John Lutz - The right to sing the blues

"Not exactly."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes." Nudger was getting tired of standing. He made his way painfully over to the blue armchair and eased back down into it. The old chair felt pretty good.

Ineida placed her fists on her hips and jutted out her smooth fighting chin. Nudger thought she might have a brighter future as an actress than as a singer. "If my father didn't hire you to spy on me, who did?"

"I'm not spying on you, Ineida. And you enter into my job only in a way that could prove beneficial to you."

"That's vague, Nudger. I didn't come here to listen to you be vague."

"Sorry. I feel vague this morning."

Standing in such a dramatic spread-legged fashion in those high heels must have gotten to her ankles. She stood up straighter and more naturally, her feet closer together so her weight bore down evenly and more comfortably on the thin spike heels.

"Why are you dressed that way?" Nudger asked.

"Dressed what way?"

"Like a dominatrix in a cheap whorehouse."

She blinked at him; she didn't know what he meant. Women who whipped masochistic men for pay were beyond her experience and imagination. Her ignorance was inexcusable, she figured, so without answering she reached into her purse and tossed a fat white envelope into Nudger's lap.

"What's this?" Nudger asked, leaving the envelope alone. But he knew what it was, just not how much.

She told him. "Twenty thousand dollars."

He was impressed, and not nearly so altruistic and unswerving. Then, when he saw Ineida smile at him, he picked up the envelope and tossed it back to her. To his surprise, she caught it left handed with the ease of a major league first baseman and stood holding it.

The smile stayed, a confident curve above the arrogant chin. "You don't believe me," she said. "Would you like to see the money? Count it?"

"No," he told her, "seeing all that money might break down my resolve. I'm not made of wood; mostly I'm papier- mache made from unpaid bills."

"Then accept this." She extended the envelope toward him but didn't toss it this time. "Go back to where you came from and forget this job. But first, tell me who hired you. And why."

"I can't do that, Ineida. Ethics." He thought about her love letters he'd stolen, now missing from his possession, and his stomach twitched.

She saw that he was serious, then stopped smiling and replaced the bulging envelope in her purse. Nudger watched its fat white form disappear; absently he wiped his hand across his mouth. "You really do have ethics," she said, almost in amazement.

"Sure. You find them in unexpected places," he told her, "like lost buttons." Probably she hadn't seen much in the way of ethics, being David Collins' daughter. "Have you talked to your father about this?"

"No. What good would it do? If he did hire you, or knew who did, he'd just lie to me about it. He considers me too young to know certain things, still a child."

"Where did you get the twenty thousand dollars?" Nudger asked.

"It's mine; I have money of my own." She gazed curiously at Nudger. "Are you working for my father and afraid to accept the money?"

"No."

"If that's the situation, twenty thousand dollars can take you a long way from New Orleans."

"Not that I'm working for him," Nudger said, "but if we got into a contest to see who could afford the most one-way tickets, he'd win."

She knew Old Dad well enough not to argue with Nudger on that point. "I don't like being watched over as if I'm a twelve-year-old," she said.

"Most people don't. Especially twelve-year-olds. Does Willy Hollister know you came here?"

The chin was out again. "Of course not! He doesn't know my family has money. No one in the jazz scene knows it, or knows my true identity."

"They won't learn who you are from me," Nudger told her.

"How did you find out who I am, if Daddy didn't tell you?"

"I learned from someone else. You're from New Orleans, Ineida; how long do you think you can sing in a club without someone recognizing you?"

"I've spent the last six years away from the city, and the kind of people in my old circles don't go to jazz clubs off Bourbon Street." She smiled again with that unassailable blind confidence. "And I don't look at all the way I used to, Nudger; I've grown up."

"In some very obvious ways," Nudger said, letting his gaze flick up and down her tightly clad body. She liked that, he could tell. Would she try to bribe him with something other than money?

"Now," she said, lowering her head and fixing him with an upcast, direct stare, still smiling.

"Now what?" Nudger asked, wondering if a lot of people had been wrong about Ineida.

But the thought of tit for tat, sex for that, hadn't entered her naive young mind. Or if it had; it had fled through the pure driven snow. "Now are you going to tell me who hired you if Daddy didn't?"

"Nope," Nudger said, wondering if he was disappointed.

There was a polite knock on the door. Ineida looked in that direction, then back at Nudger, and he nodded, motioning for her to answer the knock. "That would be Room Service."

Ineida went to the door, opened it, and stood back.

A scrawny young bellhop Nudger hadn't seen before pushed a cart with Nudger's breakfast on it into the room. When he saw Ineida in her Hustler magazine outfit, his Adam's apple jumped but his expression remained professionally bland. The cart's wheels squeaked as he ran it through a kind of loose figure eight.

"For him," Ineida said, pointing toward Nudger.

The kid gulped noisily and pushed the cart over to the blue chair. Nudger nodded thanks to him and tried to reach into his hip pocket for his wallet without standing up. He found that the pocket was empty, and he saw his wallet on the dresser where Sandra Reckoner had put it after it had fallen onto the floor while she was helping him to undress last night.

"Here," Ineida said, holding out a five-dollar bill for the scrawny kid. He accepted the money and grinned at her; he liked her, all right. Nudger wished he'd take her out for a PG movie and a hamburger and a Coke and make her forget all about Willy Hollister.

When the bellhop had gone, she turned again to Nudger, who was meticulously placing a napkin in his lap and lifting the silver cover off his plate. Eggs, toast, and coffee had never smelled so good.

"Your last chance," she said, tilting her halfopen purse so he could see a corner of the white envelope. With the sight seemed to come the faint perfumed scent of money to mingle with his breakfast aromas.

Nudger ignored her, tried not to look at the envelope.

"Aren't you even tempted?"

"Of course I am."

"Then why don't you accept my offer?"

"You said it earlier: scruples."

"I said ethics."

"Same thing."

"Same price, too. I don't think you're not for sale, Nudger; I think it's simply that someone is paying you more than my offer. How much more?"

"Don't be ridiculous. No one has more money than you do."

Nudger's refusal was puzzling and infuriated her. This visit wasn't going as she'd anticipated. She hadn't planned on a smitten bellhop and a private investigator dumb enough to have more of an appetite for food than for money. Life was too damned tricky and unpredictable. Unfair, unfair. Something inside her began to cave in. She suddenly looked even more ridiculous in the MTV clothes she'd worn to impress him with her authority. Different dress and mannerisms hadn't taken her where she wanted to go.

"I want you to leave me alone," she said, almost crying because she couldn't buy what she wanted. "I want you to stop sneaking around and badgering me and Willy and threatening our happiness."

"You have a few things backward," Nudger told her.

"No, I don't. And I get what I want, Nudger." Her eyes were brimming; she looked so young and unknowing, standing there on the edge of tears and rage, ready to topple forward on those high heels and fall in. So very, very determined. "I'll get you to leave Willy and me alone, no matter what it takes."