And he wanted a drink.
He poured a glass of vodka from the bottle in the freezer and carried it into the bathroom where he showered and shaved. Before dressing, he hooked his small tape recorder around his bare waist with a fabric belt and then taped a pair of wires to his right side. The wires ended in the golden open-mouthed frog microphone, which Digger clipped onto his tie. He reached behind him and through his shirt pressed a button.
"One, two, three, four," he said.
He pressed another button to rewind the tape and another to play it back.
He heard his own voice. "One, two, three, four."
He rewound the tape, finished dressing and drained his glass. He rinsed it out and stood it on the sink of the small kitchen.
Finally, he went inside and woke Arlo Buehler.
The doctor took two seconds to focus his eyes and clear his head, then started clambering out of bed with the energy of a man who’d just been told his house was on fire.
"Good," he said. "We’re awake. What time is it? We’ve got to get you going today. How do you feel? I feel terrific."
"Slow down," Digger said. "It’s 8:40 A.M."
"All right. My hours start at ten so I’m in plenty of time. I told you, you have to check into the hospital at one."
"Right."
"And I close up the office at three and then I’ll be over there. In the meantime, they’ll start running the tests and stuff."
"Okay," Digger said.
"What are you all dressed for?"
"I have a breakfast meeting."
Buehler’s eyes narrowed. "With whom? You don’t know anybody in Boston."
"With a beautiful redhead," Digger said.
"You prick. See if she’s got a friend."
"She does, but he’s too short for you. Give me the extra apartment key."
Buehler took it from the end table next to his bed. "Here."
"Don’t be late at the hospital."
"I won’t," Digger said.
"By one o’clock. Sharp."
"I know," Digger said. "Count on me."
Digger thought that college students, next to women, were the most victimized group in America. But women were the champs. His girlfriend, Koko, paid twice as much for her shoes as Digger did for his and she was happy if hers lasted six months of occasional wearing. Digger was outraged if his shoes fell apart in anything less than ten years and wrote letters to manufacturers telling them he was sick of their shoddy merchandise. When Digger bought a suit, alterations were free as long as he owned the suit, even if it involved remaking the whole garment. When Koko bought a suit and paid twice as much for it as he did for his, she had to pay for the alterations, too.
"It’s because you’re slaves to fashion," Digger had told her. "They know they’ve got you by the nose because they keep changing styles on you and you diddles keep buying the new stuff. This week, straight legs. Next week, flare legs. Then short skirts, and long skirts, then in-the-middle skirts. My suits never change. They look the same forever."
"Yeah," Koko said. "They look as fresh as the day you first picked them out of the garbage can."
"That’s immaterial," Digger said.
"Dig, if I wore my clothes the way you wore yours, and I looked the way in my clothes that you look in yours, you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I’d look like a bag lady."
"That’s irrelevant," Digger had said.
"And you’re incompetent," she had said, "particularly to talk about clothes. You look like an ambulatory compost heap."
But almost as bad as what was done to women, Digger thought, was what was done to students. He thought that again as he walked into the Coat of Arms luncheonette, which was large, dark, and dirty. A hand-lettered sign over the long counter said "Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. Two dollars."
Another rip-off. A buck meal for two bucks. No wonder kids hated the system; it had never done anything but gouge them.
As he walked in, he noticed Allie and Gilligan in the rear booth, talking vigorously to each other. Allie was shaking her head.
Then she looked up, saw Digger, waved, and smiled.
How the hell could the girl smile, he wondered. Maybe he would have to tell Frank Stevens that his daughter was simple.
Simple. But lovely. As he walked toward her, she had all the warm, self-assured radiance of a woman at peace with herself. Her green eyes sparkled and her long fine hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders. She had wonderful cheekbones and Digger felt himself wishing, just for a moment, that she wasn’t the daughter of his boss and friend, because he would take a run at her in a wink. It must drive the big jock studs on campus crazy to know she preferred to hang around with little Danny Gilligan. What jock studs, he asked himself. Competitive ballet?
