The Right To Sing the Blues Read Online Free PDF Page B

the small kitchen. From where he sat he could see a Mr. Coffee brewer on the sink, its glass pot half full. He watched Ineida pour, then return with two cups of coffee. She asked Nudger if he wanted cream or sugar and he declined.
    He asked, “How old are you, Ineida?”
    “Twenty-two.” She placed his coffee on the table next to him.
    “Young enough not to have to lie about your age,” he said.
    Her smile was forced. “I wish I were older.”
    “You’ll change your mind about that,” Nudger said. “Everybody does. You can’t have sung professionally for very long.”
    She sat down, centering her steaming cup on a coaster. “About four years, actually. I sang in school productions, then studied for a while in New York. I’ve been singing at Fat Jack’s for about two months. I love it.”
    “And the crowd seems to love you,” Nudger fibbed. He watched her smile and figured the lie was a worthy one. There was a vulnerability about her that needed protecting. Certain men might view it as something to exploit. Not Nudger. No, siree!
    He pretended to take notes while he asked her a string of writerlike questions, pumping up her ego. It was an ego that would inflate only so far. Nudger decided that he liked Ineida Collins and hoped she would hurry up and realize she wasn’t Ineida Mann.
    The street cleaner roared past again, snailing along in the opposite direction to tidy up the near curb. Nudger could hear its coarse brush scraping on the pavement. He sat quietly, waiting patiently for the monster to pass.
    “I’m told that you and Willy Hollister, the piano player, are pretty good friends,” he said, in the converging quiet.
    Ineida’s mood changed abruptly. Suspicion crept into her dark eyes. The youthful, smiling mouth became taut and suddenly ten years older. It was a preview of what she would be after life had fallen on her.
    “You’re not a magazine writer,” she said in a betrayed voice.
    Nudger felt guilty about deceiving her, as if he’d tried to lure her into a car with candy. “No, I’m not,” he admitted. His stomach gave a mulelike kick. What a profession he’d stumbled into!
    “Then who are you?”
    “Someone concerned about your well-being.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him. Her smooth chin jutted forward in a way that suggested more than a mere streak of obstinacy. Nudger caught a glimpse of why Fat Jack saw her as trouble.
    Antacid time. He popped one of the chalky white disks into his mouth and chewed. The sound of it breaking up was surprisingly loud.
    “Father sent you,” she said.
    “No,” Nudger said. Chomp, chomp.
    “Liar!” She stood up and flounced to the door. She did a terrific flounce. “Get out,” she said.
    “I’d like to talk with you about Willy Hollister,” Nudger persisted. He knew that in his business persistence paid one way or the other. He could only hope that this time it wouldn’t be the other.
    “Get out,” Ineida repeated. “Or I’ll call the police. Better yet, I’ll scream for them. Right here with the door open.”
    Scream? Police?
    Within ten seconds Nudger was outside again on Beulah Street, staring at the uncompromising barrier of Ineida’s closed door. Apparently she was touchy on the subject of Willy Hollister. Nudger slipped another antacid tablet between his lips. He turned his back to the warming sun and began walking, keeping to the dry half of the sidewalk, away from the curb.
    He’d gone half a block when he realized that he was casting three shadows. He stopped. The middle shadow stopped also, but the larger ones on either side kept advancing. The large bodies that cast those shadows were suddenly standing in front of Nudger. Two very big men were staring down at him—one was smiling, one not. Considering the kind of smile it was, that didn’t make much difference.
    “We noticed you talking to Miss Mann,” the one on the left said. He had a black mustache, wide cheekbones, dark, pockmarked skin, and gray eyes that gave no