The Digger's Game

by George V. Higgins

  “Look,” Torrey said, “he’s an old man. He knew my father. The thing is, it don’t take much trouble keeping him happy. My father went back to Naples, the Don come around with the dough and the groceries, I was just a little kid. I’m not gonna forget that. A thirty-dollar dinner? I think it’s a fuckin’ bargain.”

  “Of course your old man,” Barca said.

  “Of course my old man hadda run, he hit somebody for the Don and the Don made him take the beef,” Torrey said. “So what? I was nine, the old man screwed. I knew him pretty good. He was a mean bastard. We, we’re better off, the Don’s bringing the pork chops around. The Don never beat me up. I was in Concord, there? My wife always had the rent paid. The Don did that. He never said nothing, I still know who did it. The wife’s using the place to fuck other guys, of course, but he don’t know that. His heart’s inna right place, Sally. I’m just trying to be decent back, is all.”

  “It’ll get you in trouble,” Barca said.

  “How, it’ll get me in trouble?” Torrey said. “I do all right.”

  “Two ways,” Barca said. “He was saying, ’fore you come up, he thinks you oughta get made.”

  “Uh uh,” Torrey said, “hopping around with the goddamned paper burning in my hand. None of that shit.”

  “I did it,” Barca said.

  “You maybe had something to gain,” Torrey said. “I don’t. Sooner or later they catch up with some guy, got made the same time you did, he’s gonna spill his guts as usual, like every other goddamned ghinny I hear about lately. Then you go to bed at night, you got a state cop under the window. In the morning you get up, FBI onna doorstep. The afternoon, you’re having lunch, Treasury guys swap the FBI guys off. Internal Revenue in the dinnertime. Fuck that. My idea, getting made’s a great idea, you want police protection. Otherwise, fuck it.”

  “Okay,” Barca said, “keeping in mind you just fuck me out of a ten-K contract onna Greek, I dunno why I’m being so nice to you, but you better think up some way, talk the Don out of the christening, you know? He’s gonna have the wind up his ass, after this. He’ll be promoting you all over the place.”

  “Tell you what,” Torrey said, “tell him I’m a degenerate.”

  “No shit,” Barca said.

  “So I’m told,” Torrey said. “Greek says that.”

  “What is it?” Barca said. “Little boys and dogs and that stuff?”

  “Oh for Christ sake,” Torrey said. “No, girls. Always girls. I just do some things with them, is all.”

  “Oh, shit,” Barca said. “I thought you meant there’s something wrong with you, for Christ sake. You’re gonna have to think up something better’n that. You’re gonna be slitting chicken necks and drinking blood with him, before you’re through.”

  “No,” Torrey said, “no, I told you. I’m not doing it. I don’t get no edge from it. No way.”

  “Look,” Barca said, “you know, the other thing, it still leaves that, you know?”

  “Which is?” Torrey said.

  “The day’s gonna come,” Barca said, “it’s not here already. We’re gonna have to whack him out.”

  “Oh Christ,” Torrey said, “he’s an old man. He don’t crowd anybody. He don’t want anything.”

  “I still say,” Barca said, “it’ll come. The Greek? The Greek’s his fault. He’s too old.”

  “God takes care the old,” Torrey said. “So what, he made a mistake. Leave the old bastard alone. I’ll take care of the Greek.”

  “This’s about the ninth mistake,” Barca said. “We leave him alone, we’re all gonna be inna can. We’re gonna have to hit him, Richie. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to hit him.”

  “Sally,” Torrey said, “you come up the wrong way. That’s one way of doing things. There’s other ways. Leave an old man alone.”

  “Sure,” Barca said, “and hit a guy, never would’ve been any need to hit him, the old bastard’d listened to you inna first place. This kind of trouble we don’t need, cherry tomatoes and a nice-ah-black-ah suit.”

  “Lay off him,” Torrey said. “He’s an old man and he done the best he could.”

  “The best isn’t good enough any more,” Barca said, “his best. The Greeks we got working for us now, they oughta have something better’n his mistakes to go on. I was with you, Richie, right?”

  Torrey nodded.

  “I had it my way,” Barca said, “the way I think, the Greek’s the man with the claim. We took him in, he didn’t work out, we knew he wouldn’t. It’s our fault. We oughta start acting like men.”

