Smoked Out (Digger) (22 page)

"He was very grateful."

He had finally sobered up enough to realize he had just blown almost a half-million of his company’s money and he was scared shitless. When I brought back this dirt-covered briefcase, he offered me a reward, anything I wanted. What I really wanted was to stop gambling for a living, so I said I’d take a job. "What can you do?" he said. "Nothing," I said. "Have you tried federal service?" he said. "There are some things I won’t do, even for money," I said. "You’re a natural for our claims investigation department," he said. "Because of my high moral standards?" I asked. "No. Because of your lack of talent," he said. "My claims men don’t know how to do anything, either."

"He asked me where I had found it and I told him I had dug it up and he said, ‘You can be my digger.’ And the name stuck."

Which was true
.

"Oh," Lorelei said. "I thought it might be something interesting. This shrimp is really good."

In your hat and over your ears
.

"Why does your mother hate the Contesa?"

"The Contesa?"

"The yellow woman on the phone?"

"Oh. My mother’s never gotten over my divorce. She had this picture of herself in her mind. Right out of Norman Rockwell. The grand matriarch of Americana, presiding over Thanksgiving dinners for Sarge and me and my wife and the two little idiots, wearing a flowered apron and a twinkle in her eye. I blew it all when I got divorced. She still tried. She invited my ex-wife and me to Thanksgiving dinner. Cora, that’s the ex-wife, said she didn’t even want to be in the same state with that cocksucker—that’s me—much less in the same room. I told my mother to shove her turkey, drumsticks first. She’s never forgiven me. It’s all right, I don’t like her anyway. How did you get arrested for stealing?"

"I hope they use Roquefort and not blue cheese. I don’t like eating mold. I…what?"

"Arrested," Digger said.

Lorelei looked pained. "I guess I know now why they call you Digger."

He shrugged.

"I was living with a guy and he was on drugs. My salary couldn’t buy enough, so I stole a little bit and got caught. He stole my car and drove it into a pole and killed himself. Ruined the car, too. I was really upset. That was the only time I ever did anything like that. Do you hate me now?"

"No. I think you’re a good person."

After dinner, as they walked back to Digger’s room, Lorelei said, "I don’t think I can sleep with you anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because you’ve been nice to me. I only sleep with men who use me."

"Why is that?"

"Because I write poems about it afterward. I think you have to suffer to be a great poet, don’t you?"

Suddenly, Digger was consumed with a passion for this simple child who would arrive at every garden three days after the flowers died.

"Let’s just make love and skip the poetry afterward," he said.

Lorelei paused. Her forehead wrinkled as she gave his proposal deep thought.

Then she said, "Okay."

Digger skipped doing his log that night. He put the tapes containing the interviews with Dr. Kertzner, Mrs. Walker and Lemuel Bogley in his dresser drawer. He would think about them tomorrow, he told himself.

Maybe.

Chapter Twenty-three

Digger was a time compulsive. If he made a general date to meet someone, say in Chicago, toward the middle of the year, to him that meant twelve noon, July 1, and he would water-ski up the Mississippi to be there on time. He regularly arrived early for appointments, up to several hours early, which explained why he tried to schedule his meetings in places that served liquor so that he would have something to occupy his time.

He had driven Lorelei home before getting to the office of McArdle Laboratories at 10:46 A.M. There was only one other car in the lot, a Chevy Caprice. He sat in his car next to the two-story pink cinder-block building. Lt. Breslin arrived at one minute to eleven and the two went upstairs together.

Jim McArdle was at the receptionist’s desk inside his office, looking through correspondence with all the enthusiasm of a man who had been warned earlier that one of the envelopes contained a poison that killed on contact. He looked up as they entered and smiled at Breslin. McArdle was a big, broad-shouldered bear of a man with a full gray beard that seemed heavy enough to pull down the corners of his eyes. It gave him the look of a basset hound struggling through mid-life crisis. The southern Daniel Boone voice reinforced the impression.

Digger asked Breslin if he had brought the aspirins.

"Yes, right here."

Breslin handed the vial to Digger. It carried the marking "LAPD" and a case identification number. The vial Digger took from his pocket was identical except for the ID numbers.

