John Lutz - Nightlines

"What do you mean by 'animal'?" Nudger asked, settling onto a red vinyl stool at the counter. "Did he have fur, horns, hooves? An old cow hand?"

"Big," Danny said simply.

Danny sometimes communicated like he manufactured doughnuts. Heavily, full of holes.

"What's 'big'?"

"Big is tall," Danny said. "Big is wide. Big is ugly. I think the guy is maybe an ex-fighter, Nudge. Even from here I could tell he had that look about him. You know, outa- plumb nose, and lumps of scar tissue over the eyes."

An ex-fighter. Nudger rummaged through his memory but came up with no former pugilist who might be looking for him. "Did you notice what he was wearing?"

"Yeah. A light tan jacket, it looked like, and a bright yellow cap, like a baseball cap, with lettering across the front."

"Could you make out what the lettering said?"

"Nope, he was too far away. My eyes ain't what they used to be, Nudge."

"How long by the clock would you say he was out there?"

"About two hours, acting like he was waiting for you. Every now and then he'd glance up at your office window, like he wasn't sure whether you were in or out."

Nudger doubted that the man was an emissary of Ringo's owner, here to pay him his nine hundred dollars. Tall, wide, ugly, and waiting for him. He didn't need this. Neither did his stomach. It kicked and growled mightily, as if urging extreme caution.

"You say something, Nudge?"

Nudger shook his head and popped an antacid tablet.

"Stomach acting up again?"

"Never really quits." Nudger swiveled and climbed down from the stool. "If Eileen calls or comes by here, trying to find me to talk about back alimony, tell her I've gone to meet Frank and Sandy."

"Sure. She know who they are?"

"No. Tell her they're bankers."

Danny nodded. He held up a large foam cup. "You want a coffee to go?"

"No, thanks," Nudger said, "I'm regular enough without it."

Danny's sad eyes lowered in dejection. Was he becoming as sensitive about his coffee as about his doughnuts? Damned wimp.

"On second thought," Nudger said, "maybe about half full, with cream and sugar."

Carrying his coffee, he pushed out the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. There was no point in not leaving before tall, wide, and ugly reappeared. Waiting around for trouble was a lot like looking for it.

Of course, there were times when someone plying Nudger's uncertain trade earned his fee by waiting for trouble. Which was what Nudger was doing as he took up position near the fountain in Twin Oaks Mall.

He was sitting on a bench outside Woolworth's in the vast indoor mall, with seeming casualness observing the shoppers milling around the large, gently splashing fountain that was illuminated by recessed colored spotlights. There was a circular raised concrete ledge around the fountain, serving as a bench, and several bullet-shaped trash receptacles and some plastic potted plants were scattered about. Nudger, who appeared to be simply another patient husband waiting for his wife to finish browsing, sat and watched two old women with sore feet and huge shopping bags lounge on the bench and discuss a purchase. The women finally left and several preteen boys ambled up, leaned precariously over the ledge and spat toward the fountain. An exhausted obese woman lugging an irritated infant sighed and plopped down on the bench near them. An elderly man wearing a hearing aid sat not far from her and placidly smoked a pipe. The usual shopping-mall gang.

Nudger checked his wristwatch, as if wondering how much longer he'd have to wait for his errant spouse who'd lost track of time among miles of Sears goodies. A stereotypic but effective ruse. It was five minutes past two. Where was Frank? Was this lack of punctuality a wise way to begin a romance? Or a murder?

Then Nudger saw a short, slender man wearing brown slacks and a yellow sweater tentatively approach the fountain. The sweater either was stained or had one of the currently popular tiny animals embossed on the left breast. The man stood for a minute near the circular concrete bench as if debating whether to sit, decided to stand, and moved off about fifty feet to the side to slouch self-consciously before a window display of jogging shoes. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, and what hair he had left was in a wispy white fringe above his ears.

The man stood in the same position for about ten minutes, frequently glancing at his wristwatch. He lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, then crossed to a pedestal ashtray and ground it out as if it had all been a big mistake. Returning to his original position, he craned his neck to gaze about the sparsely occupied mall, then settled again into his slouched position, spine arched out like a cat's and hands crammed in pockets. Frank, all right.

Frank was game. He waited until almost two-thirty, then the look of perplexity on his flushed face changed to anger, and he lit another cigarette. This one he didn't put out immediately. Puffing furiously and trailing smoke like a locomotive, he strode with a dejected yet springy stride down the mall, keeping well to one side near the display windows as if afraid something might fall on him if he ventured too far from a wall. There was a kind of wary resilience in his bearing that Nudger found admirable.

Almost as soon as Frank had gone, Sandy showed up.

"Ah'll b'damned," Nudger muttered, as he saw that Sandy actually was wearing glistening black vinyl boots and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat with a chrome-studded band. He also had on black vinyl wristbands, remarkably tight-fitting jeans, and a bright plaid western-cut shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, as if he'd just been out mending fence, and instead of a pistol on his hip a massive ring of keys dangled from his belt and faintly jingle-jangle-jingled when he walked. From beneath his hat, which was shoved back on his head, protruded long blond hair. Sandy brushed back a strand of it to reveal briefly a gold stud in his left ear. Some buckaroo.

Nudger's momentary hope died as he surreptitiously studied Sandy more carefully. Though the wrangler's hair was blond, it was fine and perfectly straight. And the hand Sandy was using to rotate a tattered toothpick between his front teeth was so dainty he probably needed help turning doorknobs. Nudger sighed and stood up from the hard bench. Sandy was no more a murderer than he was a cowboy.

As Nudger walked past him, their eyes met and Nudger nodded pleasantly. He had nothing against Sandy; life was tough on and off the prairie. He hoped Sandy could someday work his way up to real leather. This was the land of sexual opportunity for almost everyone other than cattle. He wondered what all the urban cowboys or preppies would studiously dress up as next. Maybe giant chickens. Whatever they could be sold. It was all okay with Nudger, who wore white J. C. Penney underwear.

Nudger left the mall and stood for a few seconds staring at the vast sloping parking lot and the rows of brightly colored car roofs glinting in the sun like newly dyed Easter eggs. It always took him a while in places like this to remember where he'd parked his car. At one time he'd had one of those plastic bananas on top of the Volkswagen's antenna so he could spot the car easier in crowded lots. But the banana caused the antenna to whip around in the wind when he drove fast, and it was not unobtrusive enough during stakeouts, so he had abandoned it. Maybe he'd get one of those plastic daisies for the antenna; you used to see as many of them as you did the bananas, but not anymore.

He remembered then: halfway up the aisle straight down from the "G" in DRUGSTORE. He found the Volkswagen hiding behind a fancy travel van, got in and rolled down the windows to allow some of the superheated air to escape, and then drove from the lot.