"I have. I thought that might be because I'm getting older. Is that why we're here? So you can ask me about Ineida and Max?"
Sandra sipped her drink daintily now, aimed her amused eyes at him over the glass rim. "Mostly, that's why we're here. My husband's infidelities are nothing new to me. I think he's a victim of male menopause. Like a number of middle-aged men, he likes younger women."
"He shouldn't," Nudger said candidly.
She picked up the sincerity in his voice and smiled. "Thanks, Mr. Nudger; that lifts me up more than this drink." She cocked her head to the side and stared at him, as if suddenly her undivided attention had been captured. "What's your first name?"
"Aloysius. But everyone just calls me Nudger."
"Lucky you." She leaned away and draped a long arm over the back of the booth; there was something sweeping and elegant in the gesture. Something grand. "Well?"
"I think the answer is no."
Sandra laughed deep in her throat, throwing back her head and exposing large, perfectly aligned teeth that were slightly stained. She had a way of glancing out of the corner of her eye when she did that, reminding Nudger of a spirited thoroughbred filly tossing back its head. He again reflected that she shouldn't have been as attractive as she was; her appeal puzzled and intrigued him.
"Your husband, as far as I know, has never slept with Ineida Mann."
"How far do you know, Nudger?"
"Almost to the horizon. Are you well acquainted with Ineida?"
"No, not really. She's just another young face and body of the type Max seems to gather around him. Sometimes they respond to his advances and sometimes they don't. Let's face it, Nudger, a wife has a right to be suspicious when her husband is spending time with a woman named Ineida Mann. I know you've been asking questions about the girl; I figured you could tell me something about her."
"She isn't what she seems," Nudger said. "And I don't think she's at all interested in Max. She's involved with someone else."
"Who? That piano player, Hollister? What does that prove? She might take on more than one man in one night, for all I know. What kind of background does she have? How the hell did she come up with that schmucky stage name? Who the fuck is she?"
"She comes from a nice family"-Nudger almost choked on his Seven-Up-"and she's more naive than she, and most of the people who see her perform, would like to believe. She's a blues singer; she wants to give the impression that she knows something about the hard knocks and pain she's describing in her lyrics."
"Are you telling me she's using all that heat just to try to sell a song?"
Nudger nodded.
"Her act's a good one, then," Sandra said. "She doesn't exactly come across the footlights as Polly Pure." She drained her Scotch, signaled with a crook of a long finger to the husky barmaid, who had her back turned to watch soundless TV but caught the signal in the backbar mirror. "You want another Seven-Up, Nudger? I'm buying."
"No, thanks. Too much carbonation this time of day will set off my stomach."
"What's the matter with your stomach?"
"Nerves."
"Then you're in the wrong business, aren't you?"
"You betcha." He watched as Sandra's drink was replaced by a fresh one. "Have I put your mind at ease?"
"Somewhat," she said. "But then, my mind is usually more or less at ease."
"It doesn't seem as if your situation warrants that enviable state of tranquillity," Nudger told her.
"Why not? Because the marital scales are out of balance? But they're not; I see to that. My response to Max's philandering is to enjoy my own infidelities, Nudger. I believe in vengeance through orgasm."
Nudger breathed in some carbonation bubbles through his nose, coughed, and lowered his glass. "That's a, er, fascinating philosophy."
She was smiling broadly now, toying, in control of the game. "Are you deeply involved with anyone, Nudger?"
"Very much so." He stared at the languid curve of her long arm, the play of bright flesh along her throat as she tilted back her head to sip her Scotch. "Well, fairly involved."
"Max doesn't know about my affairs. And he's not observant enough to suspect, much less find out; these days his thought processes occur well below the belt line. I like it that way; I do things for my satisfaction, not his dissatisfaction. That's the difference between my affairs and his. Nobody gets hurt my way. Everything's agreed on beforehand; no strings attached to either party. Freedom's an exhilarating experience."
"If there is such a thing."
"Oh, there is, Nudger." She worked on her drink some more, then suddenly set the glass down as if she'd lost interest in it. "So? Does my way of coping with my husband's infidelities interest you?"
"Do you mean interest me in a personal way?"
"Of course."
Nudger thought hard about Claudia. It was difficult to bring her features into sharp focus in his mind.
"There isn't necessarily anything wrong or cheap about lust, Nudger."
"Hm, that's something to think about."
Smiling, she stood up, picking up the bar check to pay on her way out. "Then think about it."
Nudger watched her settle with the blond barmaid and walk out without looking back at him. He knew she was aware that he was staring; he could tell that by the measured cadence of her long-legged stride.
He sipped his Seven-Up. It tasted flat, now that Sandra Reckoner had gone. Instead of finishing his drink, he sat silently in the cool lounge, rotating his glass on its damp coaster. Thinking. Thinking.
XIV
Though plenty of interested parties had warned Nudger to stay away from Ineida Collins, everyone had neglected to tell him to give wide berth to Willy Hollister. After Nudger left his unsettling verbal joust with Sandra Reckoner, it was Hollister who claimed his interest.
Hollister lived on Rue St. Francois, within a few blocks of Ineida. Their apartments were similar. Hollister's was the end unit of a low, tan brick-and-stucco building that sat almost flush with the sidewalk. What yard there was had to be in the rear. Through the glossy-green low branches of a huge magnolia tree, Nudger saw some of the raw cedar fencing, weathered almost black, that sectioned off the back premises into private courtyards.
Hollister might be home, sleeping after his late-night gig at Fat Jack's. Nudger rapped on the wooden door three times, then casually leaned toward it and listened, trying to blank out the street sounds from his mind.
He heard no sound from inside. He straightened and turned his head slightly, looking around; no one on the street seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him. After a few seconds' wait, he idly gave the doorknob a twist.
It rotated all the way, giving a sharp click. The door opened about six inches on its own, because of weight and balance. Sort of an invitation. Nudger pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped quietly inside.
The apartment no doubt came furnished; it had that hodgepodge, multi-user look about it. The furniture was old but not too worn; some of it probably had antique value. Nudger thought the building's owner and Max Reckoner ought to get together and strike a deal. There was a milky- white vase on a shelf, not so unlike the vase Nudger had admired in Reckoner's office.
The floor in Hollister's apartment was dull hardwood where it showed around the borders of a faded blue carpet. Muted sunlight caught the faint fuzziness of dust on the wood surface and on the fancy corner molding; Hollister wasn't the best of housekeepers. From where Nudger stood he could see into the bedroom. The bed was unmade but empty.
The living room was dim. The wooden shutters on its windows were closed, allowing slanted light to filter in through narrow slits. Most of the illumination in the room came from the bedroom and a short hall that led to a bathroom, then to a small kitchen and sliding glass doors that opened to the courtyard.