Lucifer's Weekend (Digger) (2 page)

"You know how long a drive it is?" Digger asked.

"Yes. It’s three hundred ninety-seven miles, one way."

"Which means you had somebody else drive out there," Digger said.

"That’s right."

"And?" Digger asked.

"This Mrs. Gillette’s elevator does not go to the top floor," Brackler said. "Only you can talk to her."

"She’s a loony tune and I don’t deal with loony tunes," Digger said. "Present company excepted, of course. That’s reason two. Although the Pittsburgh Airport ought to be enough by itself for anybody."

"Digger, you work for me," Brackler said.

"Not really, Kwash. I work for Old Benevolent and Saintly. Occasionally. I was hired by Frank Stevens, our noble president. I guess if I work for anybody, it’s for him. Scratch me. Send out another one of your army of assistants, with perfect teeth and wonderful table manners. They sell insurance, they ought to be able to sell Mrs. Gillette on taking another half a million dollars. Hell, if you can sell insurance, you can get anybody to do anything."

Brackler smiled slightly, a narrow little smile that barely touched the corners of his lips and left his eyes inviolate. Digger didn’t know what obsidian was, but he knew he was looking into obsidian eyes.

"Frank Stevens himself said that this was a job for you," Brackler said smugly. "The president of Old Benevolent and Saintly, as you like to call it."

"Balls," Digger said in disgust. He waved to the waiter for another drink. "Maybe you misunderstood him. What did he say exactly?"

"He said that if anyone could convince that crazy broad to take an extra five hundred thousand dollars, it would be that crazy Irish bastard. That’s a direct quotation."

"Maybe he meant somebody else," Digger said. "I’m only half Irish. I’m half Jewish too, you know."

"He meant you. The word ‘crazy’ left no doubt about it. So I will tell him you’re going to get right on it?"

"Come on, Kwash, cut me a break. This isn’t the kind of work I do. Give me natural deaths that are really murders. Give me homicidal maniacs. People killing people for insurance money. Not this. I don’t do charm all that well."

This time Brackler’s smile reached his eyes and beyond that, his hairline. "But Mr. Stevens specified that
you
should go."

"Oh, this gives you great pleasure, doesn’t it?" Digger said. "Watching me squirm? Well, I’ll squirm. I’ll beg and plead. Kwash, don’t send me to Belton, PA. No one’s ever gone to Belton, PA, and been heard of again. I’m begging you."

"Go," said Brackler.

"You want me to crawl? I’ll crawl." Digger stood up from the table. He was six feet three and casually dressed in a sports jacket and slacks. Somehow, they looked rumpled on him. "I’ll crawl. I’ll get on my knees and beg." He looked around. "Well, if I get on my knees, I may never get out of this place. Imagine I’m begging."

"You’re going to Belton to see Mrs. Gillette," Brackler said.

"I’m going to do it, Kwash," said Digger. "But only as a favor to you. You owe me one and I want you to remember it when I come in the middle of the night for your firstborn."

"Do it for whatever reason you want. Just do it," Brackler said. He handed Digger a manila envelope. "Everything is in here. Keep in touch. And will you please sit down? People are staring at you."

Digger looked around slowly at the crowded cocktail lounge. "They’re looking at me," he told Brackler, "but only because they figure they can use me to get close to you." He sat down. "Kwash, you’d be a star in this place. Everybody wants what passes for your body."

"I’m getting out of here," Brackler said. "Stay in touch with me."

"I will," Digger said. "I’m going to mail my reports here to Danny’s. They’ll hold them until you come to pick them up."

"A telephone call will suffice," Brackler said.

"How’d you ever get to be a vice-president anyway?" Digger asked.

"Working hard, staying honest, doing my best, not rocking the boat. You might try those things, Burroughs."

"On the whole, I’d rather be in Belton, PA," Digger said.

He watched Brackler walk quickly toward the front door, a precise little man in a precise little suit with a precise little haircut and a precise little mind.

The waiter returned with Digger’s fresh vodka.

"Your friend left?" he said. He sounded sad.

"Yes," Digger said.

"He seemed like a nice man."

"He is," Digger said. "But he’s not into the bar scene. I’ll tell you, though, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. He was wondering if you and he could… well, you know, maybe meet sometime outside of here."