  “LOOK,” THE DIGGER SAID, “they got the trooper that the kid shoots onna Turnpike, right? They’re all out with the dogs, chasing him through the woods, they think he’s out in Hudson some place. This’s the holiday weekend. Registry, cops, all of them, they’re all out onna highway Friday night, they’re all out tomorrow too.”

  “So?” Harrington said. “I could still get stopped, you know.”

  “Sure,” the Digger said. “You could get stopped on Morrissey Boulevard, doing thirty miles an hour and minding your own fuckin’ business. In a pig’s ass, you could. Because it ain’t likely, see, because there ain’t no fuckin’ cops around. See, it’s cops, do the arresting. You just go ahead and drive, there, like I told you. I’ll think about things.”

  “I wouldn’t think,” Harrington said, “the moon and all, you guys’d want to tackle something like this tonight.” He took the car up the ramp at Columbia Circle.

  “Mikey-mike’ll be right here,” the Digger said. “Pull up in front of the station there. Moon don’t make no difference. Nothing back of this place but more places like it. Nobody sees us.”

  Magro came out of the subway station. He wore dark-grey chino pants and a tee-shirt, navy blue. He carried a parcel, wrapped in brown paper. It was three feet long and ten inches wide and two inches thick. He crossed the street and opened the left rear door of Harrington’s Ford Galaxie. He put the package on the seat and got in. “Hey Dig,” he said. He patted Harrington on the shoulder. “How’s the virgin?”

  “The virgin’s nervous,” Harrington said.

  “In about a minute, here,” the Digger said, “the virgin’s gonna shit his pants, is what I think. He should’ve been on some of the fucked-up stuff we been on, huh?”

  Magro patted Harrington again. “You should’ve,” he said. “You wanted to see nervous, this thing, this thing’s a …”

  “Tit,” the Digger said.

  “A tit,” Magro said.

  “Look,” Harrington said, putting the car in gear, “we sit here long enough, talking about tits, we’re gonna have half the cops in Boston writing down license numbers. Where’re we supposed to go now?”

  “Expressway north,” the Digger said. “I’ll tell you, when to get off.”

  “Look,” Harrington said, “you can tell me now. I’m not gonna jump out.”

  “I could tell you if I could ever remember which one it is,” the Digger said. “It’s either the Logan ramp you take, the tunnel, or else it’s the Garden one. I can never remember which one it is, it’s one of them. I see it, I’ll know.”

  “Nice night,” Magro said.

  “Harrington don’t like the moon,” the Digger said. “I was telling him: moon don’t take no pictures.”

  “Shit, no,” Magro said. “Moon’s good, actually. Remember that night we go down the Sylvania, there, Dig? Hadda nice moon that night.”

  “Time we got the swerve from Maloney and them,” the Digger said. “Sure, moon saved our ass that night.”

  “You could’ve read a newspaper,” Magro said, “there’s so much fuckin’ moon that night. So it’s me, Harrington, it’s me and Dig and another guy …”

  “Brennan,” the Digger said.

  “Yeah,” Magro said, “Brennan, and shit, we dunno what we’re doing. Go over to Arliss, get a truck, go down there like we’re three fuckin’ idiots out for a ride.”

  “And then we’re supposed to pay somebody about
half what we’re gonna get from the whole job, just for the goddamned truck,” the Digger said. “We didn’t know fuckin’ anything.”

  “Marchi,” Magro said, “Teddy Marchi. Minute he looks at us he knows what dumb fucks we are.”

  “Yeah,” the Digger said, “got himself shot, later on.”

  “Down to Wally’s Grove,” Magro said. “They had this big argument about a trailer truck, cops all over the place, guys running around, hiding behind trees and stuff, bullets all over and everything, old Teddy walked right into the middle of it. Ka-blam, end of Teddy.”

  “Teddy should’ve stuck to minding his own fuckin’ business that night,” the Digger said. “There was one or two guys around said it’s Teddy’s fault they had that trouble about the trailer truck inna first place. Teddy was too fuckin’ cute for his own good a few times.”

