Louis, which at least had head room. He had bumped his head twice crossing railroad tracks in this little torture device on wheels.
From the sagging balcony above, a gray, tiger-striped cat observed him with calm disdain. Nudger clucked his tongue at the cat, which caused the animal to blink twice slowly. Nudger wished he had the cat’s composure and handle on life.
He decided to leave his sportjacket in the car, and walked down the sidewalk while rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. It was more muggy than hot this morning, but he figured that by noon the heat would catch up with the humidity and turn the city into the sauna of the South.
He stopped beneath a tall yellow sign that proclaimed the shop beneath it to be GOLDEN OLDENS . Nudger had gathered from the New Orleans phone directory that this shop was the flagship of the four Golden Oldens antique shops, and the logical place to find Max Reckoner. As with Judman, he’d decided against phoning for an appointment; it was seldom enlightening to interview people who’d had a chance to prepare for the conversation.
Nudger pushed open a grained oak door that boasted a leaded glass window and entered the shop.
He was in a large, pleasantly cool room with a glossy bare wood floor. An air conditioner was humming steadily somewhere nearby, and from the high, white ceiling hung four fans with wide, slowly rotating wicker blades, surely moving too lazily to stir the air. The antiques in the place ran heavily to burled walnut, inlaid marble, cut glass, and gleaming Victorian furniture that looked as if just yesterday it had sprung from the gnarled hands of loving craftsmen. Not the kind of antique shop you’d duck into on impulse with ten dollars to shore up your beer-can collection.
Nudger stood enjoying the scent of lemon oil and old wood, while a huge porcelain Chinese dragon with its tongue lolling out leered at him.
A small man with dainty, effeminate features and immaculately styled short blond hair walked around a ten-foot-tall secretary-desk and smiled at Nudger. Apparently the door touched off some sort of signal when a customer entered the shop.
“Yes, sir?” the clerk said. He was wearing a well-cut beige suit with a vest, and incredibly fancy yellow moccasins with white rawhide tassels. There were moccasins and then there were moccasins. If these were made by real Indians, they were rich Indians. This is an expensive place, said his clothes and his bearing.
“Is Max Reckoner in?” Nudger asked, absently resting a hand on the glistening green head of the Chinese dragon. The clerk’s large blue eyes flicked reproachfully to the offending hand and Nudger removed it and stuffed it into his pocket as if to punish it.
“I believe he’s in his office,” the clerk said. His delicate face was stiff and appeared oddly waxy. He wasn’t a man who smiled more than a few times a year. “Who shall I say wants him? And what’s your business with Mr. Reckoner?”
“My name is Nudger. I’m a private detective. So naturally I’d like to talk to Mr. Reckoner about a private matter.”
“Naturally,” the clerk said equably, too quick on his tasseled moccasins to be thrown. “Please wait here.” He pivoted like a dancer on his left toe and sashayed down a row of looming, curvaceous furniture, then rounded a corner and was gone. Right back into the nineteenth century. Nudger heard a door open and close down the corridor of time. Or maybe it was the door to Reckoner’s office, right here in this century.
He stood quietly waiting, studying a collection of Civil War swords mounted on a wall. The South would never rise again if it had to rearm at these prices. The seconds passed, maybe four score and seven. He got tired of swords and watched the rich and poor and blacks and whites and tourists and young urban pioneers walk back and forth on the street beyond the hanging plants in the Golden Oldens’ narrow, yellow-tinted shop windows. There sure were a lot
From the sagging balcony above, a gray, tiger-striped cat observed him with calm disdain. Nudger clucked his tongue at the cat, which caused the animal to blink twice slowly. Nudger wished he had the cat’s composure and handle on life.
He decided to leave his sportjacket in the car, and walked down the sidewalk while rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. It was more muggy than hot this morning, but he figured that by noon the heat would catch up with the humidity and turn the city into the sauna of the South.
He stopped beneath a tall yellow sign that proclaimed the shop beneath it to be GOLDEN OLDENS . Nudger had gathered from the New Orleans phone directory that this shop was the flagship of the four Golden Oldens antique shops, and the logical place to find Max Reckoner. As with Judman, he’d decided against phoning for an appointment; it was seldom enlightening to interview people who’d had a chance to prepare for the conversation.
Nudger pushed open a grained oak door that boasted a leaded glass window and entered the shop.
He was in a large, pleasantly cool room with a glossy bare wood floor. An air conditioner was humming steadily somewhere nearby, and from the high, white ceiling hung four fans with wide, slowly rotating wicker blades, surely moving too lazily to stir the air. The antiques in the place ran heavily to burled walnut, inlaid marble, cut glass, and gleaming Victorian furniture that looked as if just yesterday it had sprung from the gnarled hands of loving craftsmen. Not the kind of antique shop you’d duck into on impulse with ten dollars to shore up your beer-can collection.
Nudger stood enjoying the scent of lemon oil and old wood, while a huge porcelain Chinese dragon with its tongue lolling out leered at him.
A small man with dainty, effeminate features and immaculately styled short blond hair walked around a ten-foot-tall secretary-desk and smiled at Nudger. Apparently the door touched off some sort of signal when a customer entered the shop.
“Yes, sir?” the clerk said. He was wearing a well-cut beige suit with a vest, and incredibly fancy yellow moccasins with white rawhide tassels. There were moccasins and then there were moccasins. If these were made by real Indians, they were rich Indians. This is an expensive place, said his clothes and his bearing.
“Is Max Reckoner in?” Nudger asked, absently resting a hand on the glistening green head of the Chinese dragon. The clerk’s large blue eyes flicked reproachfully to the offending hand and Nudger removed it and stuffed it into his pocket as if to punish it.
“I believe he’s in his office,” the clerk said. His delicate face was stiff and appeared oddly waxy. He wasn’t a man who smiled more than a few times a year. “Who shall I say wants him? And what’s your business with Mr. Reckoner?”
“My name is Nudger. I’m a private detective. So naturally I’d like to talk to Mr. Reckoner about a private matter.”
“Naturally,” the clerk said equably, too quick on his tasseled moccasins to be thrown. “Please wait here.” He pivoted like a dancer on his left toe and sashayed down a row of looming, curvaceous furniture, then rounded a corner and was gone. Right back into the nineteenth century. Nudger heard a door open and close down the corridor of time. Or maybe it was the door to Reckoner’s office, right here in this century.
He stood quietly waiting, studying a collection of Civil War swords mounted on a wall. The South would never rise again if it had to rearm at these prices. The seconds passed, maybe four score and seven. He got tired of swords and watched the rich and poor and blacks and whites and tourists and young urban pioneers walk back and forth on the street beyond the hanging plants in the Golden Oldens’ narrow, yellow-tinted shop windows. There sure were a lot