Read The Right To Sing the Blues for Free Online

quarter. “Whatever you said to her seemed to upset her.” His accent was a cross between a Southern drawl and clipped French. Nudger recognized it as Cajun. The Cajuns were a tough, predominantly French people who had settled southern Louisiana but never themselves.
    Nudger allowed himself to hope the large men’s interest in him was passing and started to walk on. The second man, who was shorter but had a massive neck and shoulders, glided on shuffling feet like a heavyweight boxer to block his way. Nudger swallowed his antacid tablet.
    “You nervous, my friend?” the boxer asked in the same rich accent.
    “Habitually,” Nudger managed to answer in a choked voice.
    Pockmarked said, “We have an interest in Miss Mann’s welfare. What were you talking to her about?”
    “The conversation was private.” Nudger’s stomach was on spin cycle. “Do you two fellows mind introducing yourselves?”
    “We mind,” the boxer said. He was smiling again. God, it was a nasty smile. Nudger noticed that the tip of the man’s right eyebrow had turned dead white where it was crossed by a thin scar.
    “Then I’m sorry, but we have nothing to talk about.”
    Pockmarked shook his head patiently in disagreement. “We have this to talk about, my friend. There are parts of this great state of Looziahna that are vast swampland. Not far from where we stand, the bayou is wild and the home of a surprising number of alligators. People go into the bayou, and some of them never come out. Who knows about them? After a while, who cares?” The cold gray eyes had diamond chips in them. “You understand my meaning?”
    Nudger nodded. He understood. His stomach understood.
    “I think we’ve made ourselves clear,” Pockmarked said. “We aren’t nice men, sir. It’s our business not to be nice, and it’s our pleasure. So a man like yourself, sir, a reasonable man in good health, should listen to us and stay away from Miss Mann.”
    “You mean Miss Collins.”
    “I mean Miss Ineida Mann.” He said it with the straight face of a true professional.
    “Why don’t you tell Willy Hollister to stay away from her?” Nudger asked. Some of his fear had left him now, supplanted by a curiosity of the kind that killed the cat.
    “Mr. Hollister is a nice young man of Miss Mann’s own choosing,” Pockmarked said with an odd courtliness. “You she obviously doesn’t like. You upset her. That upsets us.”
    “And me and Frick don’t like to be upset,” the boxer said. He closed a powerful hand on the lapel of Nudger’s sport jacket, not pushing or pulling in the slightest, merely squeezing the material. Nudger could feel the vibrant force of the man’s strength, as if it were electric current. “Behave yourself,” the boxer hissed through his fixed smile.
    He abruptly released his grip, and both men turned and walked away.
    Nudger looked down at his abused lapel. It was as crimped as if it had been set wrinkled in a vise for days. He wondered if the dry cleaners could do anything about it when they pressed the coat.
    Then he realized he was shaking. He loathed danger and had no taste for violence. He needed another antacid tablet and then, even though it was early, a drink.
    New Orleans promised to be an exciting city, but not in the way the travel agencies and Chamber of Commerce advertised.
    V
    udger considered phoning Sam Judman to make sure he was home before dropping by to see him. Then he decided against calling. It would be better to talk to Judman without giving the drummer time to pre pare for the conversation. The element of surprise would increase the chances that Judman, possibly still angry from being beaten by Hollister, would say something accidentally that might provide some insight into what was causing Fat Jack to worry.
    Judman lived in a crumbling brick building in the French Quarter, in a spacious old second-floor apartment that was lined with screened windows. He was a small, intense, dark-haired man, in his early