Dead Letter (Digger) (3 page)

"I hope I get bored," Digger said with a smile, then watched her walk away, all long, luscious legs and round hips and tiny waist.

He looked at Allison Stevens’s sorority house. A neatly-trimmed hedge bordered the front stone walkway. Flowers grew in a precise circular pattern in the twin front yards on either side of the walkway. Looking up, Digger saw that all the windows of the three-story building glinted clean in the high noon sun.

He hoped this wasn’t going to take long. He hated Allison Stevens.

The front door was open and when he stepted inside, Digger thought for a moment that perhaps he had misunderstood Stevens. He was sure that his boss had said a sorority house; yet, just inside the door, was a large living room off to the left, where two young men lounged in armchairs, watching television cartoons. They were drinking beer. One of them had sleep-hooded eyes while the other was so muscular he looked like part of the cast of "The Incredible Hulk."

A third young man sat behind a desk at the foot of the steps. If this was a sorority house, Digger thought, it was a pioneer in male access.

The young man behind the desk looked up from his copy of
Playgirl
magazine with a bored expression on his face.

"Allison Stevens," Digger said.

The young man jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the steps.

"Room 321, top floor," he said.

"Thanks," Digger said. As he started up the steps, he noticed that the sleepy-looking man in the lounge was staring at him.

Ah, it was nice to be rich and young, Digger thought. To go to a fancy school and not worry about security or daytime burglars or muggers or rapists. You come in looking for somebody and, just like that, they tell you her room number. And then you go upstairs and slash her throat and leave her in nine bloody pieces on the floor and nobody notices until the maid comes to do the linen.

As he passed the second floor, he heard a lovely pure soprano singing inside one of the rooms. It was the first sign that there were any females in the building, assuming that the soprano was female. The song was an Irish lament, but Digger had noticed that almost all Irish songs were laments. Half Irish himself, Digger had long ago decided that the Irish were screwed up. Their whole musical repertoire had only about six love songs and they were devoted to Mother. Everything else was how I went to town and got in a card game and then I got drunk and I went to jail, and, oh, it’s the fault of the Bloody English. With a dingdong derry and a do-do-do.

The only exception was war songs. Oh, did the Irish ever have war songs. But their last warrior was Brian Boru. They hadn’t won anything since then. What was it Chesterton had said? "God bless the gaels of Ireland, the men that God made mad; For all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad."

Why not? If you were going to lose the war anyway, why not enjoy it? Eat, drink and be merry, because tomorrow we lose again.

He found Room 321 on the top floor and tapped on the door. So Allison Stevens was pretty and bright and beautiful and pure and he hated her.

He could have sworn he heard someone say "Come in," so he opened the door and stepped inside.

There was a young redheaded woman there. She was in bed. Somebody else was there, too. And he was in bed, too.

The same bed.

"Ooops," Digger said.

The two people were covered by a sheet. The young man on top stopped in mid-stroke.

"Who are you?" the young woman said to Digger.

"Allison?" Digger said.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"Obviously an unwanted interruption," Digger said. "Don’t bother getting up. I’ll show myself out."

The one on top extricated himself from under the sheet and turned his face toward Digger. It was the face of a gnome with bright blue eyes and a pug nose and a mass of sandy hair that sat on his head like a divot from a nine iron.

"Yeah," he said. "Do that." His face was round and his cheeks looked as if he held walnuts in them. He turned back to the girl. "Maybe we ought to find out who he is?" His voice sounded like an entreaty.

"Will you wait outside?" Allison said with great disgust.

"Sure," said Digger. "My pleasure. Take your time."

"Fat chance now," she said, but as he backed through the door, she smiled at him.

Digger sat on the top of the stairs and smoked a cigarette, taking grim delight in flicking his ashes on the thick, unworn carpet that lined the hallways and the stairs. So he had met Allison Stevens. Pure, sweet, virginal, straight-A’s, magna cum laude, apple of her father’s eye Allison. Terrific. In the rack at high noon with a dwarf.

Her father had thought she was depressed about something. At least she wasn’t letting it ruin her sex life. Good for her, Digger thought.

And just what was Digger going to tell her father when he said, "And how did you find Allison?" "Oh, the usual. All slick with juice and sweat." No. He was not going to think about that right now.

