smelled worse than the stairwell, but different. It had about it that unmistakable acrid odor of perspiration and futility that suggested illness. Nudger stopped and stood still, as if he’d been hit, when the heat and stench of the place reached him.
The curtains on the single window were pulled almost closed. Squinting in the dim light, Nudger saw an unmoving figure seated in a small chair alongside the window. For a moment he thought he’d walked in on a corpse, then the figure jerked slightly and turned a lean, silhouetted head to stare at him.
“Billy?” Nudger said.
“You askin’ or tellin’?” came a high-pitched, weary voice from the chair. It was a voice that had been made monotonal by pain.
“It’s Nudger, Billy. I used to come hear you play at Rush’s a few years back. We had some drinks together. I did some work for you once.”
“Few years back, shit,” Billy Weep said. “That’s been eight years ago I had you follow Laverne.”
Nudger thought about it. Maybe it had been that long since Billy had hired him to get the evidence he’d needed to divorce the wife he didn’t trust. It had been one of Nudger’s easier tasks, until a strung-out trumpet player had leapt out of Laverne Weep’s bed and tried to strangle him. Laverne had joined the struggle, wielding a high-heeled shoe like a club. Nudger had barely gotten out of there alive and still had scars from that night.
“Where’d you get my address?” Billy asked.
“The Musicians’ Association down on Fifty-ninth Street. I had to talk it out of them; don’t you want to be found?”
“Not these days.”
“Why not?”
“These days ain’t the old days.” A thin, almost twiglike arm rose against the faint light and pulled open the curtains. “Arther-itis,” Billy said, holding up his hands in the sunlight so Nudger could see them clearly. The long, slender fingers that had once danced on Billy’s alto sax keys were unbelievably contorted. Billy flexed the pathetic fingers to show Nudger that they wouldn’t meet the palms of his hands. “Arther-itis is a bitch, Nudger.”
Nudger tried to keep the pity from pulling at his face. It wasn’t only Billy’s hands that looked bad. The man himself couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds, most of that flesh-draped, protruding bone. Billy Weep, who had done magic on the sax, didn’t look now as if he had the strength even to stand up with the heavy instrument. Arthritis is a bitch, all right, Nudger thought. Time is a bitch. Eventually, for all of us.
He looked around at the steamy, disheveled apartment. He didn’t see what he’d expected, but then the place was still dim, even with the opened curtains. “You been drinking, Billy?”
“No,” Billy said, “not drink.”
Nudger walked over to stand nearer to the old, old man of fifty-two. “I’ll speak straight with you,” he said.
“You always did, Nudger.”
“You look like death not even warmed over. You killing yourself on something, Billy?”
“Maybe.” Narrow, bony shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. Billy turned to stare out the window and the slanted morning light fell across his harshly lined thin face. They were not good lines, not laugh lines. “It don’t make me no difference, Nudger. Shouldn’t make you none.”
Which was Billy’s way of suggesting that Nudger mind his own business. Which was what Nudger did.
“Ever hear of a piano player named Willy Hollister?” he asked. He looked past Billy out the window. Nice view. A boarded-up store next to an auto body shop that seemed to do most of its work outdoors. Three cars were up on blocks near the sidewalk, missing various fenders, hoods, and wheels.
“I heard of him,” Billy said.
A lithe young black man lowered himself onto a wheeled creeper and got himself comfortable on his back, then kicked his way under a car. Nudger waited. Billy’s mind was probably in the same sad shape as his hands; he might need time to think.
“White boy,
The curtains on the single window were pulled almost closed. Squinting in the dim light, Nudger saw an unmoving figure seated in a small chair alongside the window. For a moment he thought he’d walked in on a corpse, then the figure jerked slightly and turned a lean, silhouetted head to stare at him.
“Billy?” Nudger said.
“You askin’ or tellin’?” came a high-pitched, weary voice from the chair. It was a voice that had been made monotonal by pain.
“It’s Nudger, Billy. I used to come hear you play at Rush’s a few years back. We had some drinks together. I did some work for you once.”
“Few years back, shit,” Billy Weep said. “That’s been eight years ago I had you follow Laverne.”
Nudger thought about it. Maybe it had been that long since Billy had hired him to get the evidence he’d needed to divorce the wife he didn’t trust. It had been one of Nudger’s easier tasks, until a strung-out trumpet player had leapt out of Laverne Weep’s bed and tried to strangle him. Laverne had joined the struggle, wielding a high-heeled shoe like a club. Nudger had barely gotten out of there alive and still had scars from that night.
“Where’d you get my address?” Billy asked.
“The Musicians’ Association down on Fifty-ninth Street. I had to talk it out of them; don’t you want to be found?”
“Not these days.”
“Why not?”
“These days ain’t the old days.” A thin, almost twiglike arm rose against the faint light and pulled open the curtains. “Arther-itis,” Billy said, holding up his hands in the sunlight so Nudger could see them clearly. The long, slender fingers that had once danced on Billy’s alto sax keys were unbelievably contorted. Billy flexed the pathetic fingers to show Nudger that they wouldn’t meet the palms of his hands. “Arther-itis is a bitch, Nudger.”
Nudger tried to keep the pity from pulling at his face. It wasn’t only Billy’s hands that looked bad. The man himself couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds, most of that flesh-draped, protruding bone. Billy Weep, who had done magic on the sax, didn’t look now as if he had the strength even to stand up with the heavy instrument. Arthritis is a bitch, all right, Nudger thought. Time is a bitch. Eventually, for all of us.
He looked around at the steamy, disheveled apartment. He didn’t see what he’d expected, but then the place was still dim, even with the opened curtains. “You been drinking, Billy?”
“No,” Billy said, “not drink.”
Nudger walked over to stand nearer to the old, old man of fifty-two. “I’ll speak straight with you,” he said.
“You always did, Nudger.”
“You look like death not even warmed over. You killing yourself on something, Billy?”
“Maybe.” Narrow, bony shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. Billy turned to stare out the window and the slanted morning light fell across his harshly lined thin face. They were not good lines, not laugh lines. “It don’t make me no difference, Nudger. Shouldn’t make you none.”
Which was Billy’s way of suggesting that Nudger mind his own business. Which was what Nudger did.
“Ever hear of a piano player named Willy Hollister?” he asked. He looked past Billy out the window. Nice view. A boarded-up store next to an auto body shop that seemed to do most of its work outdoors. Three cars were up on blocks near the sidewalk, missing various fenders, hoods, and wheels.
“I heard of him,” Billy said.
A lithe young black man lowered himself onto a wheeled creeper and got himself comfortable on his back, then kicked his way under a car. Nudger waited. Billy’s mind was probably in the same sad shape as his hands; he might need time to think.
“White boy,
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