  Magro tapped Harrington on the shoulder. “So we go over Neponset,” he said, “North Quincy there, and we take a left and we hook a right, you know how you do, and it seems like we’re never gonna get there before morning or something, and we’re all practically pissing our pants. See, we never done anything that big. We’re gonna get, it was tee-vees, wasn’t it, Dig?”

  “It was either the tee-vees or the record players anna radios,” the Digger said. “One time it’s tee-vees, that time we got the terminal out to Dedham there, and then the other time, I forget.”

  “So Brennan,” Magro said, “he keeps saying, ‘When’re we gonna get there, when’re we gonna get there. For Christ sake, for Christ sake, for Christ sake.’ ”

  “Brennan’s pussy-whipped,” the Digger said. “Afraid his wife’s gonna find out. Cops, Brennan don’t care about cops. He was nineteen, him and a couple guys tried to break in the South Boston Savings one night, they didn’t know what the fuck they’re doing, set off the alarm. So all these cops come, and somebody, lived across the street, seen four guys jumping off the roof the bank when the cops get there. Cops count up the ones they got, they got three. The one they haven’t got’s Brennan. This is the office they got up on the parkway, there. So they got all these lights and they’re all walking around and hollering and everything, and they can’t find Brennan. Then there’s this one guy, gets sick of it, he goes over and he leans against this maple tree and he lights up a cigarette, and he just stands there, watching all them other bastards running around, and pretty soon Brennan falls out of the tree, right on him almost.”

  “Got nervous,” Magro said. “Started thinking about holding on and not making no noise, first thing he does, he lets go.”

  “Yeah,” the Digger said, “and then it still took about five of them to get him inna wagon. So he does, I guess, three and a half, and he comes out, and boy has the wife, he got married and she’s got him right under the old thumb. Eight or nine years he puts up with it, it’s enough to make you puke, and then he finds out, all this time he’s been scared shitless of her, she’s out screwing this guy she knows before they got married. Seems he come by and fix the stove, he’s working for the gas company, he fixes her too. Poor fuckin’ bastard.”

  “I never knew Brennan, I guess,” Harrington said.

  “He’s over to Walpole,” Magro said. “Went in before you come around.”

  “Take it easy, Harrington,” the Digger said. “Wasn’t for nothing like this.”

  “No,” Magro said, “it’s for killing her. Beat her fuckin’ head in with a paira pliers. I would’ve done the exact same thing. All the shit he took, and then find that out, I wouldn’t care if there was ten cops waiting outside to grab me as soon’s I finish and shoot me right there, I still would’ve done it.”

  “Nobody ever did no time for something like this,” the Digger said. “It’s impossible. All the jobs’re like this, there wouldn’t be nothing but guys like Brennan over to Walpole, that killed their wives er something.”

  Harrington’s car emerged from the Central Artery underpass. Traffic was moderate. “Start getting over to the right, there,” the Digger said. “I think, yeah, take the next one, that says Callahan Tunnel. Then, you come the bottom of the ramp, go up across there, by the fish market. See the fish market? And you get up there, you take the next left and go right around under there.”

  Harrington drove past Giuffre’s Market and the Digger directed him into the Market area. On the right sidewalk of the empty street a man in a maroon polo shirt and grey slacks walked slowly toward Faneuil Hall. “That’s him,” the Digger said.

  “Right on time,” Jay said, as he opened the right rear door. “Right onna fuckin’ button. That’s all right.”

  “Hey, Marty,” Magro said, “good to see you.”

  “Always a pleasure,” Jay said, getting in. “Mikey-mike, right?”

  “Right,” Magro said, “been a long time.”

  “I been doing some other things,” Jay said.

  “Harrington,” the Digger said, “this here’s Harrington.”

  “Harrington,” Jay said, patting him on the right shoulder. “Okay, I can see I’m gonna have to go down and get the rabbi to fix me up after tonight. This’s like the Hibernians’ picnic.”

  “Look,” the Digger said, “you could talk your own guys into taking a chance now and then, you wouldn’t have to.”

  “Hey,” Jay said, “where the fuck you think we get this thing, it’s not my guys.”

  “Where now?” Harrington said.

  “Jumpy as hell, this one,” the Digger said. “Cars all set?”