He was close to having to make a decision on what to do with his cigarette butt when the door to Room 321 opened.

Allison Stevens had dressed. Inside her dimly lighted room, he had not had a chance to appreciate her since a sheet had covered all of her but for the flaming red hair.

She was beautiful. The girl was tall and her hair was a log-fire flame color and her eyes were brilliant chips of jade. She wore jeans and a tight striped blouse, which she was still buttoning. Her feet were bare and her toenails were polished, not with color, but with a clear gloss that looked somehow healthy. Her skin was smooth and her cheeks were slightly flushed and Digger couldn’t tell if it was with passion or with anger.

"All right," she said with a sigh that nevertheless gave way to a small smile. "Who are you? And what do you want?"

"My name’s Julian Burroughs," Digger said. "I’m doing a survey to see how many college students lock their doors."

"So…." And then she recognized the name. "Oh, poo. You’re Daddy’s snoop. You’re the one he calls Digger."

"You might say that."

"Am I in trouble?" she asked.

"Not if you remembered to take your pill today."

She smiled at him again. "Well, come on in. I guess nothing worse can happen now," she said.

Digger followed her into the room. Even in jeans, she undulated the way women were supposed to. She had opened the drapes and sun streamed into the room which was well-decorated and neat, with a tidy desk in front of the twin ceiling-height windows. She dropped lightly onto the edge of the bed she had quickly made and pointed Digger to a chair.

The young man who had been in bed with Allison was nowhere to be seen. Digger glanced toward the windows. Was he lurking on a fire escape? Or jumped to his death?

"What are you looking for?"

"Your friend. Is he hiding under the bed?"

"That’s Danny Gilligan. He lives in the room next door. He’s my boyfriend."

"I hoped so."

As if by way of explanation, she said, "He had his car stolen last night."

"I lost my wallet once," Digger said. He glanced around and saw a door to an adjoining room slightly open and he walked to it and closed it.

"I thought we could talk privately," he said.

She looked forlornly at the door, then shrugged. And then, as if by an effort of will, the worried, lost look came off her face and she smiled at Digger.

"What are you going to tell my father?" she asked.

"I don’t know. You don’t look worried."

"I did worry a little bit. But worrying won’t do any good, so I stopped worrying. If I worry, does that change what you’re going to do?"

"Probably not."

"So why worry? Can I get you something? Coffee? A can of beer?"

"No, thanks. I never mix anything with vodka."

"What’d you come here for?" she asked.

"Your father asked me to look in on you, just to see how you were. You know, I didn’t really barge into your room. I knocked."

"I didn’t hear you," she said.

"I thought I heard somebody say come in," he said.

She smiled again. "It might have sounded like that, but that isn’t what I was saying." She winked.

"Oh," Digger said. "Sorry."

She sat back and drew up her knees.

"I thought you lived in a sorority house," Digger said. "You know, little girls in pinafores and mary janes, sitting around, roasting marshmallows?"

"It used to be a sorority house but they changed it last year. All women and all men dorms went out with folk music. I didn’t have the heart to tell Daddy. He wouldn’t understand."

"No," Digger said. "He’d probably think it would expose you to undue sexual influences."

"Exactly," she said. Then she understood and said, "Oh, you’re being funny. I like people with a sense of humor. I’ve got one but it seems to unnerve people. Anyway, I couldn’t tell my father and it was just for the year anyway. Let me tell you, you talk about undue influences, but an all-woman dorm is worse. My father wouldn’t like me if I came home with hairy legs. I lived in an all-girl sorority house last year. Everyone hated it. It was like being in an army barracks, no privacy and everybody picking at you. If I didn’t spend a lot of time out of here last year, I would have gone bonkers. Anyway, this way, it’s normal."

"I guess," Digger said.

"But Daddy didn’t send you up here to see where I’m living, did he? Can I call you Digger?"

"Everybody does, since your father tagged me with that name, so go ahead. No, he didn’t send me up to see where you were living. He thought you were depressed."

"I’m not depressed."

"He thought you were upset about some guy’s death." Digger took the clipping from his wallet and handed it to Allison.