When Digger slid onto the seat across from them, Allie reached across the table and squeezed his hand in hers.
"How are you feeling?" he said.
"I’m all right now. Danny kept me together."
Digger nodded at the young man, who seemed to blush.
A waitress who might have graced Attila’s field kitchen lumbered into view.
"You gonna have eats?" she asked Digger. "They already ordered."
Digger glanced at the signs over the counter.
"What’s a Boston omelet?" he asked.
"Eggs and beans," she said.
"I’ll have toast and coffee," Digger said.
She snorted and stomped off.
"Always ask what’s in a dish you order in a restaurant. ’Cause they’re always trying to sneak eggplant past you," Digger said.
Allie giggled.
"Did you hear anything more about the accident?" Digger asked.
"We met that creep John Paul when we were leaving the dorm," Allie said. "But he didn’t know any more than you did. He said he heard it on the radio."
"So did I," Digger said.
"That isn’t all he said," Gilligan said.
"Oh, forget it," said Allie. "He was just talking to hear himself talk."
"No, don’t forget it," Digger said. "What’d he say?"
"He called Allie a siren and said she had the touch of death, luring men to their doom. He told me that I better be careful, hanging out with her, because she was fatal."
"He’s a shit," Digger said.
"That’s what I told him." The young man looked down at his coffee. "Mister Burroughs, do you know how I wish I was as big as you are? For just a couple of hours?"
What do you say to that, Digger wondered. He just nodded his head slightly.
Allie leaned over and kissed Gilligan on the cheek. "Danny," she said, "you’re more man than I can handle now. If there were any more of you, I don’t know how I’d live with it."
Digger was silent, watching them. He wanted to tell young Gilligan, enjoy it, love her now, enjoy her love now, because it doesn’t have a chance. She’s going to graduate this place in a week and so are you. You’re going to go your separate ways—she’s going to find out what the world is like. Before you know it, that smile will be gone from her face, and she’ll be hard and bitter like the rest of them. She’ll wind up marrying somebody because he looks right, or she’ll become one of the beautiful people and spend her time shopping. Innocence like that doesn’t last in the world, he wanted to say. There are just too many barracudas out there, and they’re just waiting to bite that smile from her face. Enjoy it while it’s yours, but don’t plan for tomorrow.
As he watched, the shoulders of the young man seemed to lift and his expression grew warmer. Frank Stevens’s daughter was marvelous, Digger thought. She was not only happy herself, but she radiated happiness like a fire radiated warmth. She turned to Digger, her eyes glistened as if she had taken strength from the young man by giving him strength. It was almost frightening; she was like an elemental force.
"I feel awful about Professor Redwing," she said.
"It wasn’t your fault," Digger said. "You shouldn’t feel anything without some information to feel somet
hing about."
"I guess you’re right," she said. "So what’s next?"
"I think you ought to go home," Digger said.
His statement wiped the smile abruptly from her face. "Not a chance," she said. "I’ve got finals this week and I’m not going to miss them for anything." He saw her reach under the table and squeeze Gilligan’s hand.
"You’re talking about finals," Digger said, "and I’m talking about something that might be even more final. The ultimate final. Good-bye, world. You think I’m fooling around?"
"No. But I think you’re overreacting. First an accident, then a coincidence. Maybe it’s nothing more than that."
"Two people are dead," Digger said.
"Maybe both accidents," she said. "Strickland fell. Poor Professor Redwing got hit by a car. That’s all. Except for that stupid letter, none of this has anything to do with me."
"That’s exactly it," Digger said. "Except for that stupid letter. But there is that stupid letter, so this does have something to do with you."
"Tell me what," she said coolly.
Digger sighed. "I’ll be goddamned if I know," he said.
"And that’s why I’m not going to miss my finals."
"If I tell your father, you’ll be on your way home so fast your head will spin."
