Free Nightlines by John Lutz Page B

Nudger would have opened a desk drawer and reached for his gun, if he’d owned a gun. His stomach and heart seemed to be fighting for the same cramped space in his throat as he stood up and leaned steeply forward, supporting himself shakily with his arms locked at the elbows and his hands palms-down on the desk. He found himself unable to look away from the prismatic glass doorknob on his office door.
    The knob rotated. The door opened.
    Eileen stepped in.
    “Startle you?” she asked.
    Nudger sat down, leaned back, and breathed out hard. “You startled me,” he confirmed.
    “I meant to. It seems to be the only way I can capture your attention.”
    Nudger smoothed back his hair with his fingers, straightened his collar, and gave her his attention. She was still an attractive woman, trim and neatly groomed, with a kind of wholesomeness about her that would have carried her far as an actress playing typical homemakers in television commercials. Though a delicate woman with a certain frilliness about her, she had a robust complexion, large and perfectly aligned very white teeth, and shapely, strong-looking hands. It all suggested that good health meant good sex, and wasn’t far off the mark.
    Why had they lost both love and lust for each other? Nudger thought sometimes that it was the ungodly and unpredictable hours he worked. Or was it the sterility of the suburban plot they had called home? Whatever had caused the widening gap between them was still a mystery, as it probably remained in most divorces. Nudger only knew that when she suggested the divorce he had felt not only shock but also undeniable relief. A lightning comprehension—or admission. He, too, wanted to live a life different from the one they shared. Eileen had seen that in him as soon as she’d brought up the subject of a divorce as a possible alternative, and that was that. In that instant it had been transformed from an alternative to an inevitability.
    Such were the complexities of the human heart. Or maybe it was simpler and less poetic than that. Maybe he’d decided subconsciously to leave her when he heard her use the word “cute” three times in one sentence, there on the phone in that suburban frame house that was like the neighboring houses on either side. But he was being unfair. He knew that his reaction to that triple-cute was probably only symptomatic of their real problem.
    “You still have it,” he told her.
    She smiled. “Thank you.”
    “I mean, you still have my attention.” He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
    Smile gone. “And you still have a way with words, and I still don’t have my money. Almost a thousand dollars now in back alimony.”
    “Eight hundred fifty-three dollars and some odd cents,” Nudger corrected.
    “Nine hundred.”
    He shrugged. “Whatever.” Or did he enjoy taunting her? “I have the exact amount written down.”
    “But not written where it counts—on a check made out to me.” He had made her angry. She began to stalk about the office, rotating her high heels slightly with each slow step as if grinding despicable small objects into the floor. She had on those silver shoes with the tiny black bows, like the pair Jeanette Boyington wore. Nudger felt that he might be developing a dislike for those shoes.
    “You’ll get the money,” he said. “You know that.”
    She stopped pacing and wheeled to glare at him. “But I want you to know that. If I don’t have a check in my mail by the end of next week, I’m taking you back to court.”
    “Eileen, you know what they say about not being able to squeeze blood from a turnip.”
    He could almost feel the heat from her eyes as she said, “I’ll settle for whatever oozes out.”
    Nudger’s nervous stomach growled. It seemed to develop a language all its own when Eileen was around. It was a good thing she didn’t know what she had just been called.
    “I’m giving you more than a week,” she reminded him. “That should leave you plenty of time to