from people who administer their own death penalty to debtors who can't pay. And without that ransom money, Fat Jack and I can't pay."

"I ain't worried about that now!" Fat Jack said. "We can run from those guys easier than from the law. You get a murder rap on you, and kidnapping Collins' daughter to boot, and you got no place to hide, Marty. No place. Hey, don't you understand?"

"I understand that we're going to finish what we started," Sievers said. "We're ramrodding this through."

"Collins won't even know you're involved," Fat Jack said. "But what about me? He'll come straight for me. And we hang around here and get nailed by the law while we're trying to collect a ransom and everybody in Louisiana will want to witness our executions just for the entertainment value. You're underestimating Collins' influence."

"I don't care what happens to you," Sievers said flatly. "The operation is what's important."

"Certain soldiers are expendable," Nudger said. "Every good military man knows that. And this one's back in Vietnam; he'll take his objective even if it kills all his men."

"Some of us have the guts to do what needs doing," Sievers said, glancing over with contempt at Fat Jack. "This tub of shit was expendable from the beginning. I knew it would be that way; I know men. I had to do everything because he was too frightened. He was always making excuses, hiding behind his obesity. There's no sand in him, no will to do what's dangerous or unpleasant."

"Then you're the one who killed Hollister?"

Sievers grinned. "Sure. We led him to believe he was going to murder Ineida, then share the ransom money with us. He liked the idea of profiting two ways. Music and money. Not that he had a choice."

"Hollister's throat was crushed," Nudger said. "Like Billy Weep's in St. Louis. Did you use a karate chop on them?"

"Exactly." Sievers seemed pleased with Nudger's correct guess, as if he'd encountered an unexpectedly apt pupil. "I followed you to Weep's apartment and neutralized him after you left," he said. "We didn't want him to mention that Fat Jack was a close friend of Jacqui James. Fat Jack witnessed Hollister's murder of the James woman years ago in St. Louis; that's how we controlled Hollister, got him to agree to murder his next lover for money as well as art. Fat Jack could have fed him to the law anytime it suited."

Fat Jack's eyes were bulging; he was terrified. "You're saying too much, Marty!"

"It doesn't matter," Sievers snapped, and Fat Jack seemed to shrink into his bulk and was quiet.

"Why didn't you let Hollister kill Ineida?" Nudger asked.

"Oh, we intended to give her back to Daddy. It was the only way to keep Collins from spending the rest of his life using his resources to hunt us down and kill us."

"Then she really is still alive."

Sievers nodded.

"Where is she?"

"That hardly matters to you," Sievers said.

Nudger didn't like the way he said it. Sievers looked hard at Fat Jack, warning him, fixing him in position standing up behind his desk, the way an infielder glances at a runner on third base and freezes him there before throwing the ball to first for the sure out.

Nudger was the sure out.

His stomach jumped around in violent warning; fear ran like molten copper along the edges of his tongue and the back of his throat. Sievers, with a solemn, businesslike expression that was scarier than a scowl, was slowly advancing toward him. Time for some of that danger and unpleasantness. A good commander wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Or bloody. Best to neutralize the Nudger problem as quickly as possible, get it out of the way and carry on.

"Now, wait a minute," Nudger said. "Let's talk about this. Figure something out…"

"We don't have a minute," Sievers told him. "You saw to that. As it turns out, you committed a tactical error." He slid obliquely to his right, just enough to place himself between Nudger and the door.

Nudger considered yelling for help. But he could barely hear the music from the club downstairs. The office was almost soundproof. No one would hear him. No one would come if he called.

Sievers angled his body slightly sideways, suddenly was airborne and twirling, his right foot slashing out in what karate aficionados call a crescent kick. Nudger leaped backward and felt a brush of air as Sievers' tassled brown loafer arced past his face.

But the backward movement to avoid the kick left Nudger near a corner, with almost no room to maneuver. Sievers stepped closer again, setting himself for more explosive mayhem. He felt about killing with his hands-or feet- the way Hollister had felt about making music.