"Sure, we could," the waiter said.

Digger pulled a business card from his pocket and wrote on the back of it.

"Here," he said. "Here’s his name and address. Walt Brackler. Give him a call. He’d really like to hear from you. He’d really like to be open, out in the life like us, but, well, you know, it comes hard for some people."

The waiter pocketed the card and nodded. "I’ll be sure to call him," he said. Then he graced Digger with a smile. "But that still leaves tonight," he said. "You know, your friend’s small and I like that, but I like big men too. Big, tall, blond men." He reached his hand tentatively toward Digger’s hair.

Digger caught the man’s hand and winked at him.

"Tell me," Digger said. "You like travel?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Do you like sex?" Digger asked.

"Of course."

Digger squeezed the waiter’s hand hard. "Good. Then take a fucking hike," he said.

Chapter Two

As he drove past the highway sign that read Belton Town Limits, Digger smiled. He had been smiling much of the way from New York, because Walter Brackler had been tricked.

Digger wanted to go to Belton. He could never have told Brackler that, because it would have spoiled the purity of the moment. But Digger’s girl friend, Koko, was in Pennsylvania visiting relatives, and Digger thought it would be nice to hook up with her for a couple of days someplace other than Las Vegas, where they shared a condominium apartment.

A glance at his speedometer gave Digger another smile. It wasn’t 397 miles to Belton. It was only 391. Digger decided he would be sure to report this to Brackler. If one of Brackler’s henchmen had driven out here and billed the company for a 397-mile trip, that was six extra miles. On a round trip, twelve. At twenty cents a mile, that would mean he had beaten the company out of two dollars and forty cents. Digger didn’t like people cheating on their expenses because it left that much less for him when it was time for him to cheat on his expenses.

He thought about that for a while, then decided it sounded too much like Corporate Man Goes to Fink School. Instead he would tell Brackler that it was 411 miles to Belton, PA, and that Brackler’s man had underbilled him for 14 miles, 28 round trip, and Brackler owed him $5.60 and it was no wonder nobody liked him because he was a cheap bastard and why didn’t he pay his man the $5.60 he owed him?

The thought of the coming conversation cheered him and he stayed cheered until he drove into Belton. The town was shaped like a bowl, and in one corner of the bottom of the bowl was the plant of Belton and Sons, belching smoke, air pollution and God knew what else into the air, from which they dropped down on the population. As he drove down the main street, Digger knew who the longtime residents of the town were because they all squinted and coughed a lot.

Route 8 took him through the center of town, then headed up again toward one of the edges of the bowl. A mile past the heart of Belton, he saw a sign that directed him toward Gus’s LaGrande Inn. He had chosen the place solely for the beauty of its name, and he expected linoleum floors, a bathroom in the hall and unlimited coffee privileges at a diner two miles down the road.

What he got instead as he turned off Route 8 was an elegant old estate with sweeping lawns and stately baronial buildings of old, faded red brick.

He followed the twisting road upward until it stopped at a circular drive in front of an old mansion.

Digger parked and carried his own bag inside the building. He was in a large central hallway, and no one else was in sight.

He heard a noise down a hallway toward the right, left his bag on the floor under a small table on which rested a vase of real cut flowers and walked down the hallway. He saw a young man with a thin dark moustache standing behind a counter. A telephone was propped between his shoulder and ear. As he talked he riffled through a stack of bills. When Digger drew closer, he saw that there was a round bar, with about a dozen stools, behind the young man. Farther down the hall, Digger heard the faint buzz of conversation and the tinkling of cutlery and glasses.

It was lunchtime at Gus’s LaGrande Inn.

The young man with the moustache put down the stack of bills and, still mumbling into the phone, turned to a low, small section of the bar next to him and began concocting a pitcher of whiskey-sour mix.

Digger waited in front of the counter. The man kept talking into the phone. Digger cleared his throat and the man turned toward him.

"Just a minute," he said into the phone. He said to Digger, "Can I help you?"

"I’m checking in."

"It’ll be a few minutes," the man said.

"I’ll wait at the bar," Digger said.

"That won’t do any good," the young man said. "I’m the bartender too."

