Ride the Lightning (20 page)

As Nudger entered the building and climbed the stairs to Claudia’s apartment, the nattering of the radio outside faded from his consciousness.

At Claudia’s door, he cocked his head to the side and stood still, listening.

A violent thumping sound was coming from inside the apartment, and there were faint voices. And music. Some
thing heavy was striking the floor regularly, hard enough for Nudger to pick up vibrations out in the hall.

He slowly rotated the doorknob and pushed in on the door. There was no give; it was locked. He fished his key from his pocket, inserted it in the lock, and twisted. Then he quietly opened the door a few inches and peered inside.

The first thing he saw was a husky, perspiring man standing with his fists on his hips. He was wearing only sweat-stained red jogging shorts, and he was staring down at the floor, at something out of Nudger’s line of sight, grinning with handsome animal savagery. Nudger edged the door open an inch wider and saw the bare feet and legs of a woman lying on the carpet.

He threw the door full open and stepped inside, hearing the knob crack a chunk of plaster out of the wall.

“Nudger!” Claudia said.

Bare arms and legs flailed and she scrambled to her feet. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt lettered
STOWE SCHOOL
across the chest. She was breathing hard.

The man continued to stand hands-on-hips, jut-jawed, and healthy enough to die of rosy cheeks. He was staring inquisitively at Nudger.

Claudia raked her fingers straight back through her tangled dark hair, moved to the stereo, and switched off the soft-porn rock number that was throbbing through the speakers.

Silence now. Heavy. Nudger experienced a falling sensation.

“We were doing aerobics,” Claudia said. There was a bead of perspiration on the very tip of her nose. “This is Biff

Archway. Biff, this is—”

“Aerobics?” Nudger interrupted.

“Sure,” Archway said. “Aerobic exercises.” He glanced over at Claudia’s rapidly rising and falling chest. “Great for the heart and lungs.”

Archway looked almost exactly as Nudger had imagined: medium height with a weight lifter’s tapered body, clean-featured and aggressively handsome in the way of a college football hero grown to middle age and taking the best care of himself. Just a hell of a guy. Nudger noticed the living room had about it a musky smell of stale perspiration, like the bedroom after he and Claudia had made love.

“Claudia and I know each other from Stowe School,” Archway said amiably.

Nudger nodded. “I know. You teach sex education out there. Isn’t that the sort of thing that requires research?”

Archway looked again at Claudia, as if for some sort of signal to let him know how to treat this unwelcome intruder. Beyond him Nudger saw Claudia’s clothes, including her panties and bra, laid out neatly on the sofa.

“Did the two of you change clothes in here?” he asked.

“I did,” Claudia said. “Biff changed in the bedroom.” She’d regained her composure and was giving Nudger her dark cautioning look. He was angering and embarrassing her. “Try to keep from making an ass of yourself,” she told him.

“Too late for that,” Nudger said. He knew that was true.

“Listen, sport,” Archway said, stepping toward Nudger.

“Out!” Nudger said sharply, gripping him firmly by the arm. “Time for everyone named Biff to leave.”

Archway didn’t budge. Nudger was surprised by the hardness of the upper arm he was trying to clamp his fingers around.

“Don’t!” Claudia warned. “Biff has a brown belt in karate, Nudger. Please, take it easy!”

Easy, hell! Nudger thought. He hunkered down and tried to push Archway toward the door. Archway shifted his weight subtly and Nudger stumbled a few feet beyond him, grasping empty air as he caught his balance. So the guy knew judo too, apparently.

“I suggest that you should be the one to leave,” Archway said calmly.

Nudger charged him, swung with a looping right hand, found himself upside down in the air, then on his back on the floor.

All so sudden.

“Time for Nudger to leave,” Archway said.

“Don’t hurt him, Biff!” Claudia pleaded.

That got Nudger furious. He was on his feet again, moving in on Archway in a crouch. He shot out a straight left jab. Archway somehow grabbed his wrist, yanked, and Nudger found himself on the other side of the room.

“I’m finding it harder and harder not to hurt this jerk,” Archway said. He assumed a distinctly Oriental fighting stance; even his features suddenly appeared Oriental.

Nudger went at him again. Archway shouted something that sounded like “Hii-yah!”

Nudger saw him shift his body sideways, then drop low and extend a hip. Archway had a hand beneath Nudger’s arm, against his side, and Nudger was in the air, again about to land hard on his back. His injured rib seemed to catch fire and he drew in a breath that was almost a harsh scream. A lamp that must have been teetering on the edge of a table finally fell and dangled half on the floor by its stretched cord.

Something seemed to have snapped at the base of Nudger’s spine this flight.

“Hey, you got some kind of bandage wrapped around you,” Archway said, as if annoyed that he’d been tricked into not playing fair. “You better take it easy, sport.”

Nudger got up slowly, a fist doubled behind him and pressed to the small of his back. He limped to the door, pain jolting through him with each step.

“Nudger!” Claudia called.

But Nudger was into the hall, on his way down the stairs. Archway was saying something he couldn’t understand. Didn’t want to hear, anyway.

Claudia again: “Damn you, Nudger, come back here!”

He could still hear her calling to him as he pushed through the vestibule door and lurched across the street to his car. Some of the neighbors stopped polishing and mowing to look.

He drove a few blocks down the street, then pulled to the curb. His side and back had almost stopped hurting. Now his hands were trembling; he was too upset to drive farther. He sat in the parked Volkswagen, glad that it was darker and people couldn’t see the rage and humiliation that he knew were distorting his features.

This was one of the few times he wished he owned a gun. He knew that any other weapon against Archway would probably be useless, or turned against him. But a gun, death from ten feet away with the twitch of a finger on the trigger, almost as impersonal as fate, that was different. So very different. Thunder and deadly destiny. Archway could do nothing against that.

