The Right To Sing the Blues by John Lutz Page B

of plants in this neighborhood.
    “This way, Mr. Nudger,” the clerk said behind him.
    Nudger jumped, his attention yanked back inside the shop.
    He followed the young clerk down the aisle he’d seen him go down previously, flanked by dark old desks, bookcases, wardrobes, and fancy breakfronts. Everything in the shop other than Nudger and the clerk seemed to have claw feet, and Nudger couldn’t be sure about the clerk.
    The clerk opened a red-lacquered door and ushered Nudger into a spacious, red-carpeted office dominated by a massive Queen Anne desk. Three of the walls were paneled in rich dark walnut; on a fourth wall were a bank of black file cabinets and a table supporting an IBM personal computer. Max Reasoner sat behind the desk, almost dwarfed by it, though he was a rangy six-footer. His beard looked as if it had just been trimmed, and it matched perfectly the gray of his elegant sport jacket. The curve-stemmed pipe lay propped in an antique glass-and-iron ashtray on the desk. Reckoner stood up smoothly, a middleaged guy in good shape, maybe a jogger, and extended his hand toward Nudger.
    As they shook hands, Reckoner said off to the side, “Thank you, Norman,” and the clerk left the office on little cat feet and closed the door behind him.
    “I believe I saw you at Fat Jack’s,” Reckoner said amiably. He motioned for Nudger to sit down in one of the deep, leather-upholstered chairs before the desk.
    Nudger sat, watching Reckoner lower himself easily into his big desk chair. It was modern, yet somehow looked as if it belonged behind the antique desk. “I guess we’re both jazz fans,” Nudger said.
    Reckoner picked up the curve-stemmed pipe, toyed with it, then placed it back in the ashtray. There was self-assurance even in that gesture. He was quite the sophisticate, but he wore it well; it seemed as natural to him as if he’d been born and raised in a big manor house in antebellum Louisiana. His accent, strangely enough, sounded more British than Southern.
    “To the point, Mr. Nudger. I understand you’ve been asking questions about Ineida Mann.”
    To the point it would be. “True,” Nudger said.
    “Why?”
    “Do you mean why isn’t it any of your concern?”
    Reckoner smiled. It was a nice smile, his handsome face seamed with deep laugh lines. A man like this could enhance his reputation as a nice guy even as he was pulling a knife from your back. All in the smile. “It is my concern,” he said. “I’m interested in Ineida’s career. She’s a very sweet, very talented young woman.”
    He seemed to mean it about the talent, so Nudger decided to leave it alone.
    Reckoner leaned slightly forward over the wide expanse of old desk. “You told Norman you’re a private detective. I assume someone hired you in regard to Ineida. Would it be contrary to your professional code to reveal the name of your employer?”
    “It would without my client’s permission,” Nudger said.
    “Is Ineida in some sort of trouble? She isn’t getting rich singing at Fat Jack’s; I’m prepared to help her out financially if that has anything to do with her problem.”
    “She doesn’t need financial assistance,” Nudger assured Reckoner. “Actually I came here to ask you just what your relationship with her is, and what you think of her relationship with Willy Hollister.”
    Reckoner shrugged inside the elegant gray jacket. In the way of quality tailoring, it seemed to shrug with him, as if adopting the mood of whoever wore it were part of the bargain. “I just described my relationship with Ineida; she’s a fine young person I’d like to help. I have the means to assist her in her singing career, so why shouldn’t I do just that?”
    “No reason not to,” Nudger said. “If that’s as far as your interest in her goes.”
    Reckoner leaned back and smiled, this time sagely and tolerantly. It made Nudger want to punch him. “Are you moralizing, Mr. Nudger?”
    “Not at all. Only speculating. A pretty