Lucifer's Weekend (Digger)

by Warren Murphy

  "This is Digger. Do you remember me?"

  "Not too well. Are you the funny-looking blond thing?" she said.

  "Some might say that."

  "Where the hell have you been, you blue-eyed devil?"

  "Oh, I see," Digger said.

  "You see what?"

  "You’ve screwed Hector Blackenbluer into oblivion and now you want to start on me."

  "Bullshit, you jealous asshole. I’ve been calling and calling."

  "I only got one message."

  "Of course you only got one message," she said. "Nobody ever answers the phone. What the hell kind of place is that anyway?"

  "It specializes in teeny-boppers on senior proms who want to orgy. Most of them aren’t into telephones."

  "You’re in a fine mood," she said.

  "I ripped my good jacket," he said.

  "What good jacket? All your jackets look like fruit-store awnings. Why are you grunting?"

  "I’m trying to squirm into a fresh pair of pants," he said.

  "I knew you’d find a reason to get your pants off if I left you alone for a couple of days."

  "How’s your sister?"

  "She’s okay. They decided not to operate," Koko said.

  "I called you a lot," Digger said. "No answer."

  "We were running around a lot. We just couldn’t connect," she said.

  "Sounds like our life story," Digger said.

  "How’s it by you? How do you like being a goodwill ambassador for BSLI?"

  "This is all bullshit, this job," Digger said. "Today I met some guy who looked like a diseased devil and his wife, who looked like an angel. I opened up an art gallery and I got my ass shot at and I ripped my pants and my jacket. I don’t need this. I was doing just fine being a degenerate gambler."

  "Shot at?" Koko’s voice suddenly lost its tone of good humor. "What happened, Dig?"

  "I don’t know. I was up at the cabin where this Gillette died, trying to look around. And when I left, somebody fired at me."

  "Is it hunting country? Maybe some asshole hunter who fires at anything that moves?" she suggested.

  "No, it won’t wash," Digger said. "Not when they fired a hundred fifty shots at me or put a bullet through my car window while I was getting my butt out of there. I miss you."

  "I miss you too, Dig. Is that an invitation?"

  Digger propped the phone between shoulder and ear and zipped up his fly. He looked up at the red pendant on the crystal chandelier.

  "Yeah, it’s an invitation," he said. "This was going to be our pleasant weekend together. Now the weekend’s almost shot and me too."

  "Is it an invitation or not an invitation?"

  "Invitation," he said.

  "Okay. I’ll be there tonight," Koko said.

  "Hold on. How you getting here?"

  "I’ll take a bus to Belton and then I’ll call you to pick me up. If you’re not there, I’ll get a cab. Don’t worry. I’m really very self-sufficient."

  "I know that."

  "I’ll be there tonight. What are you going to do now?"

  "I’m going to try to find out who shot at me."

  "Digger, be careful. Was this a murder?"

  "Yeah. I’m sure of it now."

  "Then they won’t mind killing you. Be careful."

  "I will. You just get your ass here rickety-sprit."

  Koko giggled. "I’m on my way. Have them warm up a horse for me."

  "What horse?" Digger said. "What are you talking about?"

  "I’m talking about that herd of lalapaloozas out your front window—what do you think I’m talking about?" She paused. "You lied, didn’t you?"

  "To hell with them. I’ll buy you your own pony."

  "I hate you, Digger."

  "Come anyway," he said. "I need protection."

  Digger put on his jacket and called Cody Lord’s number.

  "This is Burroughs," he said.

  "Oh, yeah. I’m sorry I missed you before."

  "I bet you are," Digger said. "I want to talk to you. Where do you live?"

  Lord gave him an address and Digger said, "Where do I find it?"

  "Just come down Church Street to the big tire store. Turn right there. I’m on the next corner."

  "I’ll be right there."

  The red pickup truck was parked in front of Cody Lord’s house, and as Digger walked by it, he put his hand on the hood. It was warm.

  Even before the echo of the doorbell had died out, Lord opened the door.

