The Digger's Game (23 page)

Schabb had his head around. He saw Torrey sprinting up the driveway from the street. Torrey was in a semicrouch. His right arm was stiff in the upper arm. Schabb could not see the forearm.

Schabb saw the Greek crouch. He saw the Greek’s right hand flash back toward his belt, then forward again with a revolver. He saw Torrey’s right arm stiffen. Torrey’s body was at a different angle, turned slightly away from the right. Schabb saw the Greek’s hand pick up, then down.

Schabb saw Torrey reel slightly. Schabb saw the Blackhawk briefly as it pointed toward the sky. Schabb saw the Greek crouch at the left rear fender of the Bird. He saw the Greek’s hand kick up with the revolver, then kick down again. He heard shots. He saw Torrey stagger back. He saw the Blackhawk pointing toward the sky. He saw the Greek’s right hand kick upward again. He saw Torrey’s body lurch in its stride. He saw the Greek straighten up. He heard the shot. He saw the Greek point the black revolver at Torrey, as Torrey’s body recovered its balance again. The Blackhawk flew out of Torrey’s hand. Schabb saw the Greek’s right hand kick up, then down. Schabb saw a white piece fly away from Torrey’s head, in the back. Schabb heard the shot. Schabb saw Torrey reel back again. Schabb jammed the accelerator to the floor. The motor roared wildly. Schabb jerked the transmission out of
PARK
. The Impala leaped forward as Torrey came
down on the grass. Schabb rolled the wheel over to miss a white Plymouth Fury at the curb, one door down from the Greek’s. The Impala slewed. Schabb hauled the wheel over hard. The Impala slewed to the right. Schabb got the Impala straightened out.

At the corner of the street, Schabb turned the Impala hard right. He looked back as the car turned. The Greek stood two hundred yards back. His hands were at his sides.

SALLY BARCA
was sitting at Schabb’s desk when Schabb came into the Regent Sportsmen’s Club.

“Who’re you?” Schabb said. “How’d you get in here?”

“My name’s Barca,” Sally said. “Come in through the front door just like any other white man, two days ago. Where’ve you been?”

“I been out of town,” Schabb said. “I had business out of town. Where’s Richie?”

“Aw, come on,” Barca said. “Richie’s still down the Southern Mortuary, probably. I dunno where Richie is. I know how Richie is, though, and so do you. Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“Who wants to know?” Schabb said.

“You look awful white,” Barca said. “You sick? I’m a friend of Richie’s. I’m one of the guys said it was all right for him to whack out the Greek. Didn’t turn out too good for Richie, huh?”

Schabb sat down. “Richie’s dead?” he said.

“You get shot four or five times, close range,” Barca said, “it’s inclined to make you dead. Where the fuck’ve you been? The Greek’s been practically crazy.”

“Looking for me,” Schabb said.

“Looking for you to stay away from you,” Barca said. “The Greek called me, same morning. Claims you put Richie up to it.”

“I did like hell,” Schabb said.

“I know that,” Barca said. “I told Richie, he oughta have a contract. He was too fuckin’ cheap. Tough shit for him. Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“I was with Richie,” Schabb said.

“No shit,” Barca said. “The Greek told me that. ‘I could’ve killed him right then and there,’ he said, ‘and I should’ve.’ I know where you were. Where the hell’ve you been?”

“I drove intown,” Schabb said. “I put the car in the Under-common garage. I got a cab over to Cambridge Street. I stopped at a packy and I bought three quarts of Beefeaters. Then I got a room at the Holiday. I been there ever since.”

“Drunk,” Barca said.

“No,” Schabb said. “Scared. I was only drunk when I was awake. I was scared all the time. I figured the Greek was gonna kill me.”

“You and the Greek oughta start a club,” Barca said. “The Greek thinks you’re gonna kill him.”

“I would’ve if I knew how,” Schabb said.

“Since you don’t know how,” Barca said, “you want a new partner?”

“You gonna kill the Greek?” Schabb said. “He’s hard to kill, I can tell you that much.”

“Nah,” Barca said, “no more need for that. The Greek says he just wants his old business back. Nobody else ever wanted it, so it’s his. Me? I’m looking for a new gaff. I done this and that, just like all the other assholes, spend all their time onna phone, playing music for the FBI. Except I’m not old yet, and I’m not broken down. I got the machines and stuff, and it’s all right, but shit, I want something permanent. Bobby, Bobby keeps telling me, the old man fades out, Bobby’s gonna be total boss and it’s the pot of gold. Bobby’s just old enough, swallows all that crap. And he’s a nice guy. But Bobby ain’t me. So I was thinking, what’s the matter, you and
me run this? I know what you can do, and you know, there’s certain aspects, you need a guy knows his way around. We can handle things, maybe sooner or later, we get Bloom, huh?”

“And then what?” Schabb said. “What happens after that?”

“Nothing,” Barca said. “We get rich, is all. After a while, Bobby and them forget it’s temporary, long’s they get their cut, it’s all right. They’ll leave us alone. Whaddaya say? And the Greek, he’ll leave us alone.”

“Look,” Schabb said, “when I came in here, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of being dead. I’ll take anything.”

