Read The Right To Sing the Blues for Free Online Page A

forties, with a narrow, lined face and an underlying pallor that suggested ill health. He was unmarked; there was no longer any sign of the beating at Hollister’s hands. When Nudger introduced himself and asked to talk about Hollister, Judman nodded and invited him inside.
    The apartment was cool after the noontime heat. Four large ceiling fans rotated slowly in unison, and all of the windows were open. One of the fans was making a faint rhythmic ticking sound, a lazy summer sound. Bamboo blinds were lowered exactly halfway down all the way around the spacious single room, their horizontal precision making the place seem even larger than it was. There were a few pieces of modern but comfortable-looking furniture. Books, record albums, and tapes lined one wall. Framed and glassed photos of Judman posed with various show-business personalities were hung in the narrow space above the win dows, picking up reflections. The room was very bright where it was bright, very dark where the sun failed to penetrate. A door led to what appeared to be a small space for a drop-down Murphy bed; through another door Nudger could see into a kitchen. In the far corner near that door was a multimillion-dollar stereo setup.
    Judman offered to get Nudger something to drink. Nudger had already had his day’s ration of liquor, and coffee would send his stomach into acidic revolt. He declined Judman’s offer and the two men sat facing each other in low-slung, plushly padded matching chairs.
    “You said you were a private detective, Mr. Nudger,” Judman said. “May I ask the identity of your client?”
    “Right now,” Nudger said, “I’d prefer to keep that confidential.”
    “But you want to know about Willy Hollister.”
    “Whatever you can tell me. I know you and he had a run-in at his apartment. Do you know why?”
    Judman turned his hands palms-up in a perplexed gesture and then dropped them to his knees. “He was upset because I let myself in to wait for him. I don’t know why he was so touchy; he’d left the door unlocked. And it’s not as if I was going through the drawers or testing for dust. I was just sitting on the couch waiting for him to show up after work. I didn’t figure the guy was paranoid.”
    “How long had you been there before Hollister arrived?”
    “Not more than five minutes. Hell, I told him that, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He was in a freaked-out rage.”
    There was a noise from the kitchen. Nudger turned.
    Marty Sievers walked in, carrying a tall glass of dark liquid with ice in it. When he got closer, Nudger realized it was iced coffee. Nudger stood and shook hands with Sievers, who didn’t seem surprised to see him.
    “I know who you are,” Sievers said. “I saw you at the club last night, and I heard you introduce yourself to Sam.”
    Nudger was sure there was little that Sievers’ bland brown eyes missed. Sievers sipped his iced coffee; he had about him the stillness and control of a man who had supreme confidence in his physical capabilities in any situation. Green Beret stuff.
    “You handled that potential customer trouble very neatly last night at the club,” Nudger said.
    Sievers swirled the ice in his glass. “It’s part of my job.”
    “You’re wondering why Marty’s here,” Sam Judman said.
    Nudger nodded, “My line of work, wondering.”
    “And finding answers,” Sievers added. “I’ll make it easy this time. I came here to tell Sam about some leads with other clubs around town.”
    “Leads?”
    “Employment opportunities.”
    Nudger looked at Judman. “You’re leaving the band at Fat Jack’s?”
    A passing anger momentarily darkened the drummer’s pale features. “Not voluntarily. Fat Jack let me go, after my fight with Hollister.”
    “He had to,” Sievers said, shrugging.
    Judman nodded in reluctant understanding. “Yeah, Hollister saw to that, told Fat Jack it was me or him. Hollister’s a bastard, but I have to admit I’m easier to replace