He handed both vials to McArdle. "You tested several tablets yesterday from this vial for me. They were aspirin, if you remember. Lt. Breslin’s vial contains tablets. He tasted them after…recently and decided they were aspirin."

McArdle nodded his understanding.

"I’d like you to double-check the lieutenant’s analysis. Are these pills aspirin?"

"All right." He pronounced it "Aw raht." He looked suspiciously at Digger, probably wondering what had happened to his Rebel accent.

"And one other thing. There’s loose powder in both vials. From the tablets, presumably. Can you test that powder?"

"To see if it’s aspirin, too?"

"Yes, and to see if it isn’t."

"It’d help if I knew what else I could be looking for."

"Trimethadione," Digger said.

"Okay," McArdle said. "I’m going back in the lab. It shouldn’t take more than twenty, twenty-five minutes iffen you want to wait."

When the door closed behind the chemist, Breslin sprawled out in an armchair and picked up a copy of
People
magazine. The policeman was wearing a well-tailored linen sports jacket and full-flared slacks with an open-throated quiana shirt.

"You have the look on your face of the well-laid," Digger said.

"When you’re irresistible, flaunt it. You, on the other hand, look like shit. But every time I’ve seen you, you look like shit."

"It’s part of my protective coloration. I buy these goddamn Pierre Cardin suits and these fancy French shirts that those faggot designers make with the cuffs too narrow to fit anybody with a real wrist; and I buy good ties and twenty-dollar belts. When I put it all together, it all looks like something I found in an alley. Where did I go wrong?"

"Get a new tailor. Have him put you in blue jeans. Your body cries out for blue jeans. You’re never going to be a suit person." He shrugged. "Maybe it’s got survival value. No one’s ever going to kill you because they’re jealous of the way you look."

"But why?"

" ’Cause you’re a slob," Breslin said.

"Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. Do I owe you anything for the consultation?"

"I’ll send you a bill."

It took Jim McArdle twenty-six minutes. He came back into the room and handed Digger both vials. "The lieutenant’s had aspirins in it. But there were traces of trimethadione in both of them."

"Thank you. Please write a formal report for me. My company will pay your bill, Mr. McArdle, and don’t skimp. You’ve done us a big favor coming in on Sunday."

"Ah never skimp. There’s one other thing."

"What’s that?"

"Those trimethadione tablets I tested for you yesterday?"

"Yes?"

"It doesn’t generally come in white tablets like that. It usually comes in capsules."

"What does that mean?"

McArdle shrugged. "I guess it means that if someone wanted white trimethadione tablets, he’d have to order them special."

Digger grinned. "Add something extra to your bill." He turned to Breslin. "I’ll buy."

"
I’ll
buy.
You
explain."

They drove in separate cars to the Sportsland Lodge. Digger was there first and waited in the cocktail lounge for the young policeman to arrive. He had the drinks waiting.

Breslin nodded to him when he arrived, sat down, punished his drink and said, "So?"

"So Welles killed his wife."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"I guess it’s time I started acting like a cop. How’d he do it and can you prove it?"

"His wife had epilepsy. He killed her by triggering an attack that made her drive off the cliff. I know how he did it. I don’t know if I can prove it to your satisfaction. It’s good enough for my company because the Welleses lied on their insurance application. We don’t have to pay. You want the truth?"

"Yeah."

"I don’t think you have enough to go before a grand jury with. I don’t think they’d indict Welles."

"Shit, Digger. What good are you to me?"

"Our deal’s still our deal," Digger said. "My company will be grateful."

"Grateful, my ass. I don’t want grateful. If that bastard killed his wife, I want him."

"I didn’t think you cared that much."

"Don’t make wrong judgments," Breslin snapped. "I’m a cop because I want to be a cop. I’m a good cop. And I want to put all the bad asses away."

"Let’s have another drink and think about it," Digger said. He waved to the bartender for another round. The desk clerk walked into the bar.

"I thought I saw you, Mr. Burroughs."

"Yes?"

"You have had a lot of calls. You didn’t pick up your messages." There was a hint of scold in the voice.

He handed Digger five pink message notes.