Barca came out of the chair. “Okay,” he said, “that’s out of the way. Now lemme go see the old man and hold his hand. Oh, by the way, you wouldn’t send Richie no flowers, now?”

“Mister Barca,” Schabb said, “the whole idea of Regent is, you look at it hard and you can’t see Richie. No way.”

J
UST BEFORE HE LEFT
the Edison plant on Friday afternoon, Harrington went to the payphone and called 742–5533. The switchboard operator said, “FBI.” Harrington said he had seen an ad in the paper about a reward. The switchboard operator connected him to a man who identified himself as Special Agent Falk.

“I seen the ad in the paper,” Harrington said.

“What ad, sir?” the man said.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Harrington said, “for them fur robbers.”

“The insurance company offers that, sir,” the man said.

“If I tell you,” Harrington said, “I get the reward?”

“The insurance company would decide that,” the agent said.

“Okay,” Harrington said, “lemme tell you something, you talk to the insurance and I’ll call you Monday. I got the box, all right? And the paper. How’s that?”

“I don’t understand,” the man said.

“The guys that took the furs,” Harrington said.

“Yeah,” the agent said.

“They cut the fence, I read inna paper,” Harrington said. “A bolt cutter?”

“Yeah,” the man said.

“The bolt cutter come inna box,” Harrington said.

“Um,” the man said.

“There ain’t no fingerprints on the bolt cutter,” Harrington said.

“Well,” the man said.

“Look,” Harrington said, “they was wearing gloves. They wasn’t wearing gloves, they had the paper and the box. The gloves’re inna box.”

“Ah,” the man said.

“I got the paper and the box,” Harrington said.

“Uh huh,” the man said.

“You call the company,” Harrington said. “I gotta think this all over. I’m gonna need some protection and all, I give you that box.”

“Where can I reach you?” the man said.

“I’ll call you Monday,” Harrington said. He hung up.

T
HE
D
IGGER GOT HOME
at two thirty-five in the beginning of a late September frost. His wife met him at the door. She was wearing a lavender satin mandarin gown; it was slit above the knee on each side, and it was tight across her breasts. The Digger had removed it two years before from a crate of goods stored temporarily in the cellar of the Bright Red.

“Paul’s here,” she whispered.

“Oh,” the Digger said, “I didn’t know that. I see the big car inna street and I figured probably the Governor stopped by for a taste.”

“He’s been here since
midnight
,” she said.

“They changed the closing hours,” the Digger said. “I kept meaning to tell him.”

“Jerry,” she said.

“Jerry nothing,” the Digger said. “I bet he enjoyed himself, looking at you in that.”

“I thought you liked this,” she said.

“You know goddamned right well I like that,” the Digger said. “I like what you’re wearing it over, too. I can see your goddamned nipples right through that stuff, for Christ sake. That’s why the hell I bought it for you in the first place. Doesn’t mean I want you wearing it to the fights with me, for Christ sake.”

“I was wearing it for you,” she said, “I was watching television and waiting for you to come home. I didn’t know he was coming over.”

“You could’ve changed when you found out who it was,” the Digger said.

“Jerry,” she said, “I would’ve been embarrassed. He would’ve known right off, it’d be like
telling
him. Besides, he’s a priest.”

“He’s my brother, too,” the Digger said. “They don’t cut off your goddamned equipment when you put the collar on, you know. You give him a drink, I assume?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You maybe even had a couple of pops yourself,” the Digger said.

“One or two,” she said.

“Good,” he said, “I’ll give him about, say, twenny minutes and then I’ll be up and we’ll do it a few times, how’ll that be?”

“Best offer I had tonight,” she said.

The Digger slapped his wife on the buttocks as she started up the stairs.

Paul sat in the living room. He was wearing the Roman collar and the dickey. He had removed his coat.

“An unexpected pleasure, Big Brother,” the Digger said. “I get home at two in the morning, ordinarily I don’t expect I’m gonna find a priest on the couch. You guys started making house calls?”

“Jerry,” Paul said, “I’ve got one or two things on my mind, and I’m rather concerned about them. I thought maybe you could help me out.”

“Well, I tell you what,” the Digger said, “you just let me get myself about three ounces of something and I’ll see what I can do.”

The Digger returned with a glass of Jack Daniel’s and ice. He sat down. “What is it, my son?” he said.

“I’ll come right to the point,” Paul said. “This afternoon I called up to see why it was taking so long to get my passport renewed, and after a lot of hemming and
hawing I reached somebody who told me that it had been renewed but then it wasn’t sent. So naturally I inquired why it wasn’t sent, and when they intended to send it, and I explained about the Fahey trip, and they just wouldn’t tell me. So at long last they told me to call the FBI.”

“Good gracious,” the Digger said, “you been burning draft cards or something, Paul baby?”

“I called the FBI,” Paul said, “and I talked to a number of very polite people, and they very courteously told me almost nothing either. I began to get a little upset. I mentioned calling the Bishop and I may have even said something about the Pope. I just couldn’t understand why my passport was being held up. They finally told me to call somebody in the office of the United States Attorney.

“I did that,” Paul said. “I asked the man quite bluntly if the government had some reason for not wanting me to leave the country, and he was as puzzled as I was. But he said he’d look into it.