"When we first met, Digger, you told me you weren’t a fink. I don’t think you’ve changed since yesterday. Have you?" She smiled at him.
Digger shook his head disgustedly. "Do you agree with her?" he asked Gilligan.
"No."
"Then why don’t you talk to her?"
"I do, but she never listens to me. Allie never listens to anybody."
"You are your father’s daughter," Digger said.
"I know. Isn’t it grand?"
"Your father’s as big a pain in the butt as you are," Digger said.
"For asking you to make sure I was all right?"
"For spawning you," Digger said.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked Digger. They were interrupted by the waitress who slammed Digger’s coffee cup down in front of him and slid the toast across the table.
"Thanks, darling," he said. "You’re sweet."
She grunted as she left.
"I don’t know," he told Allie. "I’ve got some people to talk to. And like it or not, I’ve got to talk to the cops. They ought to know what’s going on. Besides, somebody else is sure to tell them."
"I suppose so," Allie said. "Will they keep things quiet? I’d hate to be on the six o’clock news back in Long Island and have my father see me smiling at him over the tube. That I can do without."
"They’ll probably keep it quiet until they’ve got something to make noise about. I’ll see what I can do."
"Please do," she said.
"All right. Now tell me about this last name on the list. Jayne Langston."
"She’s the college psychologist," Danny said.
"What kind? Does she teach or what?"
"No, she treats students. Counseling. You know," Allie said. "She’s the resident shrink."
"You know her? You ever go to her?"
"Digger, every student goes to her some time or other. Jeez, you’re not going to tell my father about this, are you?"
"Just keep talking. What do you mean, everybody goes to her?"
Allison shrugged. "Everybody does. College kids, all of them from out of town, away from home for the first time, we all get a little bit weird. Depression. So everybody goes. Isn’t that right, Danny?"
The young man nodded his earnest little face.
"It’s hard to imagine you depressed," Digger told her.
"But I was when I first came up here, and Doctor Langston straightened me out. Then I had some personal problems and I saw her again a year ago."
"Any idea why she might be on somebody’s hit list?" Digger asked.
The young woman winced. "You don’t really think it’s a hit list, do you?"
"I don’t know. Who wouldn’t like her?"
"Nobody that I know of," Allison said. "You, Danny?"
He shrugged. "She’s a nice lady." He thought and shrugged again. "Maybe her ex-husband."
"Who’s that?"
"Dean Hatcher," Allie said. "You met him yesterday."
Digger thought of the dean of students and the worried look he wore when he first gave Allison the chain letter.
"That explains it," Digger said. "I was wondering why he was so frantic looking when he got that letter. It was because his ex-wife’s name was on it."
"I guess so," Allie said.
"I guess I’d better talk to her, too," Digger said. "She have offices on campus?"
"Yeah," Danny said. "Just across the commons from our dorm."
Allie excused herself to use the ladies’ room. Digger tried the toast. It was cold. So was the coffee.
Digger pushed them both away and asked Danny, "What do you think about all this?"
"I don’t know," he said. "But I’m not going to let anything happen to her." He was staring toward the door of the ladies’ room, not looking at Digger while he spoke. Then he glanced back. "That’s all I want to do, Mister Burroughs, is take care of her. Forever." He glanced back and looked toward the door.
Digger felt sorry for him. He was a hopeless case of love in bloom. "What are you going to do after you graduate?" he asked.
"I don’t know. Maybe graduate school or the family business. Maybe Allison and I’ll get married. That’s what I hope."
"Hear anything about your car?"
The young man shook his head. "Nothing. I called the police this morning but they haven’t found it yet. What happens to stolen cars? Don’t people just leave them on the street and shouldn’t cops find them when they’re in the same place for a couple of days?"
"Yeah, if the cops are awake. Or if the cop in that district isn’t too lazy to look at the list of stolen cars. It may not be on the street. Some cars are stolen to fill orders. What was yours?"
"A ’79 Camaro," he said.