Digger shook his head. "I don’t mind waiting to check into a motel, but I won’t be kept waiting at a bar."

"What are you drinking?"

"Finlandia."

"What’s that?"

Digger sighed. He should have known better. After all, this was Belton, PA. "Never mind," he said. "Vodka, rocks."

The young man scooped a glass full of ice, turned and slid it down the bar toward one of the seats. He handed Digger a bottle of house-brand vodka.

"Here," he said, "help yourself. We’ll square away when I get all this shit taken care of."

"You’ve got a future in this business," Digger said.

"I hope so. My past is already buried in it," the young man said, and turned back to his telephone conversation, his mixing of drinks for waitresses who appeared with liquor orders for their lunch tables, and his checking the stack of bills.

It didn’t take as long as Digger had expected because he had had only three drinks before the young man finally came down the bar toward him. During that period a dozen people had walked down the hall, past the bar and toward the front door. They were sleek and fat, but the women were unjeweled, which might be what differentiated Belton’s upper classes from the upper classes of big cities, Digger thought. He also thought fleetingly of his bag in the hall, but decided that it was safe. That was another thing that distinguished places like Belton from the real world. People didn’t just steal things because they happened to be there.

"Okay," the young man said. "I’m sorry but you caught me right in the middle of lunch rush."

"I think you ought to send a petition to the owner and get some help," Digger said. "Bartender, reservations clerk, telephone operator, bookkeeper—that’s a couple of hats too many."

"It won’t work."

"Why not?" Digger asked.

"I’m the owner. Gus LaGrande," the young man said and extended a cold, bony hand for Digger to shake.

Digger shook it. "Julian Burroughs. I called yesterday for a room."

"Oh, yeah. Right. We’ve got you all fixed up. You’ve got the best room in the place."

"Does it have its own air supply?"

"What do you…oh, the smog," Gus LaGrande said.

Digger nodded. "How do you breathe with all this crap in the air? It’s like being on the beach and having to pick sand out of your teeth."

Gus had picked up a reservation form from the small counter at the end of the bar and he brought it back with a pen for Digger to fill it out.

"The crap in the air is courtesy of Lucius Belton," said Gus. "Pretty easy choice though."

"What’s that?" asked Digger.

"You want to breathe or eat? Nearly everybody in this damn town…hell, three towns around, works for Belton and Sons. There’s nobody left to bitch about the smoke in the air. They all work for him. I always wanted to write a letter to Ralph Nader and have him come down here with a lot of long-haired lawyers with sinus conditions, and maybe they’d file a federal suit against Belton."

Digger was filling out the reservation card. Under "company" he wrote "none, yet."

Without looking up, he said, "Doesn’t sound like you like Lucius Belton much."

"No, he’s all right," Gus said. "But I can say whatever I want. It’s a luxury, but I guess I’m the only person in town that he doesn’t own or who doesn’t owe him money. Screw him. I’m independently impoverished. I don’t need him."

"I don’t know why you got into the hotel business," Digger said. "You should have gotten the gas mask concession."

"I know, but my father just wasn’t smart. He ran a construction company around here and he got into a big housing development as a partner with some guy. Well, the development went bust and my father’s business went down the tubes. But as part of his payoff, he wound up with this place. He ran it until he died and then he left it to me. He couldn’t run a hotel any better than he ran a construction company."

"Nice place, though," Digger said.

"It’s a nut house," Gus said. "I’ve got nine dining rooms and eight guest rooms. I can sleep sixteen people here and I can feed three hundred sixty. I’ve got a disco over in one of the other buildings. I own thirty acres. I’d put in a golf course, but who wants to play golf on the side of a hill? Maybe I’ll put in a pitch and putt course. I’ve got everything else here except a way to make a living."

"Jesus Christ, if you keep making me depressed, it’ll drive me to drink," Digger said.

Gus looked at the once-full bottle in front of Digger. "More like a walk than a drive," he said. He took Digger’s registration card and glanced at it. "What are you doing up here anyway, if you don’t mind my asking? Belton doesn’t get many people just stopping because they had this sudden urge to breathe smoke."

"An insurance problem," Digger said vaguely. "I’ve got to see a Mrs. Gillette."