Besides, I don’t like getting instructions from machines. But I’d have called you back because sometimes you pay me money.”
“You’re a throwback to the primeval days before microchips.”
Nudger had no reply for that. Pointless to deny. Lawyers.
Benedict told him a guy named Cal Smith had an insurance disability claim in for a back injury sustained on his job as a warehouse worker. The insurance company was a Benedict and Schill client, and Benedict didn’t think Smith’s back was really injured or that his client should pay the claim. A hard man was Benedict. And a devious one. He wanted Nudger to do some camera work.
Nudger had done this sort of thing before for Benedict and Schill. He wrote Smith’s address on his desk pad, then hung up the phone.
Smith, he thought, sitting back in his chair. Maybe the most common name of all, the butt of low-comedy motel jokes. Nothing like the improbable Biff Archway. Nudger swallowed a bitter taste on the edges of his tongue. His stomach stirred like a cranky, disturbed beast. Was there really someone named Biff Archway?
But he knew there was, and that the person so named wore ties that found their way into Claudia’s bedroom.
Nudger wondered what was the full given name of someone called Biff. He’d have to ask Claudia. And what would a Biff look like? Nudger had a good idea of that: a medium-height, chesty guy, with a firm jaw, clear eyes, and all-American charm. That was a Biff, all right. A regular guy John Wayne would have liked instantly.
Anger—no, not anger, jealousy—flared for a moment, but he pushed it away to a far corner of his mind where it could fester quietly while he went about his business. Claudia was right, he knew. She and Nudger weren’t married or engaged, so maybe this was to be expected. She’d been a bird with a broken wing when he met her. He’d helped to heal the wing, and now she could fly. And maybe she wanted to soar for a while. Maybe it was as simple as that: the blood talking. Or the hormones.
Nudger peeled back the silver foil on a roll of antacid tablets and thumbed two of the chalky white disks onto his tongue. He chomped down on them hard, chewing loudly in the quiet, dimly lit office. The occasional whisper of traffic from the street below was the only reminder of an outside world.
It occurred to Nudger that perhaps Dr. Oliver, Claudia’s analyst, who had helped her to get over the scars of her marriage to Ralph, had advised her to see other men. Part of her therapy. Oliver would do that, and the hell with Nudger if he thought it would help Claudia.
Or maybe this Biff Archway really was just a fellow teacher who’d been in the neighborhood and felt he should drop by to see a co-worker. Possibly he was a scrawny little wimp who loved only his mother. Little acne-pitted guy with an Oedipus complex. Could be. What the heck, give him crooked teeth and bad breath.
Nudger realized he was squeezing the edge of the desk so hard that his hands ached. His nails were dead-white out near the very tips of his fingers.
He loosened his grip and laughed out loud at himself. It was too loud and didn’t sound like genuine laughter, but he told himself it should be genuine. He was acting like a paranoid adolescent jilted on the night of the prom.
The hell with this, he thought. He would phone Claudia and apologize to her for his fit of juvenile jealousy. They would talk for a while, come to an understanding, and he’d feel better.
He picked up the receiver again and tapped out her number.
Claudia’s phone rang ten times. She wasn’t home.
Nudger hung up. “Bullshit!” he said, loud enough to startle himself. He swallowed the jagged chunks of antacid tablet. They hurt his throat.
“You shouldn’t oughta curse.”
The squat, ugly little man who was standing a few feet inside the door wasn’t joking. Simple sincerity oozed from him. He must have moved with supernatural quiet; Nudger looked closely to make sure his visitor
“You’re a throwback to the primeval days before microchips.”
Nudger had no reply for that. Pointless to deny. Lawyers.
Benedict told him a guy named Cal Smith had an insurance disability claim in for a back injury sustained on his job as a warehouse worker. The insurance company was a Benedict and Schill client, and Benedict didn’t think Smith’s back was really injured or that his client should pay the claim. A hard man was Benedict. And a devious one. He wanted Nudger to do some camera work.
Nudger had done this sort of thing before for Benedict and Schill. He wrote Smith’s address on his desk pad, then hung up the phone.
Smith, he thought, sitting back in his chair. Maybe the most common name of all, the butt of low-comedy motel jokes. Nothing like the improbable Biff Archway. Nudger swallowed a bitter taste on the edges of his tongue. His stomach stirred like a cranky, disturbed beast. Was there really someone named Biff Archway?
But he knew there was, and that the person so named wore ties that found their way into Claudia’s bedroom.
Nudger wondered what was the full given name of someone called Biff. He’d have to ask Claudia. And what would a Biff look like? Nudger had a good idea of that: a medium-height, chesty guy, with a firm jaw, clear eyes, and all-American charm. That was a Biff, all right. A regular guy John Wayne would have liked instantly.
Anger—no, not anger, jealousy—flared for a moment, but he pushed it away to a far corner of his mind where it could fester quietly while he went about his business. Claudia was right, he knew. She and Nudger weren’t married or engaged, so maybe this was to be expected. She’d been a bird with a broken wing when he met her. He’d helped to heal the wing, and now she could fly. And maybe she wanted to soar for a while. Maybe it was as simple as that: the blood talking. Or the hormones.
Nudger peeled back the silver foil on a roll of antacid tablets and thumbed two of the chalky white disks onto his tongue. He chomped down on them hard, chewing loudly in the quiet, dimly lit office. The occasional whisper of traffic from the street below was the only reminder of an outside world.
It occurred to Nudger that perhaps Dr. Oliver, Claudia’s analyst, who had helped her to get over the scars of her marriage to Ralph, had advised her to see other men. Part of her therapy. Oliver would do that, and the hell with Nudger if he thought it would help Claudia.
Or maybe this Biff Archway really was just a fellow teacher who’d been in the neighborhood and felt he should drop by to see a co-worker. Possibly he was a scrawny little wimp who loved only his mother. Little acne-pitted guy with an Oedipus complex. Could be. What the heck, give him crooked teeth and bad breath.
Nudger realized he was squeezing the edge of the desk so hard that his hands ached. His nails were dead-white out near the very tips of his fingers.
He loosened his grip and laughed out loud at himself. It was too loud and didn’t sound like genuine laughter, but he told himself it should be genuine. He was acting like a paranoid adolescent jilted on the night of the prom.
The hell with this, he thought. He would phone Claudia and apologize to her for his fit of juvenile jealousy. They would talk for a while, come to an understanding, and he’d feel better.
He picked up the receiver again and tapped out her number.
Claudia’s phone rang ten times. She wasn’t home.
Nudger hung up. “Bullshit!” he said, loud enough to startle himself. He swallowed the jagged chunks of antacid tablet. They hurt his throat.
“You shouldn’t oughta curse.”
The squat, ugly little man who was standing a few feet inside the door wasn’t joking. Simple sincerity oozed from him. He must have moved with supernatural quiet; Nudger looked closely to make sure his visitor
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