"Just passing through?"
"Yeah," Digger said.
"We don’t get many strangers here," the bartender said.
Digger thought, who would you get? The casting director of That’s Incredible? But he just said, "Guess not." Why was a cop following him? Looking past the bartender into the large mirror behind the bar, he saw the police car pull into a parking spot across the street. Digger wondered if he should send the cop a drink the way he had with Cody Lord. He decided not to. He usually preferred to work with cops instead of antagonizing them.
The bartender was talking. It was either weather or sports, Digger knew. He tuned in a couple of words and heard "air inversion," and he knew it was weather and he really didn’t care.
"Mmmm, I guess," he mumbled, without conviction or inflection, knowing there was no statement or question in the world that could not be answered by those three sounds. Then he asked the bartender for change of a dollar and directions to the telephone.
He called the operator and gave her Koko’s number in Emporium and charged the call to his credit card. There was no answer.
The operator said, "There’s no answer."
"I can hear there’s no answer," Digger said. "Let it ring a little more. They may be having a tea ceremony in the backyard."
But it rang a long time without answer and Digger hung up the phone angrily. Maybe he should look up Sluggo Slaphammer’s telephone number and call him. He’d probably know where Koko was.
He ordered another vodka and put ten dollars on the bar. The bartender refilled his glass and gave him eight dollars change. Well, they might not have Finlandia vodka in Belton, PA, but at least they had the prices right, Digger thought.
The bartender stood in front of Digger, as if waiting for him to say something. The silence finally got so oppressive that Digger said, "Nice town. But don’t you mind the smoke?"
"What smoke?"
"That white stuff in the air," Digger said.
"Oh, that smoke. After a while you don’t even notice it no more."
"Lucius Belton’s smoke," Digger said.
"What does he care? He doesn’t smell it," the bartender said. He leaned forward as if to say something confidential. "It’s the prevailing westerlies," he said.
"What is?"
"Old Lucius, he ain’t no fool, he ain’t. He’s got a house way up on the west end of the town. High up on the hill. The wind blow from behind his house and it blows that goldern smoke all over everybody else, but none of it don’t ever reach him. Old Lucius, he ain’t so stupid."
The cop was still there in the mirror.
"How would I find his house?" Digger asked.
"Iffen you went out my door here and turned right and kept going up this road straight, never no mind how much it twisties and turns, and then later the road stops at a crossroad. And right acrosst that crossroad there’s a big pair of gates and that’s old Lucius’s house. Right there. Heh, heh. He lives behind gates. He allus did, but it didn’t do him any good when we was kids ’cause I still used to whup his butt. I never liked him much then. I still don’t. But don’t tell him that. He owns this building."
When Digger drove away, the policeman made another U-turn and followed him. He stayed a half block behind him as Digger drove up the snaking road toward the top of the bowl. After about five minutes, the road ended in a T with a crossroad. On the other side, Digger saw high iron gates. Digger crossed the road, made a sharp left turn and parked on the side of the road, near the gates.
Suddenly the police car’s lights and siren came on and it whipped up and pulled in ahead of him.
Digger stayed behind the wheel. On an impulse, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out his tape recorder, turned it on and put it on the floor under the front seat.
The policeman was walking back toward Digger’s car. He was not tall, but he was gallows wide and square across the shoulders. His light brown uniform shirt was rolled up to massive biceps. He was wearing a trooper-style hat, and Digger wondered why he wasn’t wearing mirror-style sunglasses.
Digger rolled down the car window as the cop approached.
"Driver’s license, Mac," the cop said, extending a meaty hand.
Digger fished in his wallet for his license.
"What’s the trouble, Officer?" Digger said. He handed the license to the cop, who was red-faced and looked to be about forty, with a broad flat nose and a watery look to his pale blue eyes. His jaw seemed wider than his temples.
The policeman said nothing, but examined the license so long that Digger thought he was trying to memorize it. His shoulder patch read Belton P.D., Digger noticed.
"From Las Vegas, huh?" the cop said.
