Lucifer's Weekend (Digger) (3 page)

Gus said, "Gillette? Gillette? Sorry, I don’t know any Gillettes."

"No problem," Digger said. "It’s all technical insurance bullshit anyway. How long’s your bar open at night?"

"You’d never know it by looking at it now but we do a pretty good bar business at night. I’m open till two o’clock. What was that stuff you asked for before?"

"Finlandia. It’s vodka."

"Never heard of it," Gus said. He looked at the registration card again. "Ahhh, you’re only staying one day. If you were going to be here awhile, I’d order you some."

"Try anyway," Digger suggested. "You never know, I might be back."

Digger had another drink, then took his room key from Gus and carried his own bag up the curving central staircase to the second floor. When he pushed open the door, he whistled involuntarily. The room was bigger than the main floor of many houses. It held two fireplaces, two full-sized beds, a sofa, an unstocked bar, a round wooden dining table with four chairs, a crystal chandelier and three dressers. The bathroom alone was bigger than most normal motel rooms.

From the living room, he looked through floor-to-ceiling windows out from the hill on which Gus’s stood, over a rolling gentle valley that would have been bucolically beautiful if it weren’t for the dirty gray mist that filled up the bottom of the bowl.

Lucius Belton, whoever he was, deserved shooting. Or hanging, Digger decided.

But up above the smoke line, Belton was beautiful, and, as Digger looked around, he could see homes clustered all around the upper sides of the valley.

It was just early afternoon, and Digger decided that he would shower first, call Koko, then go see Mrs. Gillette and maybe, before nightfall, he would be out of Belton, PA, on his way to see Koko.

Still damp after his shower, Digger lay on the bed and called the home of Koko’s family in Emporium, Pennsylvania.

The telephone was answered in the middle of the first ring. Digger recognized the accented voice of Koko’s mother.

"Hello, Mrs. Fanucci, this is Digger."

"Ah, Digger. So?"

As he usually did when he heard her limping English, Digger smiled. The name Mrs. Fanucci conjured up an image of some leviathan of a starch factory, wearing a red-and-green flowered apron, whipping up three million pounds of pasta in a basement kitchen. But this Mrs. Fanucci, Koko’s mother, was a trim and tiny Japanese woman who got her American citizenship and her name when she married an American sailor after World War II.

"Is Tamiko there?" Digger asked.

"Yes," the woman said. That was all, nothing more. Digger felt that she would let him hang on forever, because she was too polite to hang up.

After a few seconds, Digger said, "Can I talk to her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She’s doing the bathroom in the toilet."

"Can I hold on?"

"Can you hold on to what?"

"To the telephone," Digger said.

"Tamiko puts the phone up her shoulder. She makes cookies, the phone up her shoulder. She not hold on. You have to hold on?"

"No," Digger said.

"So do I," Mrs. Fanucci said. "I learn put phone up my shoulder. You want see?"

"Yes, honorable mother," Digger said.

He heard a rustling sound and then a clatter as the telephone hit the floor.

A moment later, Mrs. Fanucci said, "I not do it so good like Tamiko still. I am glad you not see me drop it on floor. I so embarrassed, I kill myself. Here is Tamiko. She is all done in toilet because I hear it flash. Here, Tamiko. Here is Digger. We’re having nice talk about the toilet."

"Hello, Digger," said a happy, lilting woman’s voice. "Mamma-san been spilling my toilet secrets?"

"Everything but number one or number two," Digger said.

"Number three," Koko said. "A shampoo."

"Why don’t you send that woman to Berlitz?" Digger asked.

"Digger, she already knows how to threaten suicide in a language and a half. I couldn’t take well-written suicide notes in English. Besides, if she spoke any better, she’d take a run at you herself. It’s only the language barrier that’s keeping the two of you apart."

"I’m signing up for Japanese lessons in the morning," Digger said. "I always liked her better than you anyway."

"Mutt. Anyway, how’s Las Vegas? You miss me yet?"

"It’s only been ten days, nine hours and sixteen minutes. Why should I miss you? Besides, I’m not in Las Vegas. That’s today’s surprise."

"Where are you?"

"I’m in Belton, PA."

"What are you doing there?"

