Nudger stood mystified, glad Welborne Colt wasn't defending him in court. "Life isn't a pool table, Welborne."
Colt smiled handsomely, sadly. "Isn't it?"
"Do you believe Curtis is guilty of murder?"
"If a jury found him guilty, he killed that old woman."
"Juries have been wrong a few times."
"They're not wrong in Curtis' case. And if they'd found him not guilty, it would only have postponed the inevitable."
Billiard balls again. "Do you know Candy Ann Adams?"
"No. And I wouldn't know her if she's a friend of Curtis. We didn't have much to do with each other after I got out of southwest Missouri."
"Are you ashamed of your hillbilly origins, Mr. Colt?"
Welborne glared at Nudger. "You're a direct bastard, aren't you?" He rotated his wrist and glanced at the gold Rolex watch peeking out from beneath his white French cuff. "Let's see you be even more direct. Why exactly did you come here?" No more Ozark twang now; he had it under control and sounded almost British upper class.
"I wanted to find out more about Curtis by discovering how he looked through your eyes."
"Why?"
"I need to know the man whose life I'm trying to save."
"You're years too late to save Curtis, Mr. Nudger."
"Probably," Nudger admitted. He liked admitting that less than ever now that he'd met Welborne.
The office receptionist, a tall mannequin-perfect brunette in a tailored brown business suit, swayed into the office, smiled with dazzling whiteness, and sat down behind her desk. Her back was straight and she had the clear, alert gaze of the very efficient. She looked as if she'd been manufactured by I.B.M. and trimmed with lace.
Nudger nodded to her and moved toward the door. "Thanks for your time," he said to Welborne.
Colt looked at him with curiously pained eyes. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you much." His glance shifted to the receptionist, then back to Nudger. "The party in question and I just haven't had much contact."
"You've helped," Nudger assured him. "Blood tells. Peas in a pod and all that."
As he left the office, he heard Welborne in his businesslike pseudo-British accent crisply instructing the receptionist to check the files for this brief or that. Legalese, flowing fast and furious.
Nudger figured the receptionist was in for it today.
XIII
Nudger had forgotten about the broken lock on his office door. As soon as he entered he knew he wasn't alone; there's something about an occupied room, a slight rise in temperature maybe, or sounds that the conscious mind is unaware of but that register in the subconscious. But as soon as he looked to his left, all of those primal sensors were unnecessary.
A chubby little man wearing pleated slacks and a blue polo shirt was leaning with one arm on the file cabinet. Next to him stood the kind of abnormally skinny but shapely older woman usually glimpsed only in diet-food commercials. She had close-cropped, raggedy blond hair and was wearing an oversized sweatshirt with "Nike" lettered on it, pink shorts, jogging shoes, and was clutching a small, crinkly Gucci purse. She smelled of perspiration and expensive perfume. Nouveau jock.
"The guy in the doughnut shop told us it was all right to wait here," the man said. "I'm Charles Siberling. This is my friend Kelly Cole." He paused to kiss her on the cheek, as if that were his way of introducing her to people. "We were on our way somewhere, but I thought I'd drop by to see you first."
Nudger introduced himself, shook hands with both parties, and sat down behind his desk. The swivel chair squealed its hello. Nudger sighed too loudly, as if it felt good to be off his feet. Blond Kelly studied him, then carefully surveyed his humble environs. She returned her attention to Nudger.
"You've hurt your face," she said. Somehow she made it sound like an insult, as if all ugliness were permanent, deserved, and excluded one from the better things in life.
Siberling ignored Nudger's face. "Doreen told me you were trying to get in touch."
"Doreen?" Nudger asked.
"The receptionist at Elbert and Stein. She's an airhead; don't judge the firm by Doreen." He moved over and stood in the mottled stream of brightness from the dirt-streaked window.
Nudger was surprised by how young he looked. His face was sixteen, his eyes about fifty. Average it out and you'd probably have his true age. Blond Kelly appeared to be a well-kept half a century and displayed a certain brand of West End or Ladue snobbery in every line and gesture. The veininess and stretch marks beneath the tan of her legs were like the creases in old folding money. These two people didn't seem to belong with each other; it was as if a computer dating service had decided to play a joke.
"I understand you're interested in the Curtis Colt case," Siberling said. Something flared in the wise eyes, eager points of light, like sharp and brilliant objects glimmering in murky depths. Themselves like the eyes of something dangerous.
"That's right. I've been talking to the witnesses, doing some deeper digging."
"Why?"
"I've been hired to try to establish enough doubt of Colt's guilt to have the execution stayed."
Siberling laughed and shook his head. He had pudgy features and a halo of sandy, curly hair; no one looked less like a cutthroat lawyer. "That's crazy. Colt's exhausted virtually all appeals. Nothing can save him."
"Would the state execute him even if irrefutable proof were put forth that he was innocent?"
Siberling thought about that and laughed again, this time with a bit more humor. "No. Politically it would be impossible, even though legally the execution should be carried out as scheduled. And the state doesn't want to kill an innocent man, Nudger. Especially one who might not stay in his grave."
Nudger leaned back in his squealing chair. The motion brought a jolt of pain around his damaged rib. The pain angled all the way up to his armpit. He sat forward slowly. "Eeeeasy," the chair said, like a concerned old pal. Nudger said, "It's possible Curtis Colt was in another part of town when the shooting occurred."
Kelly looked bored, then whispered to Siberling, loud enough for Nudger to hear. "We'd better get going if we're going to get a court."
"Are you a lawyer, too?" Nudger asked her.
She wasn't one for puns. "I mean tennis court," she said seriously, almost angrily.
"You have to prove the possible in a court of law," Siberling said. "I already busted my gut trying to do that for Curtis Colt."
Nudger wondered what a sharp and fiery young guy like Siberling was doing with Kelly. "Love," he muttered.
"That's a zero score in tennis," Kelly observed. Maybe she was a punster.
"I can't prove it," Nudger told Siberling.
Kelly looked confused. "I'm going downstairs to wait," she said. "The doughnut shop's air-conditioned, anyway."
"Oh, sorry," Nudger said, and reached back and switched on the window unit behind the desk.
But even as it began its comforting hum, Kelly was heading for the door and a lower, cooler clime.
"Try a Dunker Delite," Nudger advised her.
Siberling grinned. "She's an odd piece. Married to a judge. I put up with her because she gives good head."
"Reason enough, I guess," Nudger said, trying to figure out Siberling, remembering what Hammersmith had said about the young lawyer being such an aggravation, about how he could sense and exploit weakness.
"You're thinking I'm an asshole, Nudger, and maybe you're right. In fact, you are right; I'm nasty. Maybe because of that I'm also a hell of a lawyer; I fight for my clients. And not just the clients who can pay. I fought hard for Curtis Colt, but there was nothing to use on a jury. The prosecution held every card, and Colt himself wouldn't cooperate. He sat there dummied up as if he hadn't a chance of getting convicted. The proceedings might have been happening on another planet, for all he seemed to care."