"Yes."
"You’re a long way from home."
"I think I took a wrong turn at Akron," Digger said.
No sense of humor. The cop’s mouth was twisted in a surly snarl. "You got anything that states what your business is in town here?"
"You’ve been following me for an hour. You probably know who I am and why I’m in town."
"Maybe, but I’d like to see something with writing on it."
"Go find a bathroom wall," Digger said. "This is America. You don’t need a pass to travel around."
"I love a wise guy, Burroughs. Now you get out of the car and spread ’em."
"You’ve got to be kidding, Wyatt Earp."
The policeman pulled a heavy revolver from his holster. It looked like a cannon to Digger. He held it nonchalantly in his right hand and said, "Burroughs. Out."
"You’re waving a gun at me," Digger said, more for the tape recorder than for the policeman’s benefit.
"That’s right. Now do you think I’m kidding?"
"I don’t think you’re kidding," Digger said as he opened the car door. "I just think you’re stupid."
The cop’s eyes went cold, and Digger realized that the husky man could pull the trigger and no one would see him and then he could make up any kind of story he wanted.
"Put your hands on top of the car right now before I do something you’ll be sorry for."
Digger noticed that the policeman did a sloppy job of frisking him.
"Private eye without a piece?" the cop growled. "What’s the matter, shamus, you afraid of guns?"
"Only in the hands of an idiot," Digger said. "And nobody says shamus anymore. That went out with Sam Spade."
The cop’s face turned red. He snarled, "Keep it up and you might go out any minute yourself." For a moment Digger thought the man was going to swing at him with the gun. But the cop restrained himself.
"We’ll leave your car here, Burroughs. I’ll take you into town."
"Thanks anyway, but I’m not ready to go back to town yet."
"Yes, you are." The policeman gestured with the gun. "In my car. Now."
"You mind telling me where we’re going?"
"Sure. Mr. Belton is a very special man around here, and we don’t take kindly to prowlers trying to bother him."
"Prowlers. Because I’m driving on a public road in broad daylight, I’m a prowler?"
"That’s right. And you’re coming with me."
Digger insisted on locking up his car. His tape machine should have picked up the whole conversation, and when it reached the end of the tape, it would turn itself off. He grabbed his jacket off the seat, locked the car door and walked ahead of the policeman to the squad car.
The policeman’s name was Deputy L. E. Harker.
"Deputy what?" Digger asked.
"Just Deputy."
"It figures," Digger said.
They were in a small interrogation room in the basement of an old ramshackle two-story building that housed Belton’s finest. Digger was seated in a chair while Harker leaned with his back against the door.
"You been around here a couple of days asking a lot of questions," Harker said. "What are you up to, Burroughs?"
"All right, Harker, let’s get something straight. You’re not dealing with one of your half-w
itted townies that you can bluster around with and flex your muscles at so you can get your rocks off. In ten minutes, give or take five, I can have five hundred lawyers down here and I’ll be out and your ass will be in front of a grand jury explaining why you committed a false arrest. So let’s just stop the bullshit and you tell me what you want, so I can get the fuck out of here because your ugly face is making me sick."
Harker’s face had been red before, but now it became crimson. He walked toward Digger, who stood up as the husky, ugly cop got closer. Digger was a half foot taller than the policeman, but not nearly so wide. The policeman’s hand was slipping around behind him where Digger knew he carried a blackjack.
"Pull that thing out and I’ll shove it up your ass," Digger said.
Harker stopped and growled, "You take a lot of chances."
"I don’t think so. I think you’re under orders to harass me and find out what I’m doing here, but I don’t think anybody told you to go farther than that, so I don’t think you’ll do a goddamn thing except blather."
"You think that?"
"I’m walking out of here, Harker."
"You’re under arrest, Burroughs. You ain’t walking nowhere."
"Harker, I think you ought to make a phone call to whoever is doing your thinking for you. Tell him I get one phone call, and that’ll go to Frank Stevens, the president of BSLI. He’ll be here with lawyers, the FBI and the state police inside of fifteen minutes."
