The right to sing the blues

VI

You're no jazz-magazine writer," Willy Hollister said to Nudger, in a small back room of Fat Jack's club. It wasn't exactly a dressing room, though at times it served as such. It was a sort of all-purpose place where quick costume changes were made and breaks were taken between sets. The room's pale green paint was faded and peeling, and a steam pipe jutted from floor to ceiling against one wall. Halfway up the pipe was a large paint-caked valve handle that looked as if it hadn't been turned in decades. Yellowed show posters featuring jazz greats were taped here and there on the walls behind the odd assortment of worn furniture. Duke Ellington, Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong. The room was filled with the mingled scents of stale booze and tobacco smoke.

"But I am a jazz fan," Nudger said. "Enough of one to know how good you are, and that you play piano in a way that wasn't self-taught." He smiled. "I'll bet you can even read music."

"You have to read music," Hollister said haughtily, "to graduate from the Juilliard School of Music."

Impressive. Even Nudger knew that Juilliard graduates weren't slouches. You had to be able to whistle Beethoven's Fifth all the way through even to get into the place. "So you have a classical-music background," he said to Hollister.

Hollister shrugged. "That's nothing rare; lots of jazz musicians have classical-music roots. You oughta know that, jazz man that you claim to be."

Nudger studied Hollister as the pianist spoke. Offstage he appeared older. His blond hair was thinning on top and his features were losing their boyishness, becoming craggy. His complexion had an unhealthy nicotine-stain hue to it. Up close, there was a coarseness to Hollister that belied his elegant stage presence. He was a hunter, this boy was. Life's sad wisdom was in his eyes, resting on haunches and ready to spring.

The door opened and Marty Sievers poked his head in, glanced around as if looking for someone, then gave Nudger and Hollister a smile and a little half-salute and withdrew. Nudger wondered if Sievers had been listening outside and perhaps been forced by someone's presence to open the door and look in to avoid the appearance of eavesdropping.

"How well do you know Ineida Mann?" Nudger asked.

"Well enough to know you've been bothering her," Hollister replied, with the bored yet wary expression of an animal sunning itself on a rock. "We don't know what your angle is, but I suggest you stop pestering Ineida." He seemed almost lulled by his own smug confidence. "Don't bother trying to get any information out of me, either."

"No angle," Nudger said. "I'm interested in jazz."

"Among other things."

"Sure; like most people, I have more than one interest."

"Not like me, though," Hollister said. "My only interest is my music. You might call it my consuming passion."

"What about Miss Mann?"

"I told you that's none of your business. You don't listen worth a damn." Hollister stood up, neatly but ineffectively snubbed out the cigarette he'd been smoking, and seemed to relish leaving it to smolder to death slowly in the ashtray. "I've got a number coming up in a few minutes." He tucked in his Fat Jack's T-shirt and looked severe, squaring his shoulders. Obviously this was threat time. "I don't particularly want to see you anymore, Nudger. Whoever, whatever you are, it doesn't mean burned grits to me as long as you leave Ineida alone."

"You shouldn't joke about grits south of the Mason- Dixon line."

"You're the only one taking it as a joke," Hollister said, moving toward the door.

"Before you leave," Nudger said, "can I have your autograph?"

Incredibly, far from being insulted by this sarcasm, Hol- lister scrawled his signature on a nearby folded newspaper and tossed it to Nudger, as if it were of great value and might serve as a bribe to keep Nudger away from Ineida. Nudger took that as a measure of the man's artistic ego, and despite himself he was impressed. All the ingredients of greatness resided in Willy Hollister, along with something else.

Nudger stuck the folded newspaper in his sportcoat pocket and walked back out into the club. He peered through the throng of jazz lovers and saw Fat Jack at the bar. The crowd was lively tonight, lots of talk and laughter, and there seemed to be a larger than usual percentage of females. Maybe it was ladies' night.

Marty Sievers was leaning with his back against a wall near the stage, his gaze sliding back and forth over the crowd.

Sidling around a knot of revelers, Nudger made his way across the dim room toward the leviathan form of Fat Jack, so they could talk before Hollister's next set. Just then he spotted Ineida across the room. She was wearing a sequined green blouse that set off her dark hair and eyes and gave her a faintly Gypsy air. Nudger regretted that she couldn't sing as good as she looked. She glanced at him sloe-eyed, recognized him, and quickly turned away to listen to a graying, bearded man who was one of the party at her table. He seemed pleased and surprised by her sudden interest; he removed a curve-stemmed pipe from his mouth, and began to gesture knowingly with it as pipe smokers habitually do. Nudger wondered if his own IQ would rise if he took up smoking a pipe.

