Smoked Out (Digger)

by Warren Murphy

  It was time to get out. He had the most important thing he had come for—Mrs. Welles’s medicine from the upstairs bathroom cabinet.

  He paused again to listen. Still silent. He turned off the tape recorder and walked toward the door. He flicked on the two light switches next to the door. Simple overhead lights. No disco lights. He turned off the switch and opened the door.

  Standing in the doorway, teeth bared in an evil rictus, was a Doberman pinscher. The muscles of his front shoulders quivered. His growl raised the hairs on Digger’s forearms in an involuntary chill.

  The dog’s eyes were black and the whites were red-tinged, as if it had overdosed on a diet of living, bloody flesh.

  "Hi, big fella," Digger said softly, hopelessly, knowing that kindness would not work with this beast.

  It didn’t.

  The dog took a step inside the room and growled again. Its short-cropped tail was not waving from side to side. Digger tried to remember everything his father had told him about dogs. He couldn’t remember anything, but he knew this bastard was about to attack. Digger glanced to his left. He couldn’t reach the door to slam it in the dog’s face.

  All this effort, the whole week, had come down to this. Being eaten alive by the fucking hound of the Baskervilles in the study of a private home he had broken into, his pockets filled with stolen pills. He could see tomorrow’s headlines: "Junkie Killed in Theft Attempt at Hollywood Doctor’s House."

  Fucking-a wonderful peachy swell.

  He couldn’t run to the far sliding door to the yard. The beast would be on him before then. This dog was not wearing the studded collar he had seen on Welles’s dog before. Where was Welles? Could it be?…

  He saw the dog tensing, crouching back on its legs, ready to spring forward at him.

  Digger retreated two steps into the room, then quickly lay down on the floor. He raised his arms and legs into the air. The dog lumbered forward, his growl a deep maniacal rumble of hatred and suspicion.

  But he did not charge. He walked toward Digger, growling all the while. He put his face next to Digger’s while he lay there, his arms and legs stupidly extended above his body. The growling in his ear was deafening. Digger decided he would fight rather than give up his goddamn ear to a dog.

  Hot spittle from the dog’s mouth slobbered onto Digger’s neck. The dog grabbed the shoulder of Digger’s jacket in his teeth. They looked two inches long at this close-up distance. The dog shook the jacket back and forth a few times before letting it loose.

  But it did not bite.

  Digger cursed himself for not stealing Welles’s gun from the bedroom. With his arm in the air over his head, he could see his watch. Close to six-thirty. No more than fifteen more minutes. He couldn’t stay here. Even uneaten, this would be a Laurel and Hardy finish for Welles to find him lying on the floor of his study in a canine attitude of submission, guarded by a hundred-and-twenty-pound Doberman with paws as big as a bear’s.

  The dog circled Digger, sniffing his suit, still growling, obviously wondering what this man was doing surrendering like a dog.

  He came around to the other side of Digger’s face, anointing that with slobber, too. Digger stayed ready to roll fast, to try to defend himself if the dog should suddenly come back from lunch and snap out with that huge open mouth.

  The dog grabbed Digger’s lapel in his teeth and began to shake it from side to side like an old spit-soaked rag.

  Then he stopped growling. The dog seemed suddenly to lose interest. Digger watched it walk toward the sliding glass door to the backyard, and, as the dog thumped away, Digger rolled and sprang for the office door. He got his hand on the knob as he rolled through and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Inside the study, he could hear the dog growling and clawing at the wood of the door. Digger made sure it was closed tight.

  He got up and took a deep breath. His body and face were soaked—his body with his own perspiration, his face and throat with dog spit.

  He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes.

  No time.

  He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and neck as he walked toward the front door. He let himself out and ran up the flagstone walkway toward the gate. He pressed the inside gate release. The gate swung open and he stepped out of the yard onto the small sidewalk, pulling the gate closed behind him.

  "Hello, there."

  Digger wheeled. An old man in yellow Bermuda shorts that were four inches too long was standing on the sidewalk behind him.

  "Looking for Dr. Welles?"

  Digger shook his head. "No. I had the wrong house. I checked the address and I’m way on the wrong side of town."

  "Doctor’ll be right back," the man said. "Running. Always runs this hour."

  "No, I’m not looking for him," Digger said. He started to walk by the man. "Got the wrong address. I feel like a fool."

  "How’d you get in there, anyway?"

  "Gate was unlocked." He was past the man now and walking away from the house. "Wrong address."

  "Who’d you say you were looking for?"

  "Crater. Joseph Crater. Got the wrong address."

  Digger was out of reach now. He was still close enough to hear the man but not so close that he had to stop to answer. He walked around the bend toward his car. Something, somehow, had changed. He got into the car and lit a cigarette, exhaling fully, trying to blow the tension and fear and anger out of his body. Why the hell didn’t somebody tell him that Welles had two Dobermans? Why the hell didn’t he think? Scylla. If there was a Scylla, there had to be a Charybdis. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of it. Damn near a case of terminal stupidity. Wait. Something was different.

  What was different? He looked around. The fence, the little white picket fence that had been of no value in preventing Jessalyn Welles’s fatal fall, was gone.