Nudger knew there was a single, low-percentage chance of staying alive. Not taking that chance would be reprehensible. Would be giving up. Forever.

He gulped down his terror and charged.

Sievers was caught off guard by this sudden attack from a supposedly subdued opponent. That was why he just grazed the side of Nudger's head as he danced nimbly from the path of the charge and chopped hard with the heel of his hand. Not a clean hit. But no problem for the old trooper. He actually laughed at this unexpected sport.

Nudger's right ear was numb and buzzing. His desperate surprise attack had gained him nothing. His back was literally against the wall now. In a very few seconds he would join Billy Weep.

Sievers was moving closer, crowding him, daring him to charge again, wanting him to charge, yearning to taste fully the violence he'd only sampled; his fighter's blood was up. The bland man's compact body was coiled inside his conservative brown suit, building energy to trade for Nudger's death. His eyes hardened; he cupped his hands in peculiar half-fists and crouched low to spring. He became very still. He was ready.

Nudger didn't hear the shot.

He doubted if Sievers heard it.

Presto, change-o! There was a round bluish hole just left of center on Sievers' forehead. It might have been a magician's illusion or the special-effects magic of movieland. Only it wasn't; it was real life. Real death. His body didn't move, but the energy seemed to flow out of it; the intensity drained from his eyes. He was his old bland self. Amiable average Marty. The guy you'd want your sister to bring home to dinner.

Nudger looked over to see Fat Jack still standing mountainous behind his desk. Almost lost in the big man's right hand was a tiny, small-caliber pistol that looked too toylike to cause real damage or have anything to do with the hole in Sievers' head.

Things weren't as they seemed; the gun had done its job. Something moved in the corner of Nudger's vision and there was a solid thump. Sievers' body dropping to the floor.

"He didn't leave me no choice," Fat Jack said in an oddly breathless voice. "He was gonna leave the friendly fat man for Collins. He went nuts. Shit, he might have even killed me after he was done with you."

Sievers wasn't quite dead. His body began to vibrate and flop around, his heels banging on the soft carpet with a speed and rhythm Sam Judman downstairs on the drums would have envied.

The sight horrified Fat Jack. He began to suck in air deeply, unable to stop staring at Sievers. "It was you or him," he said, still in his breathy voice. "I had to put my trust in one of you, old sleuth. You or him." He lowered the thousand-pound gun to his side; his arm hung straight, as if strained by the weight. "Hey, you're my only way out of this, Nudger."

Nudger wasn't sure about that, but he wasn't going to differ with Fat Jack. He looked down at Sievers. People shouldn't do this kind of thing to each other. It was all so damned unreal; hairless bipeds running around on a spinning globe of matter, whirling through an infinite universe, loving and hating and killing each other when they were all they had in the emptiness. What was going on here? Never had death by another's hand seemed so wrong to Nudger, even though his own life had been saved.

Sievers went into violent convulsions then, his arms flailing and his fingers trembling as if electrodes were attached to their tips. Nudger's stomach began to flop in time with the body on the floor.

"Hey, Jesus, make him stop, Nudger!"

"I can't," Nudger said simply, staring mesmerized with Fat Jack at Sievers and the small hole that didn't belong in his otherwise unmarred forehead.

"Ah, Nudger, you gotta make him quit shakin' like that!" Fat Jack's eyes were wide and he was pale and perspiring; the loose flesh draped over his collar jiggled with his effort to turn his head. But he couldn't look away. His bulk began to quiver almost like Sievers' convulsing near-corpse. He was weeping, sobbing in horror. Nudger felt the old pity for him. It wasn't surprising, since he shared Fat Jack's revulsion for what had been done here. Death was never an easy thing, but this was grotesque. The entire room seemed to vibrate with the force of Sievers' convulsions.

Fat Jack glided out from behind the desk, approached Sievers with his moist eyes clenched almost shut. With tremendous effort he raised his arm, pointed the gun, jerked the barrel back as he pulled the trigger.

