Nudger didn't move. "I'm afraid of Hugo Rumbo," he said. "He might trip over his ankle and fall on me. I've been to the police about this, and if Rumbo slips his collar again and tries to attack me, they'll know you had something to do with it."
"But I thought I made it clear that I'm not responsible for Mr. Rumbo. And there's certainly no law against me talking to him as a friend and not an employer. If he finds out you've decided to reject my suggestion that you cease working for my daughter, it wouldn't surprise me if he decided to visit you on his own. He's a simple and dedicated man."
"He's a stupid and dangerous one," Nudger corrected. "Dangerous to me and to you."
She impatiently peeled back the top of one of her white gloves and glanced at a tiny square gold watch. "Mr. Nudger, I'm ready to leave."
Nudger nodded and walked past her out the door. As he stepped onto the porch, he heard a series of crisp snicking sounds coming from the side of the house. Almost like disapproving clucks of the tongue.
Agnes Boyington pointedly locked her door, then walked past him and through another door, leading into the attached garage. Nudger got into his Volkswagen and sat there until the garage's overhead door automatically opened. An old but mint-condition long gray Cadillac nosed out. As it emerged all the way, Nudger saw that it was even older than he'd thought, one of the models with fins. It looked like a long gray shark; it suited its owner.
The overhead door glided closed behind the car. Agnes Boyington let the Caddy coast down the driveway and made a left turn onto Lindell. She'd known that Nudger was still there but hadn't deigned to look at him.
Rumbo had filled her in on the day's activities, so Nudger's appearance at her door hadn't been unexpected. She'd known he'd talked to the police and she'd known he wasn't going to accept her check, but she'd acted out her scene with him without missing a beat or a cue, reciting her lines even when Nudger departed from the script. She was one of life's great troopers in her own long-running production, creating her own reality with the convincing force of her delusions.
Nudger found himself envying her. There had to be a warm security in being so unalterably correct in all matters. Possibly she was on her way to church, to interpret the sermon her way and sanctify her actions. There seemed to be an ugly outbreak of that kind of thing lately.
Snick! Snick! With the Volkswagen's windows rolled down, Nudger could hear the sound again clearly. Metal on metal. He got out of the car and walked across the spongy carpet of grass toward the corner of the garage.
Peering around a forsythia bush, he saw Hugo Rumbo in the side yard. He was shirtless and wearing blue bib overalls, standing about a hundred feet away and diligently trimming a squared-off privet hedge with a pair of long- bladed shears. As if sensing that a ring opponent was about to throw a sneak left hook at him, he raised a shoulder slightly, ducked his head and turned. He saw Nudger immediately and smiled his lopsided, unsettling little smile. Shifting the shears to his right hand, he took a step toward Nudger.
Nudger did what a hedge couldn't do. He backpedaled to the Volkswagen, clambered in, and had the engine started in a jiffy. As he backed the car all the way down the driveway to the street, he saw the overalled Hugo Rumbo round the corner of the garage, holding the long shears upright at his side, and stand staring at him in a kind of macho American- Gothic posture.
The little car's engine seemed to be clattering with fear as Nudger drove fast down Lindell Boulevard, as if agreeing with him that now wasn't a good time to talk with Hugo Rumbo.
Probably there was no good time.
In the glut of traffic on Kingshighway near the expressway, Nudger saw Agnes Boyington's gray Cadillac a block away, stopped for a red light. Maybe she wasn't going to church. Instead of turning west onto the expressway, he switched lanes and stayed on Kingshighway.
It might be worthwhile to follow Agnes Boyington. She could be on her way to meet someone else who wore white gloves.
XIII
Agnes Boyington drove south on Kingshighway, then took Highway 44 downtown to 55 and exited on Memorial Drive. Gothic church towers glided past Nudger, piercing the sky in contrast to the soft stroke of the Arch's caressing curve. Agnes stayed on Memorial, passing Busch Stadium and the Arch, then cut over to Market and headed west. She made a right on Seventh Street, and found a place to park near Seventh on Chestnut. It was the only empty parking space on the block, maybe a slot reserved for the genteel, and she effortlessly maneuvered the haughty gray lady of a Cadillac into it.
Nudger drove half a block past Agnes, hoping she wouldn't see him, and pulled to the curb near a fire hydrant.
He watched her in his rearview mirror as she crossed Chestnut and entered one of the office buildings that lined the block. The Hammond Building. This was the area of downtown where many of the city's high-priced lawyers kept their offices. That made Nudger wonder. He got out of the Volkswagen, hoping it wouldn't be ticketed or towed away, and jogged across the street and into the Hammond Building.
The lobby, adorned with gray marble and cigarette butts, was almost deserted. Most of the offices were closed at this hour, and only one elevator was in service. Nudger watched the brass indicator arrow on the veined marble above the elevator doors. It slowed, wobbled, then rested on the six.
He crossed the lobby and checked the building directory. There were enough law firms in the place to stall a thousand cases a thousand years. On the sixth floor there were three law offices, an architectural firm, and several businesses of nondescript corporate name. Nudger considered taking the elevator up and finding a spot in the hall from which he could see Agnes Boyington emerge from whatever office she'd entered. However, not knowing which office she was in made that too risky an idea to carry out. Besides, it was altogether possible that whatever business she had here didn't concern him.
He left the lobby, trudged back across hot concrete to the Volkswagen, and sat waiting. From his car window he could see the silver, soaring curve of the Arch, towering above even the newer downtown buildings. The Gateway to the West and to McDonald's floating restaurant. The Arch was Nudger's favorite memorial. It was so nonfunctional. Its stainless steel, inspirational arc was the sole reason for its existence. If it wasn't a joy forever, a lot of time and money had been wasted. What was it doing here in this conservative midwestern city where commerce was king? Or maybe its creation was inevitable. Perhaps out of all this flat, staid sanity it had to spring like joyful madness, a glittering dream-reflecting ribbon unfurling skyward to an exquisitely graceful apogee and then rushing earthward, like life itself.
Nudger was still contemplating the Arch fifteen minutes later when Agnes Boyington left the Hammond Building and got back into her car. The Cadillac glided past him. He was sure that Agnes hadn't seen him, with the Volkswagen tucked as it was between a larger car and a van. He started the engine, waited until she'd reached the corner, then followed.
She didn't drive far, only to Tucker and Clark, where she parked in a visitors' slot in the lot of Police Headquarters. After locking the Caddy, she strode with vigor and purpose around to the front of the imposing gray building and up the wide steps. She still looked cool as frozen custard in her blue dress and white gloves, and she certainly moved like a much younger woman. Nudger watched the metronome sway of her flared hips until she disappeared through the main entrance. She wasn't quite as impressive a piece of architecture as the Arch, but then she was older.
Nudger didn't follow Agnes Boyington into Police Headquarters. And when she left half an hour later, he didn't follow her disdainful finned Cadillac.