There was confusion on Harker’s face. His hand still hovered near the blackjack.
"Make the call, Harker. Make a decision on your own and you’re going to screw it up."
Their eyes locked for a few seconds. Digger could see the doubt in his face. Finally, Harker said, "Sit down, Burroughs, and wait."
He stomped out of the room and Digger walked over to a bulletin board where there was a clipboard with pictures of wanted criminals. He glanced through them, thinking that police photography made everybody look-like a criminal. It was the straight-on lighting that flattened out everyone’s features and made them look like grave robbers.
The door opened again and Harker came back inside.
"What are you doing over there?" he snapped.
"Looking for your picture. I thought there might be a reward on you."
"I don’t like you, Burroughs."
"You hide it well," Digger said.
"You better get your ass out of here before I change my mind," Harker said.
"If you get a chance to change it, do it," Digger said. "Any change’ll be an improvement." He picked up his wallet and keys from the desk.
"You going to be on my tail again?" Digger asked. "What are your orders now?"
"Move it, Burroughs."
Digger strolled casually toward the door.
"One more thing," Harker said.
"What’s that?"
"Mr. Belton will see you tomorrow at the plant. At noon."
"So that’s who you called," Digger said.
"At the plant. At noon."
"You can call Mr. Belton back," Digger said. "I don’t remember appointing you my social secretary. You tell him if he wants to meet me, he can call me for an appointment. I’m at Gus’s LaGrande Inn. If he can’t reach me, leave a message. I’ll call him back if I get time."
"This is Julian Burroughs. Let me speak to Brackler."
"Just a moment, I’ll see if he’s in."
"Why do we always have this conversation?" Digger said. "Of course he’s in. Put him on the telephone."
"Just a moment, I’ll see if he’s in," the secretary repeated stubbornly.
"You’ve got ten seconds. Then I’m hanging up. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…"
Brackler came on the line.
"Burroughs, where the hell are you?" he said.
"Where do you think? In Belton, PA."
"Don’t you ever call in?"
"I thought that’s what I was doing right now," Digger said.
"You talk to that dip? What did she say?"
"She said she wouldn’t take the million, but she’d sign a waiver relieving us of all liability in the matter."
"Well, hell, that’s not too bad," Brackler said.
"If you liked that, you’ll love this," Digger said. "I don’t think Gillette died in an accident."
"Oh? You’re going to tell me heart attack too? That woman’s nuttiness is catching?" Brackler said.
"No," Digger said. "But I think maybe he was murdered."
Brackler let out a long, slow sigh. "Oh, Burroughs," he said, "why must you complicate everything? Get out of that town. Let her sign her damned waiver and forget everything."
"I can’t," Digger said.
"Why not?"
"I have to protect the company’s money. That’s the difference between us loyal company types and you guys who are just in it for the bucks."
"Digger, the amount’s the same. If he was murdered, we pay five hundred thousand. If she signs a waiver, we pay five hundred thousand."
"Not necessarily," Digger said. "Suppose she killed him? Maybe we get off the hook for nothing?"
"Mmmm," Brackler mmmmmed. "Well, maybe it’d be worth your staying an extra day or two. But let me know what’s happening."
"Of course. Don’t I always?"
"No, you don’t," Brackler said. "By the way, did you give out my home phone number?"
"To whom?" Digger asked.
"Some fagola waiter. Or I think he was a waiter. He kept inviting me out to eat."
"Don’t do it, Kwash. No matter how attracted you are to him, don’t do it. Nothing good can come of this union."
Chapter Eight
DIGGER’S LOG:
And now it has come to this. Against my better judgment, nay, against my will, I am going to have to stay in Belton, PA, to find out exactly what the Christ is going on here. I hate this. World, do you hear me? I hate this. I come out here to have a nice little vacation with my girl friend. Right? Yes, right. And what happens? She’s busy getting her brains screwed out by Sloppo Hugmeyer. She doesn’t want to see me. All right. I can deal with that.