  "Come on in, Mr. Burroughs," he said and waved Digger into a small, sparsely furnished living room. "Can I get you a drink?"

  "You have vodka?"

  "Yes."

  "On the rocks," Digger said. As Lord left the room, Digger looked around, and his attention was drawn to a large gun cabinet in a far corner of the room. It held three rifles, and under them were four trophies. Digger looked at them; they were for target shooting in rifle competition.

  Lord was back in a minute with a large water glass filled with ice and vodka. Digger remembered that Lord had not even sipped his beer that day in Eddie’s. He would be a nondrinker. Nondrinkers always made drinks with nine times as much liquor in them as they should have. They didn’t appreciate the ritualistic aspects of refilling one’s glass.

  Lord popped the top of a can of Coke and sipped from it as he sat down in a chair facing Digger.

  "Where were you today?" Digger asked.

  Lord shrugged. "I’m sorry, I must have just missed you when you called. I was out getting my car lubed. My mother told me that you called. She doesn’t live here, but she stops in once in a while just to make sure I’m all right. Her little boy, you know."

  "And since then?" Digger asked.

  "Nowhere. I’ve been home all day."

  Digger let the lie pass.

  "I drove out to the cabin that you and Gillette used."

  "Oh, yeah. Ma told me. Did you find out anything?"

  "Yeah," Digger said. "That somebody wants to kill me."

  "What?" Lord said, sitting forward in his chair.

  "You heard me. Somebody pegged some shots at me."

  "Jesus," Lord said. He paused for a moment, as if thinking. "Damn it, that proves it, doesn’t it? That somebody killed Vern?"

  "Yeah," Digger said. "Somebody."

  Cody Lord seemed to wilt under his gaze. "Hey," he said weakly, "wait a minute. Vern was my friend. You can’t think—"

  "I’ll tell you what I think," Digger said. "I think you think I’m awfully stupid."

  "What?" Lord’s voice was a whine, trying to understand.

  "Why’d you call me the other night and drop a dime on the Orleans jazz club?"

  "Oh. I…well, I thought you might find something out there about Vern’s death."

  "You knew he was banging the singer," Digger said.

  "I…I wasn’t sure."

  "You’re a liar," Digger said. "You sent me there without telling me it was you. What the hell did you think I was going to do? Have a drink, listen to those lunatics butcher ‘Perdido,’ then go home? You knew about the singer."

  "Okay. I’m sorry about that, Mr. Burroughs. I knew Vern was having an affair with some singer there. I just didn’t want to say anything bad about him."

  "Bad? What’s bad? Maybe what’s bad is if Gillette’s wife is giving some out on the side to his best friend."

  Lord bristled. "I resent that. Louise is a fine—"

  "And I don’t give a damn what you resent. What I know is that somebody killed Gillette. You keep saying he was your best friend, but I think you’ve been having an affair with his wife. I think you’ve been lying to me from the start and today’s the biggest lie of all."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were home all day?"

  "Yes."

  "Why is your truck’s motor still warm?" Digger asked. "Let me give you a clue. You found out I was going up to that cabin and you sneaked up there and gave me a real warm Belton, PA, welcome. And then you hustled
back here. How’s that sound?"

  Lord shook his head from side to side. "No, no, no," he said. His shoulders slumped and he sank down in his chair.

  "I’ll tell you what happened," he said.

  "Don’t leave anything out this time," Digger said.

  "I won’t. Vern was my best friend. And, yeah, you’re right, I was in love with his wife anyway. But I wouldn’t do anything about it, Mr. Burroughs, ’cause I don’t believe in that. Anyway, I knew he was cheating on Louise. I know this is terrible, but when he died, well, sure I was sad, but I thought then that I had a chance with Louise. But she’s so wrapped up in Vern’s memory that there’s no space in her head for me."

  "There’s enough space in her head for everybody," Digger said. "Go ahead."

