Smoked Out (Digger) (8 page)

"That last part. A wonderful person. A woman loved by everybody."

"If you say so." He looked down at his Perrier.

"You know about her accident. Was Mrs. Welles a bad driver?"

"No. I never noticed anything unusually bad about the way she drove. She was a woman. She drove like one. She was all right. She was lousy. Like a woman."

"At the funeral, you were kind of glaring at Dr. Welles. You don’t like him?"

"What’s to like?" Dole said. "He’s not much of a person."

"I thought he was a big shot," Digger said. "Doctor to the stars."

"Only if the stars aren’t sick. He’s the kind of guy rich people go to when they don’t have anything wrong with them. When they really get sick, they go to a real doctor."

"He’s the head of that hospital," Digger said mildly.

"Because Jess was on the board of trustees. They picked him because he’s pretty, just the kind of guy you want to trot out at annual meetings."

"Talk like that, he could make trouble for you here."

"Him? He’s not even allowed in here."

"Why not?" Digger asked.

"I don’t know. Something about cheating at cards, I think. He hasn’t been a member for almost a year."

"Was Mrs. Welles ever sick?"

"Not that I know of. These aren’t the kind of questions that wind up in a testimonial about a woman who died in an accident," Dole said. Digger noticed how big the man’s hands were, surrounding his glass of Perrier.

"I’m just trying to understand the woman. I don’t use any of this stuff," Digger said. "I’m going to write how everybody loved her in a special way, from her husband to her tennis instructor to the clerk in the store she operated."

"Kelp, you’ve got to be the stupidest public relations man in the world."

"Don’t tell my boss. I’m up for a vice presidency. My own key to the washroom."

Dole shrugged as he stood up. Digger said, "Listen, I’m at the Sportsland Lodge if you think of anything good for my story."

Dole walked back toward the tennis court to help the blonde work on her serve. Digger turned off his tape recorder. When he got into his car in the parking lot, he looked back toward the courts. Ted Dole was standing there, watching Digger, looking at the white Mazda.

He looked very muscular and very mean standing there, Digger thought. Mean enough to kill Dr. Welles if he took it into his mind. Maybe even mean enough to kill a woman.

For the moment, Digger was pretty sure that Dole and Mrs. Welles were, as they used to say when Digger was young back before he invented drinking, "a thing." There was Lorelei’s comment on the telephone. "Oh. I really talked a lot. I told you about Ted?" There was a little tinge of guilt in her voice, as if she had talked out of turn and spilled a secret.

And there was Dole himself. He knew an awful lot about Mrs. Welles’s driving techniques for somebody who just taught her tennis. And he disliked Doctor Welles too much for a casual acquaintance. He had been listening to Mrs. Welles talk. Private talk. Dole would bear watching.

Digger drove away. Dole still stood, watching him go.

Chapter Nine

It was 3:59 P.M. Digger parked in a far corner of the police parking lot where he could see the side exit of the headquarters building.

There were thirty-four cars in the lot. Digger bet on the Cadillac sedan.

At 4:08, Lt. Peter Breslin left the building. He stopped at the top of the stairs, crisply modeling his neat three-piece suit, and fished a pair of wraparound sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He looked around, posing. It took a few long seconds for him to convince himself that Dino DiLaurentis and Francis Ford Coppola weren’t lurking near the entrance with multimillion-dollar contracts for him to sign. He walked into the lot, toward a red Triumph convertible, then two cars past it and got into the two-year-old Cadillac sedan. Little men always favored big cars. Breslin started the car and drove out of the lot. Digger followed him.

Breslin drove north for two miles along Glendale Boulevard, then turned off onto a narrow-side street. Digger slowed as he went by and saw Breslin pull into a parking lot at the Cup of Ale Lounge and Restaurant. Digger drove on for two more blocks, then swung off the Boulevard, drove around the block, came back and parked in the lot two cars away from Breslin’s.

He lifted up his shirt and removed the cassette from the recorder. He was satisfied that there was still enough recording time on it, so he snapped it back into the machine, fixed his shirt and went into the Cup of Ale.

The cocktail lounge was cold and dark. The bar was a large oval in the middle of the floor surrounded by small tables. There was a bandstand at the far end of the room.