The gun made very little noise; a flat, slapping sound.

Sievers was unaffected. Fat Jack had missed.

"Oh, Christ!" the fat man moaned. "Oh, Christ! Oh Christ!…"

He moved closer, fired again. Again. A small hole appeared near the base of Sievers' neck. He didn't bleed; there was no power left in him to pump blood. A little strawberry-colored froth built up in a corner of his mouth, like pink soap suds. Nudger's stomach lurched and he swallowed. This wasn't at all the way death by shooting appeared a million times a night on a million television screens; this death was soul-wrenching to watch.

Fat Jack was sitting on the floor now, his huge legs stuck straight out in front of him. His pants legs were twisted up on him; his ankles, clad in black nylon dress socks, were surprisingly thin. Great tears, as befitting such a huge man, were tracking down his face, dropping to spot his white shirtfront. He was clutching the gun tightly between his legs with both hands, as if he'd been kicked in the groin and it still hurt. He couldn't stop sobbing.

Sievers finally got finished dying and lay still.

Nudger continued to feel a subtle vibration. His heartbeat. He drew a deep breath and held it for a while, forcing himself to be calm. Then he took a step toward Fat Jack and looked down at him. "Get up."

Fat Jack couldn't make it by himself. Nudger had to grip one flabby, perspiration-slick wrist and heave backward as the big man floundered, almost fell, then struggled to his feet.

More composed now, Fat Jack wiped at his cheeks with his sausage-sized fingers. He dragged a forearm diagonally across his damp face. He didn't have to look at Sievers now; he couldn't look at him. He kept his gaze up, away from the floor. Nudger waited for the deep resilience to come into play.

After almost a minute had passed, Fat Jack straightened his mussed pants and shirt, ran his fingers through his thinning gingery hair, and looked at Nudger with the old light of pure reason back in his piggy little eyes.

"Same deal as before?" he asked.

Nudger didn't have any alternative. His primary consideration was getting Ineida back home alive and unharmed. Staying alive and unharmed himself. He nodded.

Fat Jack tossed the tiny spent revolver into a corner, moved to the desk, and began hurriedly stuffing his pockets with whatever he thought he might need and could carry. He knew the police were digging right now in Hollister's garden. Digging. Digging.

"I'm going to phone Collins' home in one hour," Nudger reminded him. "If Ineida's not there, my next call will be to the police."

"She'll be there. Hey, trust me. I trust you, Nudger."

"Neither of us has a choice," Nudger said.

"That's the way the world works, old sleuth. No choices. Not really. Not for anyone. Slide Marty's wallet out of his coat and hand it to me, will you?"

"No. You get it."

"I can't, Nudger. You know that. I gotta have some money! A man can't run far without the green stuff!"

"I told you before, I've got nothing to lend you."

Fat Jack tried again to look down at Sievers, but he couldn't make it. His head rotated slightly toward the body, but his eyes wouldn't follow; only the glistening whites were aimed at Sievers.

"All right, old sleuth," Fat Jack said resignedly. "I'm going on the cheap."

He tucked in his sweat-plastered shirt beneath his huge stomach, wrestled into his tent-sized suit coat, and without a backward glance at Nudger glided majestically from the room. Even the hell of what had happened here would soon be pushed to a far, dark corner of his mind; he'd have his old jaunty stride back in no time.

Nudger walked to the closed office door and locked it. Then he went to Fat Jack's desk and sat down. The soft sound of the blues filtering up from downstairs only made the office seem more quiet. He could barely see the toe of one of Sievers' kicked-off loafers lying next to a still, brown-stockinged foot. Death and silence had everything in common. Nudger would spend the next hour with these two, getting to know them better than he wanted.

He heard his rapid breathing gain a softer, steadier rhythm, and the pace of his heartbeat leveled off. The blues number he'd become involved in was played out now. Almost. Nudger settled back in Fat Jack's chair.

He sat with the man with the hole in his head and felt time crawl slowly over both of them.