What I cannot deal with is some gibboney of a would-be policeman trying to rough me up. I cannot deal with Lucius Belton getting cute with me. I came here to talk to somebody to try to get her to take some insurance money, for Christ’s sake, and here I am, almost arrested, harassed, having people keep whispering in my ear, murder, murder, and now I’ve got to follow that wherever it takes me.
I bet Kwash knew there was something fishy about this. I don’t trust him. Kwash, when I die, I’m going to leave you all my tapes so you can feel guilty about how miserable you made me in this life. Play this one over and over again, Kwash. I hate you, Walter Brackler. I’ve hated you since the first day you were smuggled into the country under Primo Carnera’s foreskin. I will always hate you. From the grave, Kwash, imprecations and abominations and curses upon you and your family, yea, even unto seven generations.
That’ll fix your ass.
I’m coming back to this. I have to get a drink first.
Okay, that’s better.
Two more tapes in the master file—and I had the insane naïveté to believe there wouldn’t even be a master file. Hah!
Tape Number One is Ben Spears, director of planning for Lucius Belton and Sons. He was Vernon Gillette’s nominal boss. But Gillette answered only to The Old Man. In capital letters. I bet they don’t call Belton that to his face. He’s seventy or something. You always call the commander The Old Man in capital letters when he’s a young man. When he really gets to be an old man, in small letters, then you call him The Chief or something like that. Maybe I will meet with him and call him The Old Man to his face. In both small and capital letters.
Anyway, Ben Spears didn’t like Vernon Gillette. He was jealous of him and his access to the boss. And Ben Spears doesn’t have any company insurance. Why did Gillette have it? Spears anyway confirmed what I thought. The Belton hunting cabin in the hills was a little love ne
st away from home. If Gillette was really murdered, count on it. It was by some broad that he conned into coming up there, and then she couldn’t get off.
"Excuse me, miss, do you have any books on female orgasms? Yes, sir. Come with me."
So I got Ben Spears on tape and I have Dr. Vincent Leonardo, who confirmed that Gillette was perfect in every way. Oooops, no. He had a scar on his right hand. He probably got it from trying to rub off the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. And Dr. Leonardo thinks that Louise Gillette is a bit of a screwball too. Everybody does. So did Ben Spears.
Leonardo did the autopsy. No heart trouble. No trouble of any kind judging from the physical they gave Gillette before he came to work at Belton and Sons.
Okay, that’s Tape One.
I apologize for the quality of Tape Two. It was made through the window of a car while Deputy Dawg was trying to browbeat me. I hate that ugly cop. I hated him on sight. First time ever. Not even you, Kwash, qualified for that honor, but this guy made it. I lust for the moment when I square things with him.
Deputy Dawg Harker, it seems, was sicced on me by Lucius Belton—first to follow me and then to stop me if I got close to Belton’s house. Why?
I don’t know why.
And how did Belton even know I was in town? Everybody talks around this damned town. I doubt if there’s a person left who doesn’t know who I am and what I want.
Maybe I’ll meet with Lucius Belton tomorrow and maybe I won’t. Let him call me, if he wants to. I may just stay around this town forever, annoying people, living in this room, looking up at that silly red dot on the chandelier and trying to exorcise the spirit of Sappo Muckenmire.
I do not like the work I do for a living. I was happier when I was a degenerate gambler, living in Las Vegas on what passes for my wits. You’ve always wondered, Kwash, what I had on Frank Stevens that he ever hired me to work for Old Benevolent and Saintly. Since I’m leaving you this tape in my will and now that I’m dead, I can tell you, Kwash.
I can but I won’t. Let you guess on forever. Just let me give you a tip out of the depths of our friendship. If you’re ever in Las Vegas and you meet the president of an insurance company and he’s just been ripped off for five hundred thousand dollars in negotiable securities, don’t volunteer to get them back from the hooker who swiped them. I won’t say I did that, Kwash, but if I did, look where it got me.
Lucifer's Weekend (Digger) Page 8
