John Lutz - The right to sing the blues

The red subcompact strained and clattered up to the crest of the driveway. The overheated little radiator sighed in relief as Nudger obeyed Frick's instructions and parked beneath the portico and finally switched off the engine.

Nudger felt like part of one of those circus acts where a dozen or so clowns pile out of a tiny parked car. What Frick and Frack lacked in numbers, they more than made up for in poundage.

Frick and Nudger stood waiting patiently outside while Frack grunted and growled and levered his contorted body loose from the back of the car. Nudger wondered how he could explain to the rental company how the car had gotten stretched. Did the insurance form he'd signed cover that? As if angry at the car for being small, Frack slammed the door so hard the window almost popped out.

With Nudger between them, the two big men stepped up on the porch, pushed open the doors without knocking, and entered the house; they were familiar with their imposing surroundings, and they had returned with what they'd been sent to get.

The interior of the house was as plush as the exterior suggested it would be. There were acres of tiled floor, expensive-looking throw rugs, heavy Spanish-style furniture, ornately framed oils hung on the sand-finished walls. Nothing seemed to be used or worn in the slightest; it was as if professional decorators had placed the furnishings just so and then left things to be dusted lightly by someone every few days.

Frick led the way down a hall, through a door, and down a flight of wide, brightly lighted stairs. Another door opened into what Nudger assumed was the house's basement level. He was beginning not to like this.

They walked down another hall, this one lined with more paintings. These were unlike the traditional oils upstairs; they were modern, canvases splashed with indecipherable forms that were somehow ominous. Jackson Pollock possessed by Poe.

Frick stopped near a bend of the hall, stepped to the side, and motioned for Nudger to turn the corner first.

Nudger did, not without apprehension, and there was a small, dark-haired man sitting in one of half a dozen black leather chairs in a large, carpeted room.

Unlike upstairs, this room was comfortably sloppy. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered with various collectibles: glass curios, antique steel banks, some old cast- iron toys, several rows of antique jars. There was a big-screen TV in one corner, its viewing area a bored, opaque eye. In another corner a bar was set up. There were telephones sitting about like ashtrays; nobody would have to get up from any of the plushy upholstered black chairs in order to take a call. A well-fed yellow cat lounged on the arm of a black sofa, its head turned and drawn back tightly to stare at Nudger with calm disdain, as if on its list of things due respect, Nudger ranked far below litter box. New Orleans had no shortage of cats, and they all seemed to share the same low opinion of Nudger.

The dark-haired man saw Nudger and stood up. He was medium height, broad-shouldered yet very thin, younger- looking than Nudger had anticipated, with an even-featured face that was handsome despite deep acne scars that mottled his cheeks. He looked at Nudger with rather large, clear brown eyes. His expression was the same as the cat's. So was his complexion; his flesh had a yellowish tinge to it. He said, "Sit down, Mr. Nudger." His voice carried just the hint of a lisp.

As he spoke, a tall, chestnut-haired woman, who'd been sitting outside Nudger's range of vision, stood up.

"I'll be back in a few hours, darling," she said to the yellowish man and strutted from the room, regal and brassy as a showgirl. She appeared to have been crying, but it probably served to make her more beautiful, human as well as statuesque. Mrs. Collins?

As the door closed behind the woman, Frick placed a hand on Nudger's shoulder and guided him to one of the black chairs. The chair hissed as Nudger settled into it; he felt oddly helpless, a prisoner of all that softness, which would inhibit any quick movement. Frick backed away to stand to the side and slightly behind Nudger. Frack took up position by the door, crossing his arms in a casual but vigilant they-shall-not-pass attitude.

"I'm David Collins," the yellowish man said, walking over to stand in front of Nudger. He was wearing well-tailored dark-blue dress slacks, a silky blue-on-blue shirt, and crinkly leather gray shoes that looked suspiciously like house slippers. His clothes clashed with his complexion but his drink didn't. In his right hand was an on-the-rocks glass with a pebbled clear bottom; the glass contained ice cubes and about a quarter of an inch of diluted amber liquid, probably Scotch. He said, in a very calm and conversational tone, so softly, "Who has my daughter, Mr. Nudger?"

"I don't know."

"What do you know?"

"That she's gone. I was at Fat Jack's when you called him. He couldn't hide what the conversation was about."

"Willy Hollister's gone, too."

"Is he?" Nudger decided to play ignorant on that one, for Fat Jack's sake.

Collins grinned-no, grimaced toothily. When he did that he reminded Nudger of a young, sickly Richard Wid- mark. "His clothes are gone from his apartment. He didn't give his landlord any notice. He didn't leave a note or forwarding address. Just packed and left." He took a very delicate sip of his drink; nibbled at it, really. "Just what do you make of it, Mr. Nudger?"

"Are Ineida's clothes gone?"

Collins nodded slightly in vague admiration. "A sensible question. The answer to it is what disturbs me a great deal. Her clothes are there. All of her personal effects are there. Everything but Ineida. This is no joke that she's playing along with." A kind of slow anger seemed to be building in Collins, a modulated rage that sizzled with dangerous energy. Nudger understood why people feared him. "She's been kidnapped; I received a ransom note."

"Demanding how much?"

"Nothing specific yet. I'm supposed to be contacted again to let me know how much getting Ineida back will cost me, and where to deliver the money." He took another dainty sip of his drink; the level of the liquid didn't seem to have dropped at all when he lowered his glass. "Off this room there is a wine cellar, Mr. Nudger. I'm proud of it for the vintages it contains, but it also serves another purpose. It's windowless, and completely soundproof. A person could scream like a Civil Defense siren in there and not be heard even here, where we are." The large brown eyes didn't blink, didn't waver. "Why did Fat Jack hire you, Mr. Nudger? And don't deny he's your client."

"Why deny what you already know is true?" Nudger said, reasonably and in the interest of self-preservation. "He hired me to find out about Willy Hollister. He was worried about Hollister's relationship with Ineida, worried about what you might do if something happened to her because of her connection with the club. He knew he was supposed to be looking out for her, but there really was no way he could do that. The next best thing he could do was to find out where trouble might come from and try to head it off."

"And what did you find out about Hollister and my daughter?"

"Ineida is a nice kid who can't sing. And she's in love and not thinking straight."

"And Hollister?"

Nudger drew a deep breath and told Collins about Willy Hollister and Jacqui James and the other vanished women in various cities where Hollister had played blues as they had never been played before. The lines in Collins gaunt face deepened and his eyes darkened as he listened intently. This he did not like.

When Nudger was finished talking, Collins walked to a black steel file cabinet near the bar. He unlocked and slid open the top drawer all the way; it made a soft rolling sound on its tracks. Then he drew something out of it with his back to Nudger. He left the drawer open as he walked back over to stand in front of Nudger.