"I'm told that you and Willy Hollister, the piano player, are pretty good friends," he said, in the converging quiet.
Ineida's mood changed abruptly. Suspicion crept into her dark eyes. The youthful, smiling mouth became taut and suddenly ten years older. It was a preview of what she would be after life had fallen on her.
"You're not a magazine writer," she said in a betrayed voice.
Nudger felt guilty about deceiving her, as if he'd tried to lure her into a car with candy. "No, I'm not," he admitted. His stomach gave a mulelike kick. What a profession he'd stumbled into!
"Then who are you?"
"Someone concerned about your well-being."
She narrowed her eyes at him. Her smooth chin jutted forward in a way that suggested more than a mere streak of obstinacy. Nudger caught a glimpse of why Fat Jack saw her as trouble.
Antacid time. He popped one of the chalky white disks into his mouth and chewed. The sound of it breaking up was surprisingly loud.
"Father sent you," she said.
"No," Nudger said. Chomp, chomp.
"Liar!" She stood up and flounced to the door. She did a terrific flounce. "Get out," she said.
"I'd like to talk with you about Willy Hollister," Nudger persisted. He knew that in his business persistence paid one way or the other. He could only hope that this time it wouldn't be the other.
"Get out," Ineida repeated. "Or I'll call the police. Better yet, I'll scream for them. Right here with the door open."
Scream? Police?
Within ten seconds Nudger was outside again on Beulah Street, staring at the uncompromising barrier of Ineida's closed door. Apparently she was touchy on the subject of Willy Hollister. Nudger slipped another antacid tablet between his lips. He turned his back to the warming sun and began walking, keeping to the dry half of the sidewalk, away from the curb.
He'd gone half a block when he realized that he was casting three shadows. He stopped. The middle shadow stopped also, but the larger ones on either side kept advancing. The large bodies that cast those shadows were suddenly standing in front of Nudger. Two very big men were staring down at him-one was smiling, one not. Considering the kind of smile it was, that didn't make much difference.
"We noticed you talking to Miss Mann," the one on the left said. He had a black mustache, wide cheekbones, dark, pockmarked skin, and gray eyes that gave no quarter. "Whatever you said to her seemed to upset her." His accent was a cross between a Southern drawl and clipped French. Nudger recognized it as Cajun. The Cajuns were a tough, predominantly French people who had settled southern Louisiana but never themselves.
Nudger allowed himself to hope the large men's interest in him was passing and started to walk on. The second man, who was shorter but had a massive neck and shoulders, glided on shuffling feet like a heavyweight boxer to block his way. Nudger swallowed his antacid tablet.
"You nervous, my friend?" the boxer asked in the same rich accent.
"Habitually," Nudger managed to answer in a choked voice.
Pockmarked said, "We have an interest in Miss Mann's welfare. What were you talking to her about?"
"The conversation was private." Nudger's stomach was on spin cycle. "Do you two fellows mind introducing yourselves?"
"We mind," the boxer said. He was smiling again. God, it was a nasty smile. Nudger noticed that the tip of the man's right eyebrow had turned dead white where it was crossed by a thin scar.
"Then I'm sorry, but we have nothing to talk about."
Pockmarked shook his head patiently in disagreement. "We have this to talk about, my friend. There are parts of this great state of Looziahna that are vast swampland. Not far from where we stand, the bayou is wild and the home of a surprising number of alligators. People go into the bayou, and some of them never come out. Who knows about them? After a while, who cares?" The cold gray eyes had diamond chips in them. "You understand my meaning?"
Nudger nodded. He understood. His stomach understood.
"I think we've made ourselves clear," Pockmarked said. "We aren't nice men, sir. It's our business not to be nice, and it's our pleasure. So a man like yourself, sir, a reasonable man in good health, should listen to us and stay away from Miss Mann."
"You mean Miss Collins."
"I mean Miss Ineida Mann." He said it with the straight face of a true professional.
"Why don't you tell Willy Hollister to stay away from her?" Nudger asked. Some of his fear had left him now, supplanted by a curiosity of the kind that killed the cat.
"Mr. Hollister is a nice young man of Miss Mann's own choosing," Pockmarked said with an odd courtliness. "You she obviously doesn't like. You upset her. That upsets us."
"And me and Frick don't like to be upset," the boxer said. He closed a powerful hand on the lapel of Nudger's sport jacket, not pushing or pulling in the slightest, merely squeezing the material. Nudger could feel the vibrant force of the man's strength, as if it were electric current. "Behave yourself," the boxer hissed through his fixed smile.
He abruptly released his grip, and both men turned and walked away.
Nudger looked down at his abused lapel. It was as crimped as if it had been set wrinkled in a vise for days. He wondered if the dry cleaners could do anything about it when they pressed the coat.
Then he realized he was shaking. He loathed danger and had no taste for violence. He needed another antacid tablet and then, even though it was early, a drink.
New Orleans promised to be an exciting city, but not in the way the travel agencies and Chamber of Commerce advertised.
V
Nudger considered phoning Sam Judman to make sure he was home before dropping by to see him. Then he decided against calling. It would be better to talk to Judman without giving the drummer time to prepare for the conversation. The element of surprise would increase the chances that Judman, possibly still angry from being beaten by Hollister, would say something accidentally that might provide some insight into what was causing Fat Jack to worry.
Judman lived in a crumbling brick building in the French Quarter, in a spacious old second-floor apartment that was lined with screened windows. He was a small, intense, dark- haired man, in his early forties, with a narrow, lined face and an underlying pallor that suggested ill health. He was unmarked; there was no longer any sign of the beating at Hol- lister's hands. When Nudger introduced himself and asked to talk about Hollister, Judman nodded and invited him inside.
The apartment was cool after the noontime heat. Four large ceiling fans rotated slowly in unison, and all of the windows were open. One of the fans was making a faint rhythmic ticking sound, a lazy summer sound. Bamboo blinds were lowered exactly halfway down all the way around the spacious single room, their horizontal precision making the place seem even larger than it was. There were a few pieces of modern but comfortable-looking furniture. Books, record albums, and tapes lined one wall. Framed and glassed photos of Judman posed with various show-business personalities were hung in the narrow space above the windows, picking up reflections. The room was very bright where it was bright, very dark where the sun failed to penetrate. A door led to what appeared to be a small space for a dropdown Murphy bed; through another door Nudger could see into a kitchen. In the far corner near that door was a multimillion-dollar stereo setup.
Judman offered to get Nudger something to drink. Nudger had already had his day's ration of liquor, and coffee would send his stomach into acidic revolt. He declined Judman's offer and the two men sat facing each other in low-slung, plushly padded matching chairs.
"You said you were a private detective, Mr. Nudger," Judman said. "May I ask the identity of your client?"