Digger shook his head. "A hot item. Some car thief gets an order for a ’79 Camaro. He looks around until he finds yours. Then an hour later, it’s in some garage fifty miles from here where they’re repainting it and giving it phony serial numbers and getting ready to turn it over to its new owner. Sorry, Danny, but you just may never see it again."
Danny was listening to Digger but he was watching the rest-room door. There was actual relief on his face when Allie came out, but it vanished when she stopped to talk to some man who was sitting at the counter drinking coffee, and reading a paper.
Gilligan got up from his seat opposite Digger and started toward the counter, but before he got there, Allie walked away from the man and back toward their booth.
"What’d he say to you?" Danny asked.
"He wanted to know what time it was," she answered.
"Why didn’t he look on the wall? There’s a clock on the wall."
"Danny, come on. Maybe he didn’t know there was a clock on the wall."
"Yeah, I bet," he said. He sat down next to her but kept glaring at the back of the man at the counter. Then he gazed up at the clock on the wall.
"Oh, oh," he said. "I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got a test."
He started to his feet and looked at Allie. "You coming?"
"You go ahead, Danny," she said. "I want to talk to Digger for a while. About the family and all."
He seemed to hesitate but then nodded. "Okay. I’ll see you later. So long, Mister Burroughs." He shook Digger’s hand formally before walking quickly to the door.
"You know, you’ve made a real conquest there," Digger said.
"I know," she said. "When you came in, he was asking me to marry him. For the hundredth time."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes, but not that way," she said. "We’re getting closer and closer to graduation and he’s getting antsier and antsier about us never seeing each other again. You know, we went for a drive about a month ago up
toward Lexington and Danny drives up to East Sudbury. Well, just as you get out of the town, just past the big inn, he pulls off to the side of the road and points off into a field. There’s a deserted farmhouse there. Don’t ask me how he found it. Well, it turns out that he wants to buy that for us. So we can get married and fix it up and live there. Our honeymoon house, he called it."
"You ought to be flattered," Digger said.
"Sure. But he’s going to be hurt after graduation when we separate," she said. "I don’t want him hurt."
"No, I know," Digger said. "It hurts to hurt someone you kind of love and who loves you."
"You sound as if you’re speaking from experience," she said.
"I am. Everybody who loves me gets hurt," Digger said.
Dr. Jayne Langston’s office was one of a half-dozen college offices that shared space in another brownstone across the central green from Allie’s dorm. Digger was told that Doctor Langston was busy and he would have to wait.
"Unless it’s an emergency," the secretary told him, hopefully waiting for him to volunteer something. Her name was Mrs. McBride, according to the nameplate on her desk, and she had gray hair and friendly eyes.
"No, it’s not an emergency. I’ll wait," Digger said.
"Have a seat," she said. "The doctor will be with you soon."
Digger was happy to find an ashtray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He took it as an invitation to smoke. Mrs. McBride coughed and noisily turned on an air-conditioner built into the window behind her desk.
A half-dozen copies of Psychology Today were scattered on the coffee table. Digger read in one that light-eyed people were more susceptible to pain than dark-eyed people. It made him feel good. He hated pain, avoiding dentists and doctors until he could not go on for one more minute. It was nice to know that it wasn’t because he was a coward, but because his mother, bless her Jewish soul, had given him blue eyes. Of course, his father had blue eyes, too. It didn’t matter. The trait couldn’t have come from his father. His father had been married to his mother for forty years. That was a man who could handle pain.
A door behind Mrs. McBride opened and a young blond woman with a flawless complexion, but already wearing full evening makeup, stepped out. She was too young to be Doctor anybody and, Digger suspected, too beautiful to be Doctor Langston. Also, he rather suspected that Doctor Langston didn’t wear evening gowns in the office before noon. The blonde was dressed in a full-length blue chiffon gown with a silver belt cinched tightly around her narrow waist.
Dead Letter (Digger) Page 6