  He started the engine. He had two problems now. If he drove straight off, he was likely to pass Welles, who would surely recognize his car. But if he turned around and drove off in the other direction, he would pass the old man, who probably was one of those nosy old bastards who wrote down license-plate numbers as a hobby. In this case, he was the lesser of two evils.

  Digger made a K-turn in the narrow road and drove off down the street past Welles’s house, where the old man still stood near the gate. Go home, Digger wanted to yell. Go to hell home and eat your gruel. As he reached the end of the straightaway, the morning sun shone in his eyes, the light no longer broken into pulses by the little white fence. On impulse, he pulled up alongside the old man. Might as well be damned for a goose as well as a gander, he thought.

  "Hey, mister," he called.

  "Yes."

  "Didn’t there used to be a fence there?" Digger asked.

  "Yeah."

  "What happened to it?"

  "Doc Welles took it down after the accident."

  "Who put it up?"

  "Dr. Welles."

  "That’s where his wife died, huh?"

  "Yep."

  "You saw the accident?" Digger asked.

  "Yep."

  "She drove right through that fence, right off that cliff."

  "Sure did," the old man agreed.

  "You see it happen?"

  "I saw it go right off."

  "Did she try to stop?"

  "How’s that?"

  "Her brake lights? Did you see them come on?"

  The old man thought a moment, sorting out that memory from seven decades of other memories.

  "Nope. Didn’t see any brake lights."

  "Thanks, old-timer."

  Digger put the car in first gear and snapped out on the clutch, burning rubber, hoping that he kicked up enough dust and gravel behind the car to prevent the old man from checking his license plate.

  He glanced into the rear-view mirror. The old man was looking at his car, but the morning sun was in his eyes, too, and he was squinting.

  He turned at the narrow corner and sped off down the hill, reachi
ng into his pocket and feeling better that the vial of pills and the two loose tablets he had taken from Welles’s office desk were still there.

  He wondered what Welles would think when he got back and found his other dog locked in the study.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Digger had showered. He put his spit-ruined suit into the brown paper laundry bag provided by the hotel, briefly considered sending it to Walter Brackler express collect, then left it for room service to pick up.

  He called Alphonse Rizzioli who, yeah, sure, naturally remembered Mr. Borose.

  "Alphonse, when you checked that car for the boys…."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Did the brake lights work?"

  "The bulbs was busted and the battery was shit, but I put in new bulbs and hooked it up to a different battery and the lights worked, so they was working."

  "So the brake lights would have flashed if Mrs. Welles had stepped on the brakes before the accident?"

  "That’s right, Mr. Borose."

  "Thank you, Alphonse. The boys will remember this."

  He was about to call Lt. Breslin at headquarters when he remembered the note he had taken from Welles’s desk. He fished it out of the pocket of his suit, then lay back on the bed to read it. It was written in a strong female hand, undated and deadly.

  It read:

  "G. Don’t ever think that I will forget what you and Jess have done to me. It was bad enough to lose Harry, but to find that I am penniless because of your swindling…. I will find a way to even this account. When tragedy comes, or death…remember me, because I’ll be there. Laughing. Perhaps those are the only laughs I’ll have left. M."

  Digger read it again, then put the paper over his face and closed his eyes for a moment. He sat up on the edge of the bed and called Lt. Breslin.

  "Breslin."

  "Digger. I need a couple of favors."

  "Jesus Christ, how are you fixed for spit?"

  "Stop your shit. When I publish my reminiscences, I’m going to make you famous."

  "And until then you’re going to make me crazy. What do you want now?"

  "Get hold of that filthy, disgusting, perverted reporter that you’re always slobbering all over."

  "Sounds good. And?"

  "And get me anything you can on Moira Walker’s accident. Especially if her husband’s name was…" Digger looked at the pink note. "…Harry. Maybe he was in business with Gideon Welles or like that."

  "All right. What else?"

  "I need a decent commercial laboratory. You got one?"

  "Yeah. Why do you need it?"

  "Don’t ask."

  "It’s my duty to warn you that anything you say can and will be used against you."

  "Raquel Welch."

  "The lab’s the McArdle Lab on Highland Avenue. Here’s the phone number." He read off a number. "The owner’s name is Jim McArdle and you can mention my name. He’ll remember me. I helped one of his kids out of a jam once."

  "Is there anybody in California who doesn’t owe you?"

  "Four people, but I’m working on them. Keep in touch. Let me know what you’re doing."

  "Right,"

  Digger dialed again.

  "McArdle Laboratories."

  "Jim McArdle, please."

  "One moment."

  "Jim McArdle." The voice was a thick mumble. Digger resented him, envious of anyone able to get drunk so early in the day.

  "Mr. McArdle, my name is Burroughs. Lt. Breslin said I could call you."

  "Yeah, sure. How is Pete?" McArdle wasn’t drunk. The thick mumble was a mush-mouthed southern drawl. Without wanting to, hating himself for doing it, Digger slowed down his own voice.

  "Fine," he said, "Pete’s just fine."

  "What can Ah do for you, Mister…"

  "Burroughs. Ah need an analysis done of some tablets."

  "How soon?"