"Hey, Nudger," Fat Jack said, when Nudger had reached the bar, "you sure you know what you're doing, old sleuth? You ain't exactly pussyfooting. Ineida asked me about you, said you'd bothered her at home. Hollister asked me who you were. The precinct captain asked me the same question. I feel like I'm on 'The Joker's Wild' and you're my category."

Nudger's stomach tightened. "A New Orleans police captain?"

Fat Jack nodded. "You betcha. Captain Raoul Livingston." He smiled broad and bold and took a sip of absinthe. "You make ripples big enough to swamp boats."

"Do you know anything about this Livingston?"

"Sure," Fat Jack said. "In my business, I'd better know about him. He acts like he's the one that wrote the law and can damn well change it if he wants to as he goes along."

"Tough cop?"

"They say so."

"Who're 'they'?"

"The ones that've had dealings with Livingston. I guess you'll be one of them as soon as he catches up with you."

Nudger thought it was time to change the direction of the conversation. He motioned with his head. "Who's the gray-haired guy with Ineida? The one with the pipe."

"That's Max Reckoner." Fat Jack absently swirled his absinthe around in his glass. "He's a big jazz buff and antique dealer; got himself a string of shops that sell the real stuff as well as reproductions. You might say he's interested in Ineida, and not in a fatherly fashion."

"What does she think of him?" Nudger asked.

"She tolerates him while fending him off nicely without hurting his feelings."

"Does he know who she really is?"

"If he does, he's not saying. He wouldn't. Max is a good enough guy; he's just got glands younger than he is and a wife that understands him too well. That's her near the end of the table, the tall brunette."

"How about Marty Sievers? Does he know Ineida's true identity?"

"Marty? Naw, he's got no idea. Hey, you want a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Sandwich or something from the kitchen?"

"Nope."

"What then, old sleuth?"

"What I'd like to do now," Nudger said, "is take a short trip."

"Lots of folks would like for you to do that."

"I need to go to Cleveland, Kansas City, St. Louis, and Chicago," Nudger said, sounding like a public-address announcer at a train station. "I'll spend maybe a few hours, maybe a couple of days at the most in each city. I've got to find out some background on Willy Hollister if I'm going to help you. Are you willing to pick up the tab?"

"I don't suppose you could get this information with long-distance phone calls?"

"Not and get it right."

"When do you plan on leaving?"

"Tonight, as soon as I can."

Fat Jack nodded. He produced a checkbook with an alligator cover, scribbled deftly in it, and tore out a check and handed it to Nudger. Nudger squinted at it but couldn't make out the amount in the faint light.

"Hey, if you need more, let me know," Fat Jack said. His smile was luminous in the dimness. "Make it a fast trip, Nudger. I'd like to wind this thing up as soon as possible."

"Speaking of winding up," Nudger said, "do you know anything about a couple of muscular robots? One has a scar across his right eyebrow and a face like an ex-pug's. His partner has a dark mustache, sniper's eyes, and is named Frick. Possibly the other is Frack. They both talk with thick Cajun accents."

Fat Jack raised his eyebrows. Fear caused him to reel out a flag-sized white handkerchief and wipe his forehead. "That'd be Rocko Boudreau and Dwayne Frick," he said, with soft, terror-inspired awe. "They work for David Collins."

"I figured they might. They warned me to stay away from Ineida." Nudger felt his intestines twist into Boy Scout advanced knots. He got out his antacid tablets and placed two on his tongue. "They suggested that if I didn't take their advice, I might take up postmortem residence in the swamp." As he recalled his conversation with Frick and Frack, Nudger again felt a dark near-panic well up in him. Maybe it was because he was pressed in at the bar with the huge and terrified Fat Jack McGee; maybe fear actually was contagious. He offered Fat Jack an antacid tablet. The big man accepted, chewed the tablet furiously, and washed it down with absinthe. Nudger didn't think it would do him much good.

"I'm sure their job is to look after Ineida without her knowing it," Nudger said. "Incidentally, they seem to approve of her seeing Willy Hollister."

"That won't help me for diddly shit if anything happens to Ineida that's in any way connected to the club," Fat Jack said. "It'll be Swamp City for the friendly fat man."

From what he'd heard about David Collins, Nudger thought Fat Jack might not be exaggerating. Frick and Frack were in Collins' employ for more than just keeping things dusted and running out for canapes.

Nudger pushed away from the bar. He was tired and uncomfortable. His stomach was trying to digest itself. "I'd better make airline reservations and pack," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Fat Jack mumbled something unintelligible and nodded, lost in his own dark apprehensions, a ponderous man grappling with ponderous problems. One of his inflated hands floated up in the dimness in a pale parting gesture.

As Nudger was about to walk away, Willy Hollister launched into his first number.

Nudger hung around and listened. Fat Jack understood.