ball.”
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.
XII I
udger 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 con scious 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 par ties, 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
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.
XII I
udger 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 con scious 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 par ties, 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
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