  "I really think Vern was killed, Mr. Burroughs. I don’t know why or who. Louise never wanted to believe that. When you came to town, I thought you could get at the truth. And I thought that it might help you if you knew where Vern hung out. I don’t know…I thought if you found out about the singer and if you told Louise about it, then it might free her from Vern’s memory and I would have a chance. If I told her that he cheated, she’d hate me. That’s why I did it the way I did, Mr. Burroughs."

  "You weren’t up that cabin just now? Why was your motor warm?" Digger asked.

  "I was over to see Louise. She called and asked me to come over." He got up and went to the phone. "She wants to talk to you."

  "About what?" Digger asked as Lord dialed the phone.

  "About the insurance money," Lord said. Into the phone, he said, "Louise, Mr. Burroughs is here." He nodded and said, "Wait a moment." He asked Digger, "Can you go over and see her now? She wants to talk to you."

  "Yes," Digger said.

  "He’ll be right over," Lord said. "Okay. ’Bye, Louise."

  Digger drained his drink and got to his feet as Lord hung up. "One thing," he said. "I called Louise’s today. There wasn’t any answer. About two-forty. You were there then?"

  Lord blushed. "The next time you’re screwing your best friend’s widow," Digger said, "take the phone off the hook. Don’t just ignore it. It makes people wonder."

  Lord nodded.

  "The night you left Vern at the cabin? You went to see Louise, didn’t you?" Digger asked.

  "Yes. I asked her to leave Vern and marry me. She said no."

  "When you met her here that first day," Digger said, "did you tell anybody about it?"

  Lord said, "No. Just Louise."

  "And who did you tell today that I was going up the cabin?" Digger asked.

  "Just Louise," Lord said.

  "Who do you think killed Vern Gillette?" Digger asked.

  "I don’t know. I didn’t. Really. And I didn’t have anything to do with shooting at you today, Mr. Burroughs. Honest, I didn’t."

  "I know that," Digger said as he opened the door. "You don’t have the balls."

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Hello, Ardath. How’s my favorite doorman?"

  "Hello, Mr. Burroughs. Come in, please. My mother’s expecting you. She put her trains away." The little girl closed the door behind Digger, then wrapped her hand around his left index and middle finger and pulled him down to her.

  "Did you solve our mysterious death yet?" she asked in a whisper.

  "No, Ardath, but I’m trying. I’m really trying," he whispered back.

  "I "know," she said. "Somehow I have faith that you will succeed where others have failed."

  She stood up straight and very formally said, "Come this way, Mr. Burroughs." And she winked at him, a coconspirator with a ponytail.

  "Hey, not so fast," Digger whispered. "I’ve got a question to ask."

  "All right."

  "The last time I was here, did you let Cody Lord in the house?"

  "No. Cody lets himself in, usually by the back kitchen door. He has the run of the house." She looked around and moved closer to Digger’s ear. "He’s around a lot these days. I think he is infatuated with my mother."

  A muffled voice called out. "Ardath? Who’s there?"

  The little girl pulled Digger down the hall. "Coming, Mother," she called.

  Louise Gillette was in a small sitting room across from her Grand Central Station. She was sipping a Bloody Mary. She wore a tight halter and shorts cut so high they barely encroached upon her thighs. Her midriff, tight and unfleshed, was bare, and her dark hair was tousled about her head. There was a pleased, satisfied look in her eyes, and Digger thought that Cody Lord might be a simp but he certainly knew how to service Louise Gillette’s account.

  "Mr. Burroughs," she said.

  "Lord said you wanted to see me."

  "Yes. Ardath, you can leave us alone now."

  "Yes, Mother. Call if you need anything."

  "Thank you, I will."

  After Ardath had closed the door behind her, Louise Gillette invited Digger to sit down, and he flopped into a chair facing hers across a wooden cocktail table.

  "I’ve decided to take your company’s offer of a million dollars," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Is that really important? Doesn’t it suffice that I am relieving BSLI of its major headache by agreeing to terms? Not saying anything, of course, about what it will do for your reputation at your company. To bring me back on your shield, so to speak."

  She sipped at her drink and looked over the rim of the glass at him with satisfied eyes. Or maybe they were just smug, Digger thought.

