Smoked Out (Digger) (7 page)

"Highway Safety Advisory Council. How long has this fence been here?"

"Is that part of the government?" Welles asked.

"Not directly. Privately funded and we make recommendations. Like this fence. It’s not sturdy enough to prevent anyone from going off the edge here. How long’s it been here?"

"What’s your name again?"

"Median, Tom. Now this fence. I don’t generally like to get involved like this, Dr. Welles, but I think you’ve got a legal case here against the agency that put this fence up. If you put up a fence, it means you recognize something’s inherently dangerous. Once admitting that, as they did by putting up the fence, the agency’s got an obligation to make sure the fence will do the job. This fence doesn’t do it. Oh, no. It just doesn’t do it."

"I don’t believe in getting rich off a tragedy," Welles said. He was holding the dog close to his side, his hand on the leash just above the animal’s collar.

"A gracious attitude," Digger said. "But wrong, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. If we don’t band together and force these governments to do whatever they do and to do it right, this country will be unlivable. God knows they do little enough now."

"I don’t understand why you were at the funeral," Welles said.

Digger shrugged. "Actually, Doctor, I’m not from California. I had heard so much about Sylvan Grove Cemetery that I went out to see it. I saw you there."

"I thought you were one of these goddamn curiosities who come up here looking to see a place where somebody died."

"No, sir. I’ve seen enough accidents to last us both for the rest of our lives. Strange accident, though."

"Why strange?"

"It looks as if Mrs. Welles just drove straight through the fence without making any effort to stop or swerve. Terrible fence."

"Yes," Welles said. "I don’t know why." He glanced at Digger’s car. "If you’re with the Highway Safety whatever, how come you have Nevada plates?"

"Safe Highway Advisory Commission," Digger said. "I just moved here. Haven’t even had a chance to switch them over." He saw that Welles was committing the license number to memory.

"Sometimes cases like this are suicide," Digger said. "People in a flash decide they can’t take it any more and on impulse do a thing like that. Drive right over a cliff. Now, I’m not saying Mrs. Welles did that. Of course not. Sometimes there are darker forces involved."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Murder, sir. Murder most foul. I remember a man once who sprayed oil on an area of road that he knew his business partner traveled at high speed. At a particularly dangerous curve, the car went off the road and the driver died. The killer had known that it was going to rain heavily that night and it would wash away all the traces of oil. The body was found the next morning."

"How do you know what was on the man’s mind? Did you solve the case?"

"Yes, sir. We most certainly did."

"How?"

"The killer expected rain, but it didn’t rain. It was the hottest, driest day of the year. Nobody can trust weathermen for anything. When the body was found, there was all this oil on the road. It’s lucky half-a-dozen people weren’t killed. So you see, sir, murder does enter into it once in a while. This fence, sir, do you remember when they put it up?"

"They? Who’s they?"

"Whoever put it up. The highway department, I suppose. The town government? I don’t know. I thought you could tell me."

"Look, my wife’s just died in an accident. I’d rather not talk about it. Leave me alone, will you, please?"

He turned and walked down the roadway toward his home. Digger, glad to be away from the baleful gaze of the dog, walked to his car. As he opened the door, he called out, "Dr. Welles?"

Welles turned. The dog growled.

"You said ‘accident,’ sir." He waited and Welles said nothing. "But we don’t know that, do we? Not for sure. We’ll have to look into this carefully before we can say that. It could be anything. Suicide. Even murder."

"The police said it was an accident," Welles said.

"The police are often wrong," Digger said. He got into his car and turned off his tape recorder. As he drove off, he saw Welles and the dog still standing at the side of the road, the doctor looking at his car, the dog snarling.

When he was out of sight, Digger pulled over to the side of the road, took a deep breath and lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking slightly. That had been too close and he had finessed it, but it was only temporary. The razzle-dazzle had confused Welles, but he was probably too smart to miss the obvious question: If Digger had just happened upon the funeral of Mrs. Welles, why was he passing around a sympathy card for people to sign?

Welles had missed it for the moment, but he would think of it soon.

By that time, Digger would be away from here, away from Welles, away from Scylla.