"I’ve got to see some woman on insurance business, then I thought I might get to see you."

"When?" she asked.

"I don’t know. Tonight? Maybe tomorrow?"

"Oh, Digger, not tomorrow," she said.

"Why not?"

"My sister’s going into the hospital tomorrow. She might need an operation."

"Again? That girl is always almost, maybe, needing an operation. She’s got more goddamn plumbing problems than the public works department in Venice."

"I’m sure she doesn’t like it any better than you do," Koko said.

"I think she gets off on sympathy," Digger said. "Anyway I could come and maybe help. Hold everybody’s hand. Make small talk and jokes. Keep your mother’s spirits up."

"Not tomorrow, Digger. Let’s talk tomorrow and see."

"You sure you just don’t have a heavy date tomorrow? A school reunion or something and you’re embarrassed to have your friends see me?"

"You know better than that. What kind of town is Belton?"

"I’ve been in a thousand towns like this one," Digger said, suddenly depressed and feeling sorry for himself. "It’s always drunk out."

"Don’t be maudlin," she said. "You’re not unloved. Where are you staying?"

"That’s why I thought you might even want to come and visit me. I’m at this beautiful estate. Rolling hills. Horseback riding stables. Swimming pools. A golf course. Everything including smog. Two fireplaces in the bedroom."

"Horses?"

"Absolutely," Digger said. "I saw a dozen lalapaloo-zas in the yard."

"That’s appaloosas, idiot," she said. "I love horseback riding."

"If you come and visit me, I’ll pay for your first hour. You pay for your second hour yourself," he said.

"After I straighten this out with my sister," Koko said. "What’s the name of the place you’re at?"

"Gus’s LaGrande Inn."

"What?"

"Gus’s LaGrande Inn."

"Hey, Dig, I’ve been there."

"I thought you were never in Belton, PA," he said.

"I didn’t know it was in Belton," Koko said. "I went there after my high school senior prom. We were starting away on a class weekend trip."

"Trust you to find a motel," Digger said.

"I really don’t need this bullshit," Koko said.

"I’m sorry. Tell me about your prom and Gus’s LaGrande Inn."

"My date and I went there after our prom party. It’s the first time I ever gave it up. I was almost eighteen."

"Don’t tell me about it," Digger said.

"I won’t. What room are you staying in?"

"Two-oh-seven. Upstairs."

"Big chandelier in the middle of the room?" she asked.

"Yes, if you want to call it big," Digger said glumly. Big? It was the biggest chandelier he’d ever seen outside of Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts and nine Puerto Rican hotels.

"Look carefully," Koko said. "Is there a red crystal droplet in part of the chandelier near the door? It’s red, like one of the other pendants broke and all they had to replace it with was a red one."

Digger glanced up. "Yeah," he said.

"Dig, that’s the room. That’s where I first got laid."

"I hope the room’s as lucky for me," Digger said.

"You poor miserable benighted soul," Koko said. "You’re jealous."

"I’m not jealous."

"Of course you are. But how can you be jealous of Hugo Stockelbrinner? He had acne and buck teeth."

"And you," Digger said.

"An act of mercy," Koko said.

"An act of lechery," Digger said. "You people are disgusting."

"Call me tomorrow, Digger," she said. "I’ll tell you all about it."

"I’m sure you will," Digger groused, as Koko hung up.

Digger decided to forgo his afternoon visit to Louise Gillette and he decided to forgo dinner too. Instead he dressed and went to the bar.

There was still nobody else at the bar except Gus LaGrande, bartender, waiter, room clerk, bellhop, accountant and owner.

His face brightened when he saw Digger, and he reached under the bar and held up a bottle of Finlandia vodka.

"Look what I got. I was talking to a friend of mine and I mentioned it and he had some so he sent over a bottle. Hey, you don’t look happy."

"I’m only moderately happy."

"Why?"

"One bottle won’t be enough. I’m drinking for two."

One bottle wasn’t enough. When he closed the bar at 2:15 A.M., having drunk in solitary splendor all night, the bottle of Finlandia was empty and so was much of another bottle of cheap bar vodka.

He finished out the evening by raising his voice in song:

"So make it one for Hugo Stockelbrinner, the acned, beaver-toothed prick…

"And one more for the road."

