John Lutz - The right to sing the blues

"How did you find out Ineida's missing?" Nudger asked.

"She was supposed to meet me and didn't show up. I phoned, got no answer, and went by her apartment. It was obvious she hadn't been there for a while. I called David, demanded to know where she went. He was evasive. He also acted as if something was very wrong; he couldn't hide it. There's a rage boiling just under his skin, Mr. Nudger. He gets that way when he's helpless, frustrated, and a little scared."

"Willy Hollister's gone, too," Nudger said. "It appears that he and Ineida ran away together."

Marilyn Eeker gazed down at her delicate hands folded on the table, breathed out hard through her nose. "I was afraid of something like that." She looked up slowly. Her pale blue eyes were clouded. "Ineida's pregnant," she said.

Nudger lifted his glass of milk a few inches off the table, set it back down, and shoved it away, sloshing some of it onto his fingers. Cold.

"Christ!" he said. "How do you know?"

"She told me. She's known for almost two months. She's approximately three months pregnant."

"Your husband didn't mention that when we talked."

"He's my former husband. And he doesn't know. Ineida was afraid to tell him."

"I'm afraid to tell him, too," Nudger said. "Is she going to have the baby?"

"Yes, she won't have an abortion."

"She should," Nudger said.

"Maybe."

He sat quietly for a moment. It all made better sense this way. Maybe Ineida and Hollister actually had eloped; maybe the pregnancy forced them into it. The ransom note might not be genuine, might be the work of a crank.

But he knew that was highly unlikely. For Hollister, Ineida's pregnancy would only be an unwanted complication, a catalyst for more tragedy. Still, Nudger decided to keep quiet for now about the note.

"Have you considered phoning the police, Mrs. Eeker?"

"No," she said, "David would kill me." She said it calmly and reasonably. She wasn't exaggerating; it was an assessment.

"What are you going to do now?"

She shook her head, bit her lip. "I'm not sure."

"Go to Collins," Nudger told her. "Tell him you know about Ineida and Hollister running away together. Tell him you talked to me, and I confirmed what you suspected. Whether you tell him about the pregnancy is one for you to think over."

"He'll throw me out."

"He won't. He knows that if he does, you might go to the police. Threaten him with that if you have to. Ineida's your daughter; you have a right to know what's being done to get her back. Your husband will explain. Tell him if he doesn't, I will."

"He'll be furious with you."

"If he weren't already, I wouldn't be giving you this advice."

Nudger watched her wrestle with her dilemma. Then she apparently reached a decision; tension loosened its grip on her tight, squared shoulders.

She said, "Thank you, Mr. Nudger," and stood up. From her cheap vinyl purse she fished out a pair of crinkled dollar bills and laid them on the table. They were faded and finely worn, not unlike Marilyn Eeker herself.

Nudger picked up the bills and held them out for her. "I'll take care of the check," he said. "I'm on an expense account. Please. It's the American way."

"It's nice of you to offer," she said, smiling down at him. She had such a delicate, crystalline smile.

Then, ignoring the money extended toward her, she walked briskly away, prepared to face her former husband's contempt, and bring his anger with Nudger to a peak.

Nudger could understand why she and David Collins weren't compatible.

Nudger decided not to tell Fat Jack about his unsettling conversations with David Collins and Marilyn Eeker. The big man had enough to worry about and would hardly be reassured by the fact that Ineida was pregnant, or that Nudger was being pressured hard by Collins to find her before any harm came to her. Fat Jack knew that as Nudger's search for Ineida went, so went his own chances for survival. And everyone knew the odds on any kidnap victim turning up alive. In such circumstances a massive client, as over-wrought as he was overweight, could be a liability.

"So what have you found out, old sleuth?" Fat Jack asked from where he stood by his office window. He was leaning far backward, as if to look down at a particular angle, his huge stomach straining at his gold belt buckle. Nudger wondered if he was contemplating squeezing through the window and letting two stories of height end his problems. But something told him Fat Jack wasn't the suicidal type; he'd thrived too long making music in an indifferent and demanding world to fall into the self- destruct category. His theme song was survival.

"I haven't found out anything new," Nudger said. "That's why I'm here. Did Hollister have a regular dressing room or locker where he kept a change of clothes or any personal items?"

Fat Jack turned to face Nudger. The light streaming through the window made his gingery hair appear sparse, his huge head more bloated with fat. He looked unhealthy these days. "Hey, I never thought of that! Yeah, he's got no private dressing room, but he does have a locker. Down in the hall near the green room."

Nudger assumed the green room was the all-purpose place of faded paint and yellowed posters. "Is it locked?"

"There are three lockers," Fat Jack said, "all with combination locks. The combination's two left, three right, one left."

"For which locker?"

"All of them. Nobody's supposed to keep anything valuable in them, and I can't give every new performer a fresh combination, so I keep it so I can remember the numbers."

"Which one's Hollister's?"

"The one closest to the green-room door."

The desk phone gave a shrill scream and Fat Jack jumped. Telephones were making him nervous lately. Nudger could understand why. They were nasty instruments that might convey the wrong message, that might at any moment spring up on their coiled wire and bite fatally.

"I'll let you know if I find anything interesting," Nudger said, drifting toward the door as Fat Jack moved reluctantly yet with ponderous grace toward the phone. Fat Jack was sweating again; his white collar was dark up near the top from perspiration. Nudger was depressed by being around such agony.

Fat Jack tucked the receiver into his neck folds and somehow nodded good-bye as Nudger shut the door. Nudger heard him say, "Hey!" in a relieved voice. This caller wasn't likely to bring bad news.

Downstairs, business was already beginning to build. Marty Sievers was behind the bar, studying a sheet of paper and talking earnestly with Mattingly the bartender. He glanced at Nudger but gave no sign that he'd seen him. Judy Villanova was serving some of the exotic pineapple-with- parasol drinks to a group of women at a corner table who looked as if they might be part of a tour group. When she moved away to return to the bar, she saw Nudger and smiled.

Sam Judman smiled too, nodding as Nudger walked past. Judman was on the stage with the backup band, getting his drums set up for this evening, back at his job. Not much time had been wasted in bringing back old blood after Hollister had left. Obviously, Fat Jack and Sievers didn't figure Hollister would return here to play piano.

Nudger found the lockers easily enough, lined along the wall just outside the door to the grimy green room where he'd had his conversation with Hollister and been granted the great man's autograph. They looked like secondhand lockers from a high school gym; they were beige and defaced with indecipherable graffiti. Near the top of the middle unit it was proclaimed in a scratched message that someone named Gloria liked to do something, but Nudger couldn't make out what. It was more titillating that way.

Nudger worked the combination dial on the locker Fat Jack had said was Hollister's. It rotated stiffly, as if it needed oil, but at the end of the combination it clicked and Nudger could feel the tension of the dial relax in his hand. He twisted the handle and pulled the narrow steel door open.