Their knocking had awakened Nudger. He'd made it out of bed, then slipped into his pants but not his shirt. He was bare-chested, bare-footed, digging his toes nervously into the rough carpet. He felt vulnerable, standing there without his shoes and socks on. His stomach, which a moment ago had yearned for breakfast, wasn't so sure about food now.
"Mr. Collins is of the opinion you saved his daughter's life," Frick said. "This came out very well for you, my friend."
"And for Ineida, considering."
"But Mr. Collins still isn't exactly fond of you," Frack said. "He don't like you personally, I guess."
Nudger ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth; he'd slept too long and his teeth felt fuzzy. He didn't like not being liked by David Collins. He wanted coffee. He wanted to brush his teeth.
"Mr. Collins thinks you're a guy who's habitually putting your nose where it doesn't belong," Frick said. "He's right, eh?"
"I don't put my nose anywhere," Nudger said. "I only follow it. He's afraid of where it might lead me."
Frick slowly shook his head. "Not afraid, my friend. Cautious." His eerie little smile took form as he said, "We brought you something from Mr. Collins." He reached into an inside pocket of his pale green sport jacket. At the moment, the coat just about matched Nudger's complexion.
All Frick brought out of the pocket, though, was an envelope. He held it out for Nudger, who accepted it and was surprised to see that his hands were steady as he opened it.
The envelope contained a single ticket for a coach seat on the 4:45 Amtrak City of New Orleans to St. Louis.
Frick said, "Mr. Collins wants you to take a train instead of a plane so you get the feeling of distance."
"I'll like that feeling," Nudger said.
Frick's smile broadened, lost its faraway, unsettling quality, and became genuinely friendly, even admiring. "You did okay, my friend. You did what was right for Ineida. Mr. Collins appreciates that."
"What about Fat Jack?" Nudger asked.
Frick's warm smile changed subtly, went cold. It became the dreamy, unpleasant sort of smile Nudger had seen before.
"Where Fat Jack is now," Frack said, "most of his friends are alligators."
"After Fat Jack talked to you," said Frick, "he went to Mr. Collins. He couldn't make himself walk out on all that possible money; some guys just have to play all their cards. He told Mr. Collins that for a certain amount of cash he would reveal Ineida's whereabouts, but it all had to be done in a hurry."
Nudger felt a coolness move over him, swirl around his bare feet. Marty Sievers had been persuasive enough last night to convince Fat Jack to try what he, Sievers, had been planning. But Fat Jack wasn't Sievers. Nobody was, anymore.
"He revealed her whereabouts in a hurry, all right," Frick said, "but for free." Astoundingly, he gave a sudden, soft giggle. A woman's laugh. "That fat man talked and talked. Faster and faster. In fact, he kept talking till nobody was listening, till he couldn't talk anymore."
Nudger swallowed dryly. He forgot about breakfast. Fat Jack had been a bad businessman to the end, dealing in desperation instead of distance. Maybe he hadn't had enough of the blues during the past several years, and too much of the good life; maybe he couldn't picture going on without that life. That was no problem to him now.
"You better pack, my friend," Frick said, gently patting Nudger's shoulder. "Train north pulls out on time."
Both men turned and left the room.
Nudger closed the door behind them. He looked at his Amtrak ticket in its red-and-blue folder. He looked at his bare feet. He looked at his wristwatch. There was plenty of time to catch the train. In fact, he had much of the day to kill. But he didn't feel like killing it here, or anywhere else where anyone connected with Collins or Sievers or Fat Jack or murder might find him. He decided to check out of the hotel, put his suitcase in a locker at the train station, and find some quiet place to eat breakfast where no one would bother him. Then he would walk around New Orleans for a while, listen to a little jazz played by the street musicians in the French Quarter, and maybe have a late lunch at the station before boarding the train for St. Louis and home and Claudia.
He showered, dressed quickly, and began to pack. Two days after Nudger got home, he found a flat, padded package with a New Orleans postmark in his mail. He placed it on his desk and cautiously opened it.
The package contained two items: a check from David Collins made out to Nudger for more than twice the amount of Fat Jack's uncollectible fee; and an old blues record in its original wrapper, a fifties rendition of "You Got the Reach but Not the Grasp."
It featured Fat Jack McGee on clarinet.