"Thank you."

Digger looked at them. Four were from Walter Brackler; the fifth was from Frank Stevens. He had called last night, while Digger was out to dinner with Lorelei.

Digger drained his drink and rose. "Have to make a call," he said. "I’ll be right back."

Digger dialed from a pay phone in the lobby. He whistled under his breath while waiting for his call to go through.

"Hello, Frank, this is Digger. How goes it?"

"I’m afraid there’s been a little hitch in your plan to send Dr. Welles to the gas chamber," Stevens said. His voice, unlike the previous day, was crisp and factual. Digger felt his stomach clench up.

"What happened?" he said.

"Langfill met yesterday afternoon with Welles’s attorney."

"And?"

"He listened like I told him to. Welles had a polygraph examination given to him by an expert."

"What did it show?"

"That he was out of town when his wife died. That he did not kill his wife. Repeat. Did not kill his wife."

"Shit," Digger said. He purged his lungs of air in a long sigh.

"My feelings exactly."

"He killed her."

"Unfortunately, that’s just a hunch. It doesn’t have much weight against a lie-detector examination."

"Well, we still don’t have to pay. I can prove fraud on the application."

"That’s kind of academic now, Digger. Even if we don’t pay the claim, I think your antics out there probably have given Welles enough ammunition to sue us for our testicles. It will probably be cheaper to pay. Cheaper and a lot less destructive than the publicity of a lawsuit. Digger?"

"Yes."

"I want you to know that I’ll insist that Welles file no charges against you."

"Thank you, Frank."

"Of course, I can’t guarantee that Walter Brackler won’t make your life interesting."

"Of course."

"You will probably want to think about another line of work."

"Are you firing me?" Digger asked.

"No. Not now. Not ever. Not if I live to be a hundred."

"Thank you, Frank. We’ll talk later."

When he went back into the cocktail lounge, Digger slugged down his glass of vodka in one gulp.

Breslin said, "You look like you were just told you had the clap."

"Worse. Welles took a lie-detector test. It said he didn’t have anything to do with his wife’s death."

"Oh," Breslin said in disgust. "Why do I get involved in things like this?"

"He killed her."

"Give up, Digger. Give it up. Pay the money. Give it up. Forget about it. Get out with your ass."

Digger thumped his fist on the table. "No, god-damnit, not so fucking fast, not just fucking yet."

He went back to the lobby telephone and dialed another number.

"Koko, this is Digger."

"I’m really tired, Digger. I just got in."

"Koko. I need you."

"I’ll be right there."

Chapter Twenty-four

Koko had lucked her way onto a flight as soon as she reached the Las Vegas airport, and she was at the Sportsland Lodge less than two hours after Digger had called her.

She had gone right to Digger’s room, where he showed her the tapes, his summaries and the tape recorder. She nodded, pushed him out of the door and told him to go back to the bar and not to bother her.

"Who is that chiclet?" Breslin had asked.

"Her name is Tamiko."

"What does she do?"

"She thinks," Digger said.

"She doesn’t have much competition around here," Breslin said.

"She doesn’t have any competition anywhere," Digger said.

They waited three hours, drinking sullenly. Then Tamiko was pulling out a chair at the table.

"Buy me a drink," she told Digger.

"You can’t drink," he said.

"Will you buy me a drink?" she asked Breslin.

"I’ll buy you a pony for Christmas, if you want."

"Lay off," Digger said. "She’s bespoken."

Koko had a glass of white wine. She sipped it, then said to Digger, "You’re an asshole."

"Besides that," he said.

"Tell us something we don’t know," Breslin said, his voice a mumble.

"But sometimes your instincts are good," she said.

"He killed his wife, didn’t he?"

Koko nodded. Breslin, whose head had slipped lower on its support hand with each passing hour, sat up straight in his chair.

"He passed a lie-detector test," Breslin said.

"Yeah, but he killed his wife," Koko said stubbornly.

From Lieutenant Breslin’s office, Digger dialed a telephone number.

"Hello."

"Dr. Welles, this is Julian Burroughs."

"I’m surprised you remember that, among so many names. I think you should talk to my lawyer."