"I can assure you that she still loves Curtis," Nudger said. "What were you doing out at Placid Grove Trailer Park?" But looking at the shy, guarded expression on Lester's broad face, Nudger knew what. Lester might not entirely approve of Candy Ann Adams, but there was something about her that interested him.
"Passing by, is all," Lester said. "I thought I'd stop and talk to Candy Ann. Then I seen your car parked by her trailer, and I waited till you come out and wanted to find out who you was, so I drove behind you all the way into the city, then here." Again the pleased grin, the ignorance that was bliss. "Bet you didn't know I was behind you, even."
True enough; Nudger had hardly glanced in his rearview mirror, had simply driven along with his mind on other matters, blissfully ignorant in his own fashion.
He looked more closely at Lester, thinking of Ozark jug whiskey, kissin' kinfolk who didn't stop with kissing, and inbreeding that sometimes produced people like Lester Colt. Nudger figured Lester for the mentality of a cunning twelve-year-old.
"Do you drive a truck for a living?" Nudger asked, motioning toward the trucker's belt buckle.
Lester shook his head. "Naw, I ain't passed the chauf- feur's-license test. But I will someday. I just load trucks now, is all." He put out a leg awkwardly, as if balancing himself against wind at a great height, and angled his chunky body toward Nudger, cocking his head and staring at an odd angle with wary, bewildered eyes. "You think you can help Curtis?"
Nudger silently cursed Candy Ann for raising false hope. "I doubt if I can help your brother, Lester. I'm simply going over the case again, on the off chance somebody overlooked something that might make a difference."
Lester nodded slowly. "I guess that oughta be done for Curtis. Candy Ann hire you?"
Nudger nodded.
Lester grinned again, his opinion of his would-have- been sister-in-law raised considerably. "You let me know if you hear anything new about Curtis," he said.
"Sure. Where can I get in touch with you?"
"I ain't got a phone, but I'm at Commerce Freightlines' warehouse down on Hall Street most days. On the loading dock."
Nudger made a show of writing that down on his notepad. "Okay, Lester."
Lester started to thank Nudger, but the words seemed too large for his larynx to handle. He nodded his slow, almost shy nod, and moved with surprising lightness toward the door. Then he turned. "You been to see Welborne?"
"Who?"
"Welborne's my other little brother. He's between me and Curtis. Might be you should talk to him." Lester sniffed and looked irritated. "That is, if he'll talk to you about Curtis."
"Doesn't he get along with Curtis?"
"Welborne don't get on with none of the family anymore; he don't see nobody. Curtis never went down home to see the folks hardly ever, either, but with him it was different. He's wild, I admit, but he's a good man, the best of all of us. Welborne, he just don't like going home, is all. Him and that snooty woman he married." Apparently Lester didn't like the idea of either of his brothers finding female companionship.
"Where can I locate Welborne?"
"He's a big-shot lawyer in Clayton someplace. I ain't even got his phone number; he won't give it to me." Anger shadowed Lester's beefy features. "Welborne coulda tried to help Curtis, but he didn't. That Siberling guy had to take the case."
"Were you at Curtis' trial?" Nudger asked.
"Sure I was. Every day. Even missed work. It was them witnesses did Curtis in."
"Do you think they were telling the truth?"
Lester frowned. "A person can think they're telling the truth and not be."
Lester was right about that, Nudger thought. It was what caused a lot of life's problems. "I'll find Welborne and talk to him," he said.
"If he'll talk to you," Lester repeated, and drifted out the door.
Nudger didn't hear him light-foot it down the stairs, but the street door opened and clattered shut again. A draft stirred around Nudger's ankles.
There was no Welborne Colt in the phone directory. Sliding the Rolodex over to him, Nudger looked up Harold Benedict's home number and used a pencil to peck it out on the phone. Benedict's office was in Clayton, as were many law offices. If Welborne Colt practiced law from a Clayton office, Benedict might know him. Lawyers were thick as… well, thieves.
Benedict was home, and he had heard of Welborne Colt. He promised to get an address and phone number for Nudger by morning.
Nudger thanked him and replaced the receiver.
He felt his forehead; it was damp. The office seemed to be getting warmer, smaller. His stomach stirred and growled, reminding him that he'd had an early supper. He was more weak than hungry, but he knew he should get some food in the old machine. His night, pulsing with dark promise, might just be beginning.
He locked the office behind him, then left to treat himself to two White Castle hamburgers and a glass of milk before show-and-tell with Candy Ann Adams.
It was eleven-thirty by the time he topped the rise of the acceleration lane and drove fast with the windows open out the interstate toward Placid Grove Trailer Park. Static and soft blues were floating from the radio and whirling on the wind and he could still taste the hamburgers. Damned onions. Nudger belched. In the rearview mirror the lighted city sank like a luminous dream, drawing down with it the receding red taillights of cars that passed him going the opposite direction. The taillights looked like streamers of bright tracer bullets gracefully surrendering to gravity.
He glanced at his watch. He'd be early, but that was okay. There was something about an appointment at midnight that prompted punctuality.
IX
At five minutes to midnight Nudger was sitting at the tiny table in Candy Ann's kitchenette. Across from him sat a thin, nervous man who might have been in his twenties, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt despite the heat, and wearing sunglasses with silver mirror lenses. Nudger didn't figure the glasses were to protect the man's eyes from the sickly glare of the fluorescent light fixture set in the trailer's ceiling.
Candy Ann introduced the man as "Tom, but that ain't his real name," and said he was Curtis Colt's accomplice and the driver of the getaway car on the night of the murder. He had to wait until midnight to come so he'd be sure he wouldn't be seen.
It was all enough to make Nudger perk up his ears. He sat quietly at the little table, looking into the mirrored glasses. He was aware of a thousand crickets screaming like tortured souls outside, Candy Ann's deep and regular breathing inside. Then she moved back away from where she was standing close by his right shoulder, and he could hear his own breathing as he waited to listen to what Tom had to say.
It was no surprise. "Me and Curtis was nowhere near the liquor store when them folks got shot!" Tom said vehemently, so forcefully that fine spittle flew across the table and coolly flecked Nudger's forearm.
Obviously the sunglasses were so Nudger couldn't effectively identify Tom if it came to a showdown in court. Tom had lank, dark brown hair that fell to below his shoulders, and when he moved his arm Nudger caught sight of something blue and red, like a faded nasty wound, on his briefly exposed wrist. But it wasn't a wound; it was a tattoo. Which explained the long-sleeved shirt worn in the sultry throes of summer.
"You can understand why Tom couldn't come forth and testify for Curtis in court," Candy Ann said.
Nudger said he could understand that. Tom would have had to incriminate himself. No fool, Tom.
"We was up on Parker Road, way on the other side of town," Tom said, "casing another service station, when that liquor-store killing went down. Heck, we never held up nothing but service stations. They was our specialty."