Dead Letter (Digger) (7 page)

And I say, well, maybe. And she said, well, maybe, my ass. Leave it home so you’re not tempted.

She was right. I should have left it at home. I should not have gone drinking with Frank Stevens and I should not have looked up his daughter. I should have telephoned her five minutes before I was leaving town.

That’s what a normal person would have done, but no, not me, not old sucker, fall-for-everything me.

Ahhh, crap.

There just isn’t anything to be figured out from this damned letter.

When the name you’ve inserted reaches the top, that person will be killed
.

And then Wally Strickland’s name. Crossed out because he was already dead.

And then Professor Otis Redwing, dead tonight when he was run down by a car.

And then Jayne Langston, the college head shrink, and I guess I’m going to have to go and talk to her.

I think Allie Stevens ought to go home until this all blows over, whatever the hell it is.

I don’t like Henry Hatcher’s looks. That man is much too nervous to be on the level. John Paul Rampler’s a nut. The other one, what’s his name, Rolan or something, is a gorilla. Danny Gilligan is sweet but short and you must never trust short people. Inside every short person is a big homicidal maniac waiting to get out.

And then there’s a whole campus and they’re probably just as wacky as everybody else.

And I’ve got poor Arlo mooning because his wife left him. I don’t trust doctors, even friends, when they’re at the top of their form. I don’t even want to go near one who’s in the Slough of Despond.

I’m going to have to find out some more. Then I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to talk to Lieutenant Terlizzi about this. Worry, worry, worry, worry, worry.

That letter. The O’s are below the line. Strickland died about ten days ago. The letter was mailed this Saturday and Allie got it on Monday. Monday night, Redwing gets killed. Good timing. Everything is clicking right along.

I’m going to call Koko tomorrow so she can cheer me up. I’d call her now, but with my luck, she’d be out doing her casino a favor and entertaining some high roller with a big bankroll and the hots for Oriental broads. If she wasn’t home right now, it’d make me batshit, and I can’t stand any more aggravation. I hate Boston. I’m going to sleep. I’m tired.

Why me, God?

Chapter Five

Allison Stevens called Digger at precisely 8 A.M.

"Is it the crack of noon already?" he said thickly into the phone.

"Oh, I woke you," she said. "I’m sorry. It makes us even."

"Don’t worry about it. You just wake up?"

"Yes," she said.

"How can you be happy when you just wake up? Don’t you have to throw up first?"

"No. Good genes, I guess. My father’s always happy. So what did you call about?"

"You haven’t talked to anybody yet?" Digger asked. Suddenly, he was not sure how he should break the news to her.

"No."

"Is Danny there?"

"He was at the library late last night, studying. I can still hear him snoring next door."

"Go wake him up," Digger said. "I want to talk to him."

While he waited, Digger smoked a cigarette. From the other bedroom, he could hear the deep configurations of Arlo Buehler snoring. They had shared a room in college, renting a small apartment off campus. Buehler had snored so loudly that Digger sometimes slept in the bathroom, three closed doors away from his roommate, just to get some rest. When Buehler decided to become a doctor, Digger had volunteered to give him his first case: "I’ll pay to have your goddam sinuses hammered shut so that the world can sleep."

"Hello, Mr. Burroughs, this is Danny Gilligan." His voice sounded tentative and questioning.

"Good, Danny. Listen. I don’t want you to show any reaction right now. I’ve got to give Allie some bad news and I want you there with her so she doesn’t go to pieces. You got that? Just say yes, if you understand."

"Yes."

"Okay. What’s his name, Redwing, got killed last night by a hit-and-run driver. I don’t know anything about it yet, but I thought the news’d be better coming from us than from anyone else."

"I understand."

"All right. I’m counting on you to keep Allie together. Put her back on."

"Yes, Digger," the girl said. "What’s going on?"

"There was an accident last night, Allie."

"My father? Who?"

"No, no, no," Digger said, cursing himself for his clumsiness. "No, it was Professor Redwing."

There was a long pause. "What happened?" she said softly.

"He was hit by a hit-and-run driver near his house."

"Is he…"

"Yes. He’s dead. Now, listen, I don’t know anything more about it than that. It was probably just another accident and just another coincidence and…"

"You don’t believe that, do you?"

"No, I don’t," Digger admitted.

"Why is this happening?" she asked plaintively.

"I think we’ve got a nut rolling around loose," Digger said. "Do you have any exams this morning?"

"No. This afternoon."

"Let’s meet somewhere for breakfast," Digger said.

"Who?"

"You and me. And Danny," Digger said. "Pick a spot."

She mentioned the name of a small luncheonette on Clarendon Street off Beacon and Digger said, "Fine. Meet you there at nine o’clock."

"All right," she said. Digger felt that she was controlling her voice with difficulty.

"Now stop worrying," he said. "Everything’s going to be all right."

"Okay, Digger. I trust you."

They hung up and Digger wanted to shout into the receiver, don’t trust me. I’m tired of people trusting me. I just want to be left alone.

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 something 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."