obligation.”
“You don’t have a Louisiana PI license,” Livingston pointed out.
Nudger smiled. “I know. Nothing to be revoked.”
Livingston gave him a nasty little smirk, a man faintly annoyed but a long way from losing his temper. “There are consequences a lot more serious than having your investi gator’s license pulled, Nudger. Mr. Collins would prefer that you stay away from Ineida Mann.”
“You mean Ineida Collins.”
“I mean what I say.”
“David Collins already had someone deliver that brief but succinct message to me.”
“It’s not a message from anyone but me this time,” Livingston said. “I’m telling you this because I’m concerned about your safety while you’re within my jurisdiction. It’s part of my job.”
Nudger kept a straight face, stood up, and walked to the door and opened it. He said, “I appreciate your concern, Captain. Right now, I’ve got things to do.”
Livingston smiled with his mean little mouth. He didn’t seem rattled by Nudger’s impolite invitation to leave; he’d said what needed saying. He got up out of the armchair and adjusted his suit, smoothing the wrinkles from his pants and pulling the jacket straight with little jerks of the lapels. Nudger noticed that the suit hung on him just so and had to be tailored and expensive. No cop’s salary wardrobe for Livingston.
As he walked past Nudger, Livingston paused and said, “It’d behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger.”
“You don’t often hear the word ‘behoove’ anymore,” Nudger told him.
“ ‘Discern,’ either,” Livingston said. He went out and trod lightly down the hall toward the elevators, not looking back.
Nudger shut and locked the door. Then he went over to the bed, removed his shoes, and stretched out on his back on the mattress. He lay with his right hand behind his head, his left resting lightly on his stomach, which was not too steady. He sucked on an antacid tablet and studied the faint water stains on the ceiling in the corner directly above him. They were old but still damp, covered with a thin green film of mold. Looking at them reminded Nudger of the bayou.
It’d behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger .
He had to admit that Livingston had left him with solid parting advice.
And an added measure of worry.
XI I
he next morning Nudger drove the same cramped red subcompact, the matchbox the rental agency seemed to hold in reserve just for him, over to Magazine Street. It wasn’t the best part of town, hadn’t been for years. He found a parking place halfway down a block of tile-roofed, two-story buildings, each with intricately turned iron rail ings and long, second-floor balconies that looked too rickety to support much weight. There were a lot of potted plants on the balconies, and some outdoor furniture. Small magnolia trees grew from large, round concrete planters placed every fifty feet or so at the curb. Recent renovation and fresh paint tried hard, but couldn’t quite mask the fact that not long ago this had been a run-down neighborhood. That, and the liberal sprinkling of antique shops and small restaurants lining each side of the street, indicated that gentrification was underway here, the process by which a seedy neighborhood suddenly acquires character rather than undesirability, becomes trendy, and, eventually, outrageously expensive.
Nudger guessed that right now this block of Magazine Street was peopled by the mix of old, poorer residents afraid of change, and the new, young professional types, marking the area as trendy but not yet prohibitively overpriced. The longtime residents might still outnumber the newcomers. The rest of the Indians had to be run out before the home steaders would move here in large numbers.
He unfolded from the subcompact, stood on the sidewalk, and stretched the kinks from his spine. He hated little cars. Well, maybe not his comfortably well-worn Volkswagen Beetle back in St.
“You don’t have a Louisiana PI license,” Livingston pointed out.
Nudger smiled. “I know. Nothing to be revoked.”
Livingston gave him a nasty little smirk, a man faintly annoyed but a long way from losing his temper. “There are consequences a lot more serious than having your investi gator’s license pulled, Nudger. Mr. Collins would prefer that you stay away from Ineida Mann.”
“You mean Ineida Collins.”
“I mean what I say.”
“David Collins already had someone deliver that brief but succinct message to me.”
“It’s not a message from anyone but me this time,” Livingston said. “I’m telling you this because I’m concerned about your safety while you’re within my jurisdiction. It’s part of my job.”
Nudger kept a straight face, stood up, and walked to the door and opened it. He said, “I appreciate your concern, Captain. Right now, I’ve got things to do.”
Livingston smiled with his mean little mouth. He didn’t seem rattled by Nudger’s impolite invitation to leave; he’d said what needed saying. He got up out of the armchair and adjusted his suit, smoothing the wrinkles from his pants and pulling the jacket straight with little jerks of the lapels. Nudger noticed that the suit hung on him just so and had to be tailored and expensive. No cop’s salary wardrobe for Livingston.
As he walked past Nudger, Livingston paused and said, “It’d behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger.”
“You don’t often hear the word ‘behoove’ anymore,” Nudger told him.
“ ‘Discern,’ either,” Livingston said. He went out and trod lightly down the hall toward the elevators, not looking back.
Nudger shut and locked the door. Then he went over to the bed, removed his shoes, and stretched out on his back on the mattress. He lay with his right hand behind his head, his left resting lightly on his stomach, which was not too steady. He sucked on an antacid tablet and studied the faint water stains on the ceiling in the corner directly above him. They were old but still damp, covered with a thin green film of mold. Looking at them reminded Nudger of the bayou.
It’d behoove you to learn to discern friend from enemy, Nudger .
He had to admit that Livingston had left him with solid parting advice.
And an added measure of worry.
XI I
he next morning Nudger drove the same cramped red subcompact, the matchbox the rental agency seemed to hold in reserve just for him, over to Magazine Street. It wasn’t the best part of town, hadn’t been for years. He found a parking place halfway down a block of tile-roofed, two-story buildings, each with intricately turned iron rail ings and long, second-floor balconies that looked too rickety to support much weight. There were a lot of potted plants on the balconies, and some outdoor furniture. Small magnolia trees grew from large, round concrete planters placed every fifty feet or so at the curb. Recent renovation and fresh paint tried hard, but couldn’t quite mask the fact that not long ago this had been a run-down neighborhood. That, and the liberal sprinkling of antique shops and small restaurants lining each side of the street, indicated that gentrification was underway here, the process by which a seedy neighborhood suddenly acquires character rather than undesirability, becomes trendy, and, eventually, outrageously expensive.
Nudger guessed that right now this block of Magazine Street was peopled by the mix of old, poorer residents afraid of change, and the new, young professional types, marking the area as trendy but not yet prohibitively overpriced. The longtime residents might still outnumber the newcomers. The rest of the Indians had to be run out before the home steaders would move here in large numbers.
He unfolded from the subcompact, stood on the sidewalk, and stretched the kinks from his spine. He hated little cars. Well, maybe not his comfortably well-worn Volkswagen Beetle back in St.
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