Nudger imagined the two of them, Archway and Claudia, turning their heads, surprised to see him again as he burst into the apartment. He could see their startled expressions, the fear in Archway’s wide eyes when he saw the gun in Nudger’s hand. Maybe he’d beg. Crawl. Maybe the bastard—

Nudger shook himself. “Jesus! . . .” he whispered harshly. What was he thinking? What was he considering?

And he was glad he didn’t own a gun. He might have killed Archway.

He actually might have
.

He wiped his hand over his perspiring face. There was no real difference between him and Curtis Colt, he realized. No difference.

A teenage boy and girl strolled past on the sidewalk, walking with difficulty because their arms were around each other, and stared at Nudger.

He felt sick. He started the engine and drove home.

XX
V

hen he got back to his apartment, Nudger stretched out on the sofa with the light out and

worked at feeling sorry for himself.

It was even less difficult than he’d anticipated. Things had been piling up lately, bearing down on him. He thought about calling Candy Ann at the Ramada Inn, but Siberling might be there. A phone call was a bad idea, anyway, he decided. He knew he was in no condition to cheer up any
one. Right now, he was probably the last person who should talk to Candy Ann.

He lay thinking of how he might have handled Archway if only he’d thought to tackle the man and drag him down, wrestle with him, maybe even put some of those TV wrestling holds on him, the Bavarian Claw, or the Neutron Spinal Twist, not give him a chance to do his dancing act where the finale was Nudger soaring through the air. But he knew, really, that the younger and more powerful Archway would probably have subdued him in a wrestling match easily, and maybe even more painfully. The wholesome bastard probably ran ten miles a day. Probably lifted
weights. Probably ate weights. Claudia could really pick them.

Claudia . . . He veered his mind away from Claudia, away from that kind of agony. He tried to think about Cur
tis Colt, a man with troubles that made Nudger’s seem trivial. But that wasn’t much help. He, Nudger, was Nudger, and Colt was Colt and so not of as much concern. Suffering was a solitary exercise. That was how wars and executions worked.

Around midnight, Nudger’s side and back stopped throbbing. He rolled onto his left side, managed to work his body into a reasonably comfortable position, and finally fell asleep.

In the morning, he limped into the bathroom and showered. The steam and the stinging hot water relieved him of some of his stiffness. Gradually increasing the temperature of the water, he stayed in the stifling shower stall until he could barely breathe and had to get out. The outer bathroom, which was probably over ninety degrees, felt refreshingly cool in contrast as Nudger stepped over the edge of the tub.

He toweled dry slowly, and was walking okay by the time he’d finished dressing.

It was eight-thirty, half an hour away from Curtis Colt’s execution. Nudger got Mr. Coffee going, then went into the living room and called Candy Ann at the Ramada Inn. He thought about what Harold Benedict had said about the apartment phone possibly being tapped, but he didn’t give a damn. Not at the moment.

Siberling answered the phone in Room 220. Nudger couldn’t help wondering if the Napoleonic little lawyer had spent the night there, found himself a Josephine. He mentally kicked himself for thinking that way, blaming it on his

painful experience of last night at Claudia’s.

“Where’s Candy Ann?” he asked.

“She’s working at the Right Steer,” Siberling said. “The media aren’t covering the place now, or her trailer. They figure she’s in hiding, and they know the story, as far as she’s concerned, is going to end very soon. There’ll be plenty of time to aggravate her later for in-depth interviews, if anybody’s still interested.”

“Is the story going to end?” Nudger asked.

“Scalla has half an hour to change his mind,” Siberling said, “but he isn’t going to. He’s an eye-for-an-eye kind of fella. Curtis is as good as gone.”

“Did you tell Candy Ann that?”

“No, I advised her to treat today as she would any other, to have faith that it was just another stage in the climb to Curtis Colt’s eventual retrial. She’s better off thinking that way and working, keeping busy, instead of sitting around suffering like Curtis.”

“She’ll learn about his death while she’s waiting tables,” Nudger said. The mundaneness of that bothered him. Sweet rolls, cream for the coffee, and Death.

“She’ll learn,” Siberling said, “then she’ll probably take a cab home and weep. She’ll get over it, Nudger. She’s young, and stronger than you think. She’ll recover, and we did everything we could. Life will keep dealing people shitty cards, the world will keep turning. Case closed. Or it will be in . . . twenty-five minutes now.”

Siberling had finally lost interest and enthusiasm. Already he was thinking about his next case on his road to wherever his career might take him. Maybe he was being hard, maybe just sensible. Nudger wished he could be like that.

After hanging up on Siberling, he walked around the apartment, staring out the windows at nothing. It occurred to him that he’d never washed the outside storm windows. No one had. Whose responsibility were they? What was in the lease about that? He’d never thought about it before, and he wondered why it was worrying him now. He went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. Might as well get really jittery.

He tried to take Siberling’s advice to Candy Ann and treat this like any other morning.

Not looking at the clock, he began preparing breakfast.

He heated the frying pan, sprayed it with Pam, and broke two eggs into it. Then he slid two pieces of bread in the toaster and pushed down on the handle.

Orange juice. He told himself he wanted some orange juice.

On the way to the refrigerator, he switched on the radio on the counter. It was tuned to one of those twenty-fourhour all-talk stations. He tried not to think about what they’d soon have to talk about. Right now an astrologer was explaining how the stars could affect our ability to make love.

Nudger poured a glass of juice and returned to stand over the sizzling eggs. He noticed he’d broken one of the yolks and it had run in a pattern that resembled the state of Missouri. What the hell could that mean? Was it some kind of omen? Maybe he ought to call the astrologer at the station and find out about this. But then that wasn’t her specialty; she read stars, not eggs.