Back in his room, there was a note next to the telephone. "Dear Tim. Please call me. Lorelei."

Tim? Who was Tim? Digger thought for a moment, then remembered that he was Tim. Tim Kelp. But that was yesterday. Today he was Tom Median. He wondered how long it would be before he was known only as patient number 3546 at the Clark County Hospital for the Mentally Ill.

Lorelei’s note had been written in lipstick on the back of a paper bathmat. In the drawer under the note was a pen and stationery provided by the hotel which she had ignored. He thought she would be wonderful company for him at the funny farm.

He called the Occidental Gift Shop.

"This is Tim, Lorelei. How are you? Sleep well?"

"Yes, Tim, I did. I’m just sorry I punked out on you."

"Don’t worry about it. Some of us can and some of us can’t. Us public-relations types are really good across the bar."

"Anyway," she said, "I wanted to thank you for a great time."

"For me, too."

"I was wondering."

"What?" Digger asked.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"I felt the earth move," Digger said.

"Oh, I’m glad. I just…wasn’t sure."

"No. It was great. You’re an animal, a filthy disgusting animal, and the things you did to my poor body shouldn’t be done to any man’s body," he said.

"And you liked it?"

"I can’t wait for the encore."

"Did I help you with your story?" she asked.

"Sure did." Digger remembered something. He fished in the night-table drawer for the sympathy card. "Two names came up, Lorelei," he said, looking at the signatures on the card. "Who are they? Ted Dole and Aros or Amos something-with-an-e."

"Oh, I really talked a lot. I told you about Ted?"

"You told me where to reach him, but I didn’t write it down," Digger lied.

"At the Hillfront Tennis Club," she said.

"And this other fellow…Aros or Amos…?"

"I’m sorry, Tim, I don’t know anybody like that."

"Okay," he said.

"Tim, listen," Lorelei said.

"What?"

"Did I take any pills last night? Vitamins or ups or anything?"

"No."

"Then I can take everything today?"

"Everything you want. Don’t forget your kelp."

"Are you going to call me again?" she asked.

"Of course. Do I look like a sport-fucker?"

"Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you."

"Don’t forget your kelp. And the A and B and C and D and E. And the garlic."

"Thanks, Tim."

Next, Digger telephoned his apartment in Las Vegas. Swallowing sleep from her voice, Tamiko answered.

"This is Digger. How are you?"

"Oh, I’m fine. I was wondering if you were ever going to call."

"I have called. I must have kept missing you."

"Yeah, that’s likely, I guess. I was out a lot. I met—"

"Koko, listen. There’s a doctor named Welles out here. He took down my license plate, and it’ll come out registered to you if he checks it."

"What should I tell them if they ask?"

"That you sold the car to your cousin who moved to California. You guess he didn’t have time to register it yet."

"You’re the cousin?"

"Yes."

"What’s your name?"

"It’s…er, let me think…It’s Tom Median."

"What the hell kind of name is that?"

"I don’t know. It just came out."

"What do you do?"

"I’m a traffic safety consultant."

"Tom Median. Highway expert. Very funny. Maybe they should call you Com Median. You find anything out yet?"

"No. It’s probably an accident."

"Money or broads," she said. "Look for money or broads."

"Same thing, aren’t they?"

"You’re starting again. Goodbye, Digger. Call me if you need me."

She hung up before he could answer. Before he could tell her about Lorelei and how he had spent the night sleeping next to her and didn’t touch her, except for one errant hand and one available boobie. Sure. And if she hadn’t hung up early, she would have hung up after that. She didn’t expect him to be celibate on a job. She didn’t even want him to be. Why did he think it was a gift to her when he flaunted his fidelity? Particularly in view of the way she spent some of her spare time. She didn’t care what he did as long as he didn’t tell her about doing it with women with big bosoms. And she did what she wanted to, without even Digger’s usual excuse of drinking too much.

Koko couldn’t drink and didn’t. She had a common Japanese reaction to alcohol. Cheeks flushed, pulse quickened, then passed out.

"Too bad you couldn’t take after your American father instead of your Japanese mother," he had told her once. "Then I’d have a drinking buddy."

"Your mother would love that, my giving you extra excuses to drink."