  "Today, if possible."

  "We’ll try. When can we get them?"

  "Ah’ll have them there in less than an hour."

  "Okay. Is this a personal job or police or company or what?"

  "It’s for the Brokers Surety Life Insurance Company. Ah work for them."

  "All right. Send ’em right over."

  "They on they way."

  Digger took several tablets from the container he had found in Jessalyn Welles’s medicine cabinet. He put them in a hotel envelope. He marked the envelope "A—Vial." He took one of the other two tablets he fished from his pocket—the ones that had been loose in Welles’s desk—and put it in an envelope that he marked "B—Desk." He sealed the other tablet from the desk in another envelope and put it and the vial in a dresser drawer under his shirts.

  Digger called the bell captain and asked for a bellhop to come to the room. While he was waiting, he wrote a brief note: "Mr. McArdle, Will call you later. J. Burroughs."

  When the bellhop came, Digger tipped him twenty dollars and told him to take the tablets personally to Jim McArdle at the McArdle Laborator ies on Highland Avenue. "Don’t trust them to a cab driver. Take them yourself. It’s important."

  "They’ll be there in twenty minutes, Mr. Burroughs."

  "Swell."

  He thought about breakfast, but he thought harder about vodka. He put on his bathing suit and a tee-shirt and took his tape recorder to poolside, where he ordered a double Finlandia, and, as a sop to good health, an order of toast and a cup of coffee. "Better yet, bring a bottle of Finlandia," he told the waiter.

  He settled back in the lounge chair, clipped the microphone to the neckband of his shirt and began to dictate.

  "This is the life that asks the question: Can a poor boy from the little mining town of Silver Creek, Colorado, find wealth and happiness as the husband of a wealthy and titled Englishwoman. Scratch that, it’s been done before. I’m going to talk my life story to find out if lunacy, like Shakespeare’s greatness, is something I was born to or I achieved or I had thrust upon me. I be wedded to this goddamn tape recorder, courtesy of one pliable young woman in freshman accounting who typed like a charm, screwed like Wanda Whizbang and was crazy about me and transcribing my tape-recorded notes. I think this recorder is my only friend.

  "My name is Julian Burroughs and everybody except my parents calls me Digger. I was about to say my friends call me Digger, but I have no friends, unless you are into counting part-time Japanese hookers and presidents of insurance companies who are full-time drunks and this recorder. This doesn’t bother me. I’ve lived my life without friends. Judging by people I know who have them, friends are people who call you up late at night to help them make bail, who call for advice when their sluttish children are pregnant, or who think you have an obligation to lend them money. Two of those examples require money, so they leave me out. The third? I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to tell the parents of a little slut. What do you say? Throw her one for me? I’m unqualified for friendship, so perhaps things are better as they are.

  "It has ever been thus. I’ve been close to people, but I don’t think friends are people you are close to. I think friends are people you let get close to you. If that’s a given, I’m friendless. I’m also thirty-eight years old, six-feet-three inches tall, with hair so blond it might be bleached and a temper that on its down days makes sane men leave the room.

  "Once I was married. I was happy until the honeymoon plane landed in Los Angeles and my wife wanted to go back onto the plane to get the chewing gum she left in the seat pocket. I stayed married for the children’s sake for a dirty dozen years. And then one day I saw something that may have saved my life. I was in the kitchen and saw my kids pouring catsup on sliced tomato sandwiches, and I knew they were already lost to the civilized world. There was nothing I could do to save them. The only person left for me to save was me, so I left. My kids will have to get along without me, and maybe it’s God’s will that there be two more fans of ‘The Gong Show’ later on.

  "My mother told me I was irresponsible. Sure. What do you expect from somebody who’s
half a Jew and half-Irish. What do you get when you cross an Irishman and a Jew? I don’t know. A guilt-ridden drunk? Yes, if you listen to my mother. How many Jewish mothers does it take to change a lightbulb? None. That’s all right. I’ll just sit here in the dark. That last is courtesy of my father, retired Police Sergeant Patrick Burroughs, who has collected Jewish jokes, beginning with my mother, for forty years. He tells them to her family at Seders and Bar Mitzvahs. Each of us has his own way of getting even. I’d still rather be in Philadelphia.

  "So I left my wife and my children and my home and my job managing the credit office of the loan company and I moved to Las Vegas with some money I had come into that my wife didn’t know about. Time out for bellhops."

  "Here you go, Mister Burroughs. Can I get you anything else?"

  "Just make sure you keep the ice container full."

  "I will, sir. It’s still full."

  "Thank you. As I was saying, I live with this tape recorder. I also live in Las Vegas with this Japanese girl named Tamiko who looks as fresh and young as a daisy and is as corrupting as crab grass. Her nickname is Koko. Lord High-Executioner. I was living in Las Vegas about six months when I ran across her. In an apartment hallway. I heard all this shouting and I…time out for a beautiful woman."

  "Do you mind if I sit here?"

  "Be my guest. But let me warn you…"

  "You bite?"

  "By invitation only. I talk. But only to my tape recorder. I’m telling it my life story."

  "Can I eavesdrop?"

  "If you don’t snicker at the good parts."