That was how she told it, simply, briefly, and with a matter-of-factness that would have swayed any jury, there in her meticulously neat south St. Louis apartment on Tennessee Avenue. Then she offered Nudger a sandwich and glass of iced tea.
Nudger declined the sandwich but accepted the tea with gratitude. It was strong, and sweet with natural sugar that still swirled gently in it from stirring and settled hazily on the bottom of the glass as pale sediment. As Nudger drank, the brown mongrel that had also witnessed the robbery- murder lay mostly concealed behind the sofa and watched him warily from half-closed eyes.
When Nudger was almost finished with the tea, Iris Langeneckert said something that Gantner had also touched on. "He was a skinny young man with curly black hair and a beard or mustache," she said, describing the getaway-car driver. Then she added, "Like Curtis Colt's hair and mustache."
Nudger looked again at the lakeside snapshot Candy Ann had given him. There was Curtis Colt, about five feet nine, skinny, and handsomely mean-looking with that broad bandito mustache and mop of curly, greasy black hair. There was a don't-give-a-damnness even in the way he stood, legs spread a little too wide, shoulders set as if to punch first if anyone even drew back a hand to threaten to strike him. A chin that proclaimed he could take it, cold eyes that said he could dish it out. Nudger had seen a lot like him. Too many. They were so alike, part of the world's pattern of pain and desperation. He wondered if it was possible that the getaway-car driver had been Colt himself, and his accomplice had killed the old woman. Even Nudger found that one difficult to believe.
He thanked Mrs. Langeneckert, then drove to his office in the near-suburb of Maplewood and sat behind his desk in the blast of cold air from the window unit, sipping the complimentary cup of diet cola he'd brought up from Danny's Donuts. The smell of the doughnut shop was heavier than usual in the office; maybe something to do with the heat and humidity. Nudger had never quite gotten used to the cloying sugar-grease scent and what it did to his sensitive stomach.
When he was cool enough to think clearly again, he decided he needed additional information on the holdup, and on Curtis Colt, from a more objective source than Candy Ann Adams. He phoned Police Lieutenant Jack Hammersmith at home and was told by Hammersmith's son Jed that Hammersmith had just driven away and it would be late before he returned.
Nudger checked his answering machine again, proving that hope did indeed spring eternal in a fool's breast.
There was another terse message from Eileen, telling him to call her but not saying what about; a solemn-voiced young man reading an address where Nudger could send a check to help pay to form a watchdog committee that would stop the utilities from continually raising their rates; and a cheerful man informing Nudger that with the labels from ten packages of a brand-name hot dog he could get a Cardinals ballgame ticket at half price. (That meant eating over eighty hot dogs. Nudger calculated that baseball season would be over by the time he did that.) Everyone seemed to want some of Nudger's money. No one wanted to pay Nudger any money. Except for Candy Ann Adams. Nudger decided he'd better shrug off some of his pessimism and step up his efforts on the Curtis Colt case.
He tilted back his head, drained the last dribble of cola, then tried to eat what was left of the crushed ice. But the ice clung stubbornly to the bottom of the cup, taunting him. Nudger's life was like that.
He crumpled the paper cup and lobbed it, ice and all, into the wastebasket.
IV
The next morning Police Lieutenant Jack Hammersmith was in his Third District office, obese, sleek, and cool-looking behind his wide metal desk. There was a comfortable grace to his corpulence, like that of a seal under water. He was pounds and years away from the handsome cop who'd been Nudger's partner a decade ago in a two-man patrol car. Nudger could still see traces of a dashing quality in the flesh-upholstered Hammersmith, but he wondered if that was only because he'd known him ten years ago.
"Sit down, Nudge," Hammersmith invited, his lips smiling but his grayish-blue cop's eyes unreadable. If eyes were the windows to the soul, his shades were always down.
Nudger sat in one of the straight-backed chairs in front of Hammersmith's desk. The desk was neat: a phone, brown plastic "in" and "out" baskets, two stacks of papers, some file folders, a glass ashtray with a chip out of it, all of it symmetrically arranged. Hammersmith was always busy, always organized, always-well, sometimes-ready to assist his old strayed-away sidekick.
"I need some help," Nudger said.
"Sure," Hammersmith said, "you never come see me just to trade recipes or to sit and rock." Hammersmith was partial to irony; it was a good thing in his line of work. Nudger thought it might be what kept him sane.
"I need to know more about Curtis Colt," Nudger told him.
Hammersmith got one of his vile greenish cigars out of his shirt pocket and stared intently at it, as if its paper-ring label might reveal some secret of life and death. "Colt, eh? The guy who's going to ride the lightning?"
"That's the second time in the past few days I've heard that expression. The first time was from Colt's fiancee. She thinks he's innocent."
"Fiancees think along those lines. Is she your client, this woman who's already picked one loser?"
Nudger nodded, but didn't volunteer Candy Ann's name.
"Gullibility makes the world go round," Hammersmith said. "I was in charge of that one. There's not a chance Colt is innocent, Nudge."
"Four eyewitness IDs are compelling evidence," Nudger admitted.
"Damning evidence," Hammersmith said.
"What about the getaway-car driver? His description is a lot like Colt's. Maybe he's the one who did the shooting and Colt was the driver."
"Colt's lawyer hit on that. The jury didn't buy it. Neither do I. The man is guilty, Nudge."
"You know how inaccurate eyewitness accounts are," Nudger persisted.
That seemed to get Hammersmith mad. He lit the cigar. The office immediately fogged up. Even considering their hugeness, Hammersmith's cigars generated a tremendous amount of smoke in proportion to their size. And they burned fast, like fuses; sometimes their coarse tobacco even made a faint crackling sound. Yet they never seemed to burn down to butt size so they mercifully could be extinguished.
Nudger made his tone more amicable. "Mind if I look at the file on the Colt case?"
Hammersmith gazed thoughtfully at Nudger through a dense greenish haze. He inhaled, exhaled; the haze became a cloud. "How come this fiancee didn't turn up at the trial to testify for Colt? She could have at least lied and said he was with her locked in steamy sex that night. Hell, that's traditional."
The smoke was beginning to affect Nudger's stomach violently; he felt as if he ought to swallow, but he didn't allow it to happen. It made talking difficult. "Colt apparently didn't want her subjected to taking the stand," he said in an odd, phlegmy voice.
"How noble," Hammersmith said. "What makes this fiancee think her Prince Charming is innocent?"
"She knows he was somewhere else when the shopkeepers were shot."
"But not with her?"
"Nope."
"Well, that's refreshing."
Maybe it was refreshing enough to make up Hammersmith's mind. He picked up the phone and asked for the Colt file. Nudger could barely make out what he was saying around the fat cigar, but apparently everyone at the Third was used to Hammersmith and could interpret cigarese.
Nudger finally allowed himself to swallow. Yuk. Beyond the hazy office window, the summer air looked clear and sweet and shimmering, beckoning in bright sunlight. St. Louis, the Sultry City, had its alluring moments.
The file, which was mostly a mishmash of fan-fold computer paper, didn't reveal much that Nudger didn't know. Same account of the crime as was in the newspapers. Same eyewitness testimony, almost word for word. Twenty minutes after the liquorstore shooting, Colt was interrupted by officers Wayne Callister and Elvis Jefferson while buying cigarettes from a vending machine at a service station on Hanley Road. A car that had been parked near the end of the dimly lighted lot had sped away before they'd entered the station's office. Both Callister and Jefferson had gotten only a glimpse of a black or dark green old Ford; they hadn't made out the license-plate number, but Callister thought it started with the letter L.