Breslin was sitting alone on the far side of the bar talking to the barmaid. She was a tall, brown-haired young woman. Her uniform was a blue-and-white sailor’s top and light blue shorts. She had on mesh stockings and powder blue high-heels. She had a lot of straight white teeth arranged in a slightly lopsided smile that was somehow charming and that she was using now on Breslin.

Digger walked around the bar and sat on the stool next to the policeman. Breslin looked up.

"Hey, Burroughs, right?"

"Yup."

"Michelle, a drink for my man."

The girl nodded to Digger.

"Vodka rocks. Finlandia if you’ve got it. If not, anything."

"We’ve got it."

"City of eight million people. Unusual us stumbling into the same bar," Breslin said.

"Must be our destiny. Ahhh, bullshit. I followed you."

"The white Mazda?"

"Yeah."

"I was wondering about that. But I haven’t declared war on the mob or anything lately, so I didn’t think there was a contract out on me yet."

"I’ll have to work on my technique," Digger said. "I’m slipping."

"No, you’re not. I’m just good," Breslin said. "Well, you followed me, you found me, what’s next? Drink hearty."

Breslin was drinking a martini. Digger drank half of the vodka. It felt good. He was glad to be in a bar again. If he had his choice, he might stay in a bar for the rest of his life.

"I wanted to talk to you about Jessalyn Welles," Digger said. "Unofficially."

"Pay the man his money, for Christ’s sake."

"What if he killed his wife?"

"Why would he kill his wife?"

"You married?" Digger asked.

"No. I used to be, though."

"Me, too. So you know why."

"I left. I didn’t shoot her," Breslin said.

"Me neither," Digger said. "How can you shoot moss? But didn’t you ever want to?"

"Sure. Every day and every night. Sometimes a couple of times every day and every night."

Digger said, "So did I. But you and me, we left. Some people don’t leave, particularly if there’s a million-dollar reward for staying."

"Why do you keep banging your head against a simple accident?" Breslin asked.

"Because it just doesn’t wash for me yet," Digger said.

"You’ve got a hunch," Breslin said.

"Something like that."

"I don’t trust hunch-players," Breslin said.

"You should if they win."

Both men finished their drinks at the same time. Breslin waved to Michelle who was standing at the end of the bar near a cardboard container that held a bottle of cheap wine. It was supposed to look like a cardboard wine barrel. Digger wondered who would possibly drink a wine that was packaged inside a cardboard wine barrel. Breslin held up two more fingers.

"Mine this time," Digger said. He put a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

"What do you want from me?" Breslin asked.

"I came to offer you a deal."

"I’m listening."

"Wait a minute."

The barmaid refilled the drinks, took Digger’s twenty and put sixteen dollars on the bar. She hovered a moment, waiting to see if anyone would invite her into the conversation, then walked away.

"I need the file reports," Digger said. "Autopsy. The interviews. Who’d you talk to?"

"Welles and the housekeeper."

"Okay. I need those. Copies of them and everything else."

"You’re asking me to violate department regulations," Breslin said.

"Exactly."

"What do I get out of it?"

"If I can nail him, I’ll give it all to you. Your arrest. Your glory. I don’t want credit. When they write a book about it, you can star in the movie."

"I’m too short, I told you. You must be pretty well connected in your company that you can do without praise," Breslin said.

"I am truly loved by one and all," Digger said. "I won’t lie to you. The company will know I had something to do with it. But they don’t want public credit. It’s not good for the insurance company image to have the public think that old BSLI hires gumshoes to go around and help them avoid paying people their claims. My people don’t care who gets credit as long as they don’t have to pay the million."

"I don’t know," Breslin said.

"It could be worth your while in other ways, too," Digger said.

"What ways?"

"You could come to Las Vegas. Be my guest for a while. My company can be very generous."

"That’s a bribe offer," Breslin said.

"Exactly."

"You’re sure you’re not from the commissioner’s internal security squad?"

"They wouldn’t have me. I’m too honest."

"I ought to arrest you now for trying to bribe an officer."

"And when they make the movie of that, I’ll play both roles ’cause I’m tall. You get shit," Digger said.

