Nightlines by John Lutz Page A

Nudger found admirable.
    Almost as soon as Frank had gone, Sandy showed up.
    “Ah’ll b’damned,” Nudger muttered, as he saw that Sandy actually was wearing glistening black vinyl boots and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat with a chrome-studded band. He also had on black vinyl wristbands, remarkably tight-fitting jeans, and a bright plaid western-cut shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, as if he’d just been out mending fence, and instead of a pistol on his hip a massive ring of keys dangled from his belt and faintly jingle-jangle-jingled when he walked. From beneath his hat, which was shoved back on his head, protruded long blond hair. Sandy brushed back a strand of it to reveal briefly a gold stud in his left ear. Some buckaroo.
    Nudger’s momentary hope died as he surreptitiously studied Sandy more carefully. Though the wrangler’s hair was blond, it was fine and perfectly straight. And the hand Sandy was using to rotate a tattered toothpick between his front teeth was so dainty he probably needed help turning doorknobs. Nudger sighed and stood up from the hard bench. Sandy was no more a murderer than he was a cowboy.
    As Nudger walked past him, their eyes met and Nudger nodded pleasantly. He had nothing against Sandy; life was tough on and off the prairie. He hoped Sandy could someday work his way up to real leather. This was the land of sexual opportunity for almost everyone other than cattle. He wondered what all the urban cowboys or preppies would studiously dress up as next. Maybe giant chickens. Whatever they could be sold. It was all okay with Nudger, who wore white J. C. Penney underwear.
    Nudger left the mall and stood for a few seconds staring at the vast sloping parking lot and the rows of brightly colored car roofs glinting in the sun like newly dyed Easter eggs. It always took him a while in places like this to remember where he’d parked his car. At one time he’d had one of those plastic bananas on top of the Volkswagen’s antenna so he could spot the car easier in crowded lots. But the banana caused the antenna to whip around in the wind when he drove fast, and it was not unobtrusive enough during stakeouts, so he had abandoned it. Maybe he’d get one of those plastic daisies for the antenna; you used to see as many of them as you did the bananas, but not anymore.
    He remembered then: halfway up the aisle straight down from the “G” in DRUGSTORE . He found the Volkswagen hiding behind a fancy travel van, got in and rolled down the windows to allow some of the superheated air to escape, and then drove from the lot.
    On Manchester Road, halfway back to the office, he became increasingly interested in the old Buick that had been lumbering along behind him for the past two miles. He made a few turns, a slight detour that brought him back to Manchester Road, traveling in the same direction.
    The Buick remained behind him, its weary chrome face smiling a sad and implacable gape-grilled grin.
    Nudger reached for his antacid tablets and thumbed back the aluminum foil. He made it a double, chewing the two tablets in time with the clattering tempo of the engine as he drove toward the Third District Police Station.
    Periodic checks in the rearview mirror indicated that the Buick was steady on the pace, perhaps even closer, still grinning knowingly at him like a wily, patient predator. This must be what Satchel Paige had warned about. Nudger’s stomach turned in on itself like one of the legendary black pitcher’s hard curveballs.
    He speeded up. The Buick gained speed as if attached by a string to the Volkswagen’s rear bumper. The old car’s windshield was tinted and Nudger couldn’t get so much as a glimpse of the driver, but he had a firm idea of who might be behind the wheel.
    Nudger took the sweeping cloverleaf onto the highway to downtown, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and holding his speed at a steady, legal fifty-five. The Buick