  "Well, to take your points in no particular order, Mrs. Gillette. Yes, my company would be happy to be relieved of a headache and you have been a headache. Next, as for my reputation with the company, my reputation is zip code with everybody except one person at the company, and I don’t care at all about my reputation because, frankly, I’m used to doing my job correctly, which is very rare at Old Benevolent and Saintly, which is built upon a rock-solid foundation of failure. Next, yes, it is really important that I know why you decided to take the million dollars."

  "An additional five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money," she said blandly.

  "And it was just as much money three months ago when my company first sent its envoys to talk to you, those people with the teeth. Maybe it was even more money then, counting for inflation. Let’s see, adjusting for an annual rate of twelve percent, in three months you’ve lost three percent of five hundred thousand, and that is…is…a lot of money."

  "I’ve just decided that it seems senseless to deprive Ardath of such a financial start in life, just over some arbitrary principle," she said.

  "I think it was in the train station across the hall, Mrs. Gillette, that someone told me that principles aren’t worth anything unless they are arbitrary."

  "Times change. People change."

  "Often suddenly," Digger said, "and not generally without reason."

  "Listen, Mr. Burroughs. I didn’t ask you here to spar with you intellectually. I asked you here to tell you my decision. ‘Tell.’ That’s the important part of that sentence. Not to discuss or ask your advice. To tell you my decision."

  "Have you ever been to the cabin where your husband died?"

  "No. The police wouldn’t let anybody up there at first, and then, afterwards, well, I didn’t ever want to see that place."

  "Your husband died changing a fuse, isn’t that correct?"

  "That’s what the police said."

  "And that’s what you’ll be saying if you decide you want the million dollars?" Digger said.

  "I guess so," she said, almost reluctantly, as if she had not until then realized the impact of what she was doing. She put down her glass and nervously began turning it on the coaster on the table.

  "Initially," Digger said, "you were concerned that your subscribing to that cause of death would make you an accomplice in stating that your husband was a fool?"

  "Yes. That’s about right," she said.

  "Well, if you believe that now, Mrs. Gillette, your husband was no fool. Your husband was a flaming
idiot."

  "That’s rude, crude and uncalled-for," she snapped.

  "I’ll tell you how your husband died changing a fuse," Digger said. The woman was silent, staring angrily at him.

  "There wasn’t any goddamn fuse box in that cabin. It had circuit breakers. Now maybe all you geniuses practice a different form of electricity with your toy subways and all your bullshit, but when I grew up, I knew you don’t put fuses in circuit-breaker boxes."

  She slumped back in her chair. "What you’re saying…"

  "What I’m saying is that I’m pretty sure your husband was murdered. What price do you put on his life, Mrs. Gillette? You want to take your extra five hundred thou and run away and let his killer escape? Is that what you’re telling me to do?"

  The woman was silent, but her lips were working as if she were talking to herself and only by great effort preventing her words from spewing forth into the room. Finally, she said, "I want to think about things, Mr. Burroughs."

  "I’d still like to know who or what convinced you to change your mind about the money," Digger said.

  "I told you, I’d like to think about this for a while. I’ll be in touch."

  Digger looked over toward this bookshelf. Another college photograph of Vern Gillette—athlete, scholar, husband, father, genius and murder victim—seemed to be staring at him.

  "Call me," Digger told the woman. "I’m at Gus’s LaGrande Inn."

  "I know. Cody told me."

  "Yes. I’m sure he did."

  As Digger slid behind the wheel of his car, he saw Ardath sitting in the front passenger seat.

  "Ah, good, you’ve decided to run away with me," he said.

  "No. I wanted to talk to you," she said very seriously. "What happened to your rear window?"

  "Vandalism," Digger said. There was no need to frighten the girl.

  She nodded slowly as if trying to make up her mind whether or not to believe him.

  "Do you think my father was murdered?"

  "Yes."

  "By whom?"

  "I don’t know," Digger said. "Not yet."

  "Will you be able to find out?" she asked.