  “They’re not,” Jay said, “I’ll find that fuckin’ kid and brain him. You know where Valle’s is, Route Nine?”

  “Yeah,” Harrington said.

  “Go there,” Jay said. “Now, there’s a turnoff right when you get past it, going towards Worcester. Forget about it. I want you to go all the way up past the next set of lights, and then turn and come back to it.”

  “How come?” Magro said.

  “So it looks like we’re coming from the ballgame out to the stadium, there. Last time they play, I’m out at Valle’s with the wife and a whole bunch of guys come by, left their cars there and went to the game. So, nobody pays any attention to them. Anybody sees us is gonna figure we went out to the game in Harrington’s car, stopped some place, had a few drinks and something to eat, horse around some before we pick up the other car.

  “Same kind of thing at the other end,” Jay said. “Guys we’re meeting’re gonna get there about half an hour before we do. They get dropped off, go in, sit down and have something to eat. In a while we show up, park the thing off to the side, get in the other car, there, and that’s it. They get through, go outside, get in the thing and off they go, just like they left it there when they come in from Springfield. This’s that diner right at Route Twenty, you know where I mean?”

  “Lot of gas stations and stuff there?” Magro said.

  “That’s the one,” Jay said. “You oughta get there about five or ten minutes before me and the Digger. Same thing. Go up a little ways, turn around, come back. There’s an all-night station right across the street, you’ll be able to see us when we come in.”

  “Candy,” the Digger said. “My little kid could do this one. Pure fuckin’ candy.”

  “I still don’t like this moon,” Harrington said.

  “I was telling him, Marty,” Magro said, “you remember the time Maloney sends Dig and me and Brennan down the Sylvania there? You’re supposed to be buying then.”

  “Yeah,” Jay said, “record players, wasn’t it? That fuckin’ Maloney. He tried to set me up at least once, I think. I couldn’t be sure, you know? I would’ve had him whacked, I was.”

  “Well,” Magro said, “that night Maloney’s setting us up. Real bright moon, and we get down there, we’re so excited we’re practically throwing up, and there’s guys in there ahead of us, cleaning out the goddamned semi we’re after. And it’s that fuckin’ Maloney that’s doing it, for Christ sake, give us the job in the first place.”

  “That cocksucker,” the Digger sai
d, “was I glad when he got it. Best thing that happened in a long time was they had the war down there onna the Avenue and it ends up, Terry’s bleedin’ to death onna sidewalk.”

  “At least he didn’t know who shoots him,” Jay said. “I give him that, anyway. I always thought he hadda lotta dog in him, but didn’t none of it show that night.”

  “Bullshit,” the Digger said. “He didn’t know he was bleedin’ to death, you know. He was just being careful.”

  “Jeez, Dig,” Magro said, “I dunno as you ought to talk like that.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” the Digger said.

  “Well,” Magro said, “I heard, it was probably you give him what he wasn’t talking about that night.”

  “I heard it onna fuckin’ radio,” the Digger said. “I was nowhere near the place that night. I was up the place, I was working the Bright Red. Cut that shit.”

  “Yeah,” Jay said, “I heard that, too. I heard something like that, Mikey-mike. And another thing I remember, about twenny minutes after Maloney died, the Digger’s got all the stuff Maloney’s supposed to’ve had. Of course he doesn’t share it with anybody, but he had it.”

  “Now look,” the Digger said.

  “You did, Dig,” Jay said, “you had all them shoes. Remember, you’re trying to sell me shoes about two weeks after, I said to you, ‘Where’d you get all the shoes, Dig? I didn’t hear no shoes around except what Terry had.’ And you, you never give me a straight answer, you remember that? There’s only two guys in town that’re really better off when Terry’s hit. There’s you, because it turns out you got all them shoes, and there’s the Greek.”

  “The Greek had shoes?” the Digger said.

  “Nah,” Jay said, “Terry owed the Greek money. I seen the Greek after Terry’s gone, and I said, ‘Hey, Greek, see your customer there, you’re always bitching about, got himself shot up a little. Hope you had the policy on him.’ And he wouldn’t talk to me, either. Greek ever get his money, Dig?”

  “The Greek didn’t get his money,” the Digger said, “I wouldn’t be going to Newton tonight, I can tell you that.”