"Oh," she said as she looked at it. "That’s funny. I was a little bit upset. I didn’t think my father would notice."

"Allison…" Digger began.

"Allie. Everybody calls me Allie, except my parents. Allison was my mother’s idea. God, she might have named me Kimberley."

"And given you a borzoi hound for your seventh birthday."

"Exactly. And sent me to skiing school."

Digger said, "Actually, your father notices everything about you. He knew you were upset and he couldn’t understand your being upset about some saloonkeeper dying. What would you know about saloonkeepers? I mean, I thought you were a campfire girl from listening to Frank talk."

"All right, don’t needle me because I’m normal. I’ll tell you what happened. A few weeks ago, somebody put up a piece of paper on the bulletin board downstairs. It was like a list. The heading was ‘God’s Mistakes. People we can all do without.’ Everybody had a good laugh. Then we started putting down names. You know, the dean of students, college president, that kind of thing. I added Wally Strickland’s name because a lot of us in this dorm, we kind of hung out over there in Rick’s Place, and he never bought a drink, and he was always trying to hit on the girls. Well, then, he died and well, Jesus, I just felt guilty. Suppose I jinxed him by putting his name on that list. I didn’t wish him dead. It was just supposed to be a joke, but he died. I felt awful about it, as if it were my fault. But Danny finally talked me out of it. It wasn’t really my fault."

"Of course it wasn’t," Digger said. "So that was it?"

"Yes," she said.

"If that’s the worst thing you ever have to worry about in your life…" Digger began.

"It’s not," she said. "Now I’m worrying about you. What are you going to tell my father? I’m taking tests now and I’m graduating in two weeks…."

"I love the way you study," Digger said.

"That’s just it. You tell my father and I’m going to be yanked out of here and matriculate at some school for wayward girls."

Digger shook his head. "I’m not your average run-of-the-sewer snoop. I have my standards."

"Where do I fit into them?" she asked.

"Your lifestyle’s not my business, so your secret’s safe with me. Your father asked me to check and see if there was some reason for you to be upset about this Strickland’s death. I checked that out, and so now I can go on about my business."

"What is your business, anyway?" she said. "Are you in Boston on some big case for B.S.L.I.?"

The sun glinting through the windows behind the young woman cast a fuzzy halo about her face and body. But in the dim light on her face, Digger could see the flash of her youthful, happy smile. God, she was beautiful.

"No," Digger said. "This has nothing to do with old Benevolent and Saintly. I’m up here to see a friend and get a physical."

"You look fine. You’re not sick, are you?"

"No, just an annual checkup."

"And you’re not going to tell my father anything about Danny?"

"Of course not."

"Good. Then I won’t have to wish you dead." She paused. "I’m sorry. I guess that wasn’t funny. Danny’s my boyfriend, did I tell you that?"

"I kind of gathered."

"He’s a genius," she said. "Certifiably."

"What does he genius at? Besides seducing the most beautiful girl on campus?"

"He’s a psych major. He does theoretical work in human behavior. You’ll hear of him someday."

"Where’s he from?"

"Why? Oh, I get it. You just want to be sure I’m not getting roped in by some guy who’s after Daddy’s money."

Digger started to protest but she said, "Come on, admit it."

"Okay. I guess it was something like that. Where’s he from?"

"Pittsburgh. His father owns a steel company. They’ve got more money than they know what to do with. He doesn’t need ours. Feel better?"

"Immeasurably," Digger said.

"And we were hanging out together here, studying, and Danny was depressed ’cause somebody swiped his car and we just kind of naturally wound up in bed," she said with a broad smile.

Her teeth were large white pearls in the glowing frame of her face.

"Naturally," Digger said. "Remind me to look you up if I’m ever feeling depressed."

"I could tell by looking at you that you would probably understand," she said. Suddenly, she called out:

"Danny!"

The door to the next room opened immediately and Danny Gilligan walked in. At just over five feet tall, he was a full half-foot shorter than Allie Stevens. Digger had thought, on first thought, that he looked like a gnome, but he looked more like a cherub. His eyes twinkled and his face was smooth-shaven. He looked like the product of a beginning class in cartooning in which students drew people out of ovals and circles. He was all ovals and circles.