Digger hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door to keep the maid at bay, and so he slept until 11:00 A.M. When he woke up and glanced at his watch, he was pleased with himself. Usually, he slept fitfully, grabbing sleep in three-and four-hour snatches. An eight-hour unbroken sleep was an event in his life.

He felt still better after a shower. His head was clear. He had no hangover, although that didn’t mean anything since he never had a hangover. He had decided early hi life that this was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant he didn’t have to pay a next-day price for his excessive drinking. On the other hand, it had just made it that much easier for him to become an alcoholic.

Digger had thought once of how to head off the next generation of alcoholics. It would be simple. Congress should pass a law requiring a small amount of Antabuse to be mixed with every bottle of liquor sold. Antabuse was the anti-alcohol drug used in clinics; after taking it, people got violently ill if they drank alcohol.

A little Antabuse might head off a whole generation of lushes, Digger thought. He confided this in a letter to his congressman, who wrote back, thanking him for this thoughtful suggestion, promising to look into it and commending Digger for his interest in the governmental process, because without such active citizen participation no government could succeed and the spark of freedom would die in the world.

In other words, the congressman hadn’t read Digger’s letter. Digger wasn’t discouraged. His was an idea ahead of its time. Its day would come.

His good mood lasted until he started to get dressed and he realized he would not be able to postpone it any longer. He would have to go to see Louise Gillette today. From the bottom of his big suitcase he took out a small pocket-sized tape recorder and attached it to his bare right side with two strips of surgical tape from a roll he kept in his shaving bag. He might as well record the ravings of this woman who was going to turn down a half million of Old Benevolent and Saintly’s money. After dressing, he put on a bright red-and-black regimental striped tie and fastened to it a gold tie clip, designed like a frog with an open mouth. It was a singularly ugly tie clip, but it was unique, for a wire ran around from the back of it, under Digger’s shirt and connecting into his tape recorder. The open mouth of the frog was covered with a thin mesh, under which was a tiny but high-powered omnidirectional microphone. Digger had had the gadget made when he had gone on his first case for Brokers Surety Life Insurance Company. He traveled nowhere without his tape recorder. One never knew when one might need it; he always seemed to.

Dressed, he looked out his window. The residual haze still hung over the downtown section of Belton at the bottom of the bowl, but at this elevation the air was clean and fresh. He opened his window and breathed deeply and coughed. He smoked four packs of cigarettes a day; now he should start worrying about air pollution? He cheerfully accused himself of being a hypocrite, cheerfully agreed that the accusation was right on the mark and went downstairs.

Gus was mixing drinks behind the bar, but he took a moment out when Digger fished Vernon Gillette’s insurance application from his inside jacket pocket and asked him how to find the house.

"North Church Street," Gus said. "That’s across the bowl. You can either drive down into the town and then up the other side or you can drive around the edge of the bowl."

"Which way’s quicker?" Digger asked.

"Down into town. The main drag is Church Street. You just follow it through town and then up the other side. When you get above the smoke, start looking for numbers. This number should be pretty high up."

"Thanks. I’ll see you later," Digger said.

"You staying another night?"

"I don’t know. Yeah," Digger said. "Keep me booked up. I hate to have to hurry things."

Driving through the town, Digger figured out how Belton worked. At the bottom of the bowl were the stores, movie houses, offices and the homes of the proletariat, hidden under the continuous haze generated by the Belton and Sons industrial works at one end of the bowl. As you spiraled upward out of the bowl and away from the smog, you got to the better residential districts, and the nearer you got to the top of the bowl, the more expensive the homes became.

The Gillette family lived about three quarters of the way up the bowl in a house that was about two windows and two hundred feet of elevation short of being a mansion.

Digger parked on Church Street in front of the big yellow stucco structure, hoping he could wrap everything up neatly, then call Koko and let her apologize for his bad temper, and then spend some time with her, without invoking the memory of Humphrey Stickel-maker, or whatever his name was.

When he got out of the car, he looked down the road he had just driven along. The smog made the center of town almost invisible and Digger began to wonder if Louise Gillette wasn’t turning down a half million dollars, not because of her husband’s memory but just because living in Belton, PA, had driven her crazy.