"I don’t know," Breslin said. "There’s a risk. Suppose you hand me up?"

"First of all, I won’t hand you up. What do I get out of that? Second, look at the risk-reward ratio. Do you risk a lot to win a little? No. That’s stupid. But I’m asking you to risk a little to get a lot. It’s like believing in God."

"What is?"

"Risk-reward. Everybody ought to believe in God. The risk is kind of little, going to church once in a while, maybe saying a prayer when there’s nothing good on television. Probably there isn’t any God. But if there is, the reward is pretty damn enormous when you’re dead, sitting up there on a cloud, watching all those atheists skulking along with pitchforks stuck up their asses. Risk and reward. The ratio is what’s important."

"I don’t know."

"Shut up and drink for a while," Digger said. "I get more persuasive if the guy I’m talking to is all slammed up."

"Do you have until Sunday? It takes me that long to get drunk."

"Save me from the fucking Irish," Digger said.

"What are you?"

"An Irish Jew," Digger said.

"Poor bastard."

Four drinks later, Breslin said, "I don’t know."

Digger took a card from his wallet and handed it to Breslin, who read it aloud.

"Frank Stevens. President, Brokers Surety Life Insurance Company. So?"

Digger took the card back and wrote on the back of it.

"Here’s his home number. Call him now. Call him collect. Use my name and he’ll accept the charges. Don’t even tell him your name. Just ask him if I can be trusted."

"I never talked to an insurance company president before. What do I call him?"

"Mister President’s always good, but you can try Frank."

"All right."

Breslin stood up beside his bar stool. He had probably been wearing his suit all day, but it looked as fresh as if it had just come out of a dry cleaner’s bag.

"Don’t you ever wrinkle, for Christ’s sakes?" Digger said.

"No. And I don’t sweat, either. Do you know how good I’m going to be on the set when I’m discovered? I’ll be right back."

He walked away from the bar, clutching the business card. Digger ordered two more drinks.

Ten minutes later, Breslin returned and took a gulp of his drink.

"Well?"

"He had a lot to say."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He calls you Digger."

"Everybody does. What’d he say?"

"Don’t lend you any money. You’ve been stealing on your expense account for years and you should be independently wealthy by now. Don’t get involved in any harebrained schemes with you. You’re liable to get me to try to swim the channel in irons. Don’t try to match you drink for drink. Nobody in the world can. And if you tell me something, I can put it in the bank and it’ll draw interest." Breslin looked up from his drink and smiled. "Let me tell you what I think," he said.

"I’m sure you will."

"I think you’re pulling your pudding. I think you’re trying to promote an accident into something that it isn’t. If you’re wrong and I’m right, I won’t shed any tears."

"That’s fair enough," Digger said.

"Okay, pardner, where do we start?"

Chapter Ten

Digger’s Log:

Tape recording number three, 11:00 P.M., Tuesday, Julian Burroughs in the Jessalyn Welles claim.

Shit, hang on. Somebody at the door.

It’s all right. Room service bringing me a snack from Finland.

Two more tapes are in the master file. The first is my interview this morning with Gideon Welles and Fang. He remembered me from the funeral. The goddamn sunglasses disguise didn’t work again. Next time I wear my Polack baseball cap. It lowers the IQ fifty points and nobody recognizes you.

Welles took down my license number, so I warned Koko about what to tell him when he checks out the car. I finessed him some, but sooner or later he’ll be after me. I have to find out something about that little picket fence that his wife drove through. Welles seemed to dodge it whenever I talked about it.

The second tape has an interview with Ted Dole, a tennis pro at the Hillfront Tennis Club. I think he and Jessalyn Welles were having an affair. He said that Dr. Welles had some history of trouble at the club for cheating at cards. He thinks Welles is a shit doctor. Dole has a mean and nasty look about him for someone who smiles so much. I’m going to check him out a little.

Also on the tape is an interview this afternoon with Lt. Breslin. I’ve erased certain sections of the tape because they dealt with personal matters. After I left Breslin, I broke the law by stealing from his parked car a copy of the reports on the Welles accident, and that has been my evening: Reading them and reading all the insurance shit I got from the L.A. office. All in all, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.