"It doesn’t matter. My mother thinks you’re black, trying to pass. She doesn’t trust you."

"I know, and your father thinks it goes sideways and he’s always trying to feel me up under the table."

"You know," Digger said, "you’re not so yellow that it’s really noticeable. Why call yourself Japanese? You’re half-American. Why don’t you call yourself American?"

"If one drop of blood makes you black, don’t tell me that a Japanese mother makes me George M. Cohan."

"That’s a non sequitur. It does not—"

"You don’t have to translate for me. I’m the goddamn Phi Beta Kappa around here. I know, it does not follow. But the real problem is that
you
do not follow. People ask what you are, you goddamn half-breed, and you say you’re Irish or you’re a Jew or anything you want and they accept that. They ask me that and I tell them I’m Italian and they get all over me because I look Japanese. So I’m either lying or I’m a grown-up mongoloid. Either way it’s a pain in the ass. So I tell them I’m Japanese and they let it go at that. You Americans are very exclusive when it comes to mixed breeds of different colors."

"If you were really Italian, you’d have big tits," Digger had told her, and she threw a glass at him. It was when he first suspected that she was hypersensitive about the size of her chest, which he had always found more than adequate.

Tired from only half a night’s sleep, Digger lay down on the bed and napped till noon.

Ted Dole wasn’t even sweating when he came off the practice court and sat down at Digger’s table under the yellow sun umbrella. The patio lounge at the Hillfront Tennis Club was empty. Without being asked, the waitress put a glass of Perrier with a slice of lime in front of him. Digger was drinking vodka.

"Haven’t I seen you somewhere?" Dole asked. He was bronze-skinned, but up close Digger could see the color did not come naturally to him. Dole had the kind of light, almost transparent skin that would be red and blotchy in the East. It had turned tan in California only because of its owner’s tenacity. He was husky and thick through the shoulders, too thick to be a really top-flight tennis player. His light brown hair, streaked with blond glints, fell in soft waves over his ears, and his smile was wide and natural. He could have been twenty-seven or thirty-seven. Digger made him a native Californian. They all looked good until forty-five, when they fell apart all at once.

"Perhaps," Digger said.

"At the funeral. You were there."

"That’s right," Digger said. "Tim Kelp. Our public relations agency is doing a memorial to Mrs. Welles. We’re talking to all the friends of the family for material."

"I’m not really a friend of the family."

"You were at the funeral," Digger said.

"Yeah, that’s true." Dole turned around and looked at the nearest of eight tennis courts. A woman so beautiful she could have reduced all of New York to gridlock was doggedly practicing her serve to a young man in tennis whites in the far court. Dole watched her toss the ball in the air, then swing around to hit it. Her form looked terrific to Digger.

"Sweetheart," Dole called. "Throw it higher. You’re not reaching and you’re hitting with your arm all squoonched up. Stretch out. Use that beautiful body."

She smiled at him and nodded. Dole turned back to the table. "Dumb cunt," he said.

"I guess the job has its compensations," Digger said.

"Hmmmm? Oh, yeah."

"Why don’t the beauties play golf? I play golf. I never met a woman on the golf course that I’d take home to meet my dog."

"It’s boobs and butts," Dole said. "The pretty ones want to show them off and tennis costumes are better for that. There’s more jiggling in tennis. Besides, women like to sweat. It brings out the animal in them. You play?"

"Only around," Digger said.

"Not a bad game, if you win," Dole said. "What’s your name again?"

"Call me Tim. Tim Kelp."

"Now what can I do for you?"

"You were at Jessalyn Welles’s funeral. I thought you could give me something to use in a piece I’m writing. Kind of a memorial to the woman."

"For who?"

"For the Hospital in the Hills. A surprise thing for Dr. Welles. He doesn’t know we’re doing it."

"What do you want from me?" Dole said.

"Can you give me something to use?" Digger asked.

"Sure. Jessalyn’s serve was lousy. Her forehand was worse. She never remembered to turn her back on the backhand. She had no foot speed and no arm strength. Sometimes the ball would bounce up and hit her in the face. She’d stand there like a statue. She was the worst tennis player I ever saw. She was a wonderful person. Can you use any of that?"