hallway. She had been naked and just a little drunk. She suffered from a common Japanese inability to handle alcohol, but it was like her not to accept life’s or genetics’ verdict. She had tried to drink. Someone bought her a drink, then tried to take advantage of her, wound up stealing her purse and pushing her naked into the hallway of the hotel. Digger, in a room across the hall, had gotten back her purse and her clothing and he had gotten her not long after.
Digger had left his wife and children and moved to Las Vegas to gamble. He was just getting over the fever. Soon after, with a little pocketful of winnings, he had bought a condominium on the Las Vegas strip. Then he had done a substantial favor for Frank Stevens, the president of B.S.L.I., and had gotten an occasional job as a claims investigator. And had also gotten his nickname of Digger.
Koko was by then a dealer at the Araby Casino and she had moved in with him.
He worked occasionally. So did she. She dealt at the casino, but once in a while, the casino asked her to "entertain" a visiting high roller with a penchant for oriental women.
Digger couldn’t bring himself to complain about it. Maybe it was, in a way, his insurance policy. Could a hooker, even a part-time hooker, expect him to say "let’s get married?"
But what if she weren’t what she was? What would he do then?
He looked at her again.
Some kinds of beauty were beyond words.
He checked himself from reaching out and touching her hand, tossed up childishly on the pillow beside her face. There was the hint of a smile on her lips.
"Tamiko," he said softly. "I’m an alcoholic and am more than a little crazy. I don’t much like myself and I don’t think I can like anybody else, much less love them. Except maybe my father. But if I ever loved anybody, it’d be you. Maybe…someday…ahhh, bullshit. We’re going to be too busy forever, laughing at each other’s jokes, telling each other stories. Never happen, kid. And ain’t it a fucking shame."
Then he got up and went inside to shower and brush his teeth and look at his beet-red body and curse the sun and the woman who exposed him to it.
Koko was still asleep when he came out. He taped his recorder under his shirt, made sure he had several extra cassettes in his light tan jacket pocket, and wrote her a note with the pen he found in her purse.
"Koko. Went out to find me a kind woman who’ll give me some. I don’t know if I’ll ever return. Have a nice day. Digger."
It was obvious to Digger that Dr. Josephson, for all his medical education, had never been exposed in childhood to the Peter Slump and Peter Posture health books. He sat behind his desk like a soft pile of wet laundry.
"Dr. Josephson, my name is Julian Burroughs."
Josephson shook his head. "I’ll never understand. You New Yorkers come down here and refuse to believe that this is the real sun. You hang around out there all day boiling like a lobster, and then come running to a doctor. Did you put anything on that burn?"
"I didn’t come for my sunburn, Doctor. I’m fully prepared to suffer in silence for the sin of stupidity."
"What’s the problem then?"
Digger handed the doctor one of his business cards. "I’m with the Brokers’ Surety Life Insurance Company."
Josephson nodded. He was a huge man and after he stopped nodding, his jowls continued to flap up and down in agreement for what seemed to be another full round trip.
Josephson handed the card back.
"What can I do for you?"
"I’m doing some routine checking for my company before we pay off on some insurance involved in that Interworld air crash a couple of weeks ago."
"Whose insurance did you have?"
"A couple of passengers."
"And how can I help?"
"You were Steve Donnelly’s private physician?"
"That’s right."
"He was due for a company physical soon."
"Is it a year already?"
"Time flies," Digger said. "At least better than Interworld’s planes. I want to know the state of Captain
Digger had left his wife and children and moved to Las Vegas to gamble. He was just getting over the fever. Soon after, with a little pocketful of winnings, he had bought a condominium on the Las Vegas strip. Then he had done a substantial favor for Frank Stevens, the president of B.S.L.I., and had gotten an occasional job as a claims investigator. And had also gotten his nickname of Digger.
Koko was by then a dealer at the Araby Casino and she had moved in with him.
He worked occasionally. So did she. She dealt at the casino, but once in a while, the casino asked her to "entertain" a visiting high roller with a penchant for oriental women.
Digger couldn’t bring himself to complain about it. Maybe it was, in a way, his insurance policy. Could a hooker, even a part-time hooker, expect him to say "let’s get married?"
But what if she weren’t what she was? What would he do then?
He looked at her again.
Some kinds of beauty were beyond words.
He checked himself from reaching out and touching her hand, tossed up childishly on the pillow beside her face. There was the hint of a smile on her lips.
"Tamiko," he said softly. "I’m an alcoholic and am more than a little crazy. I don’t much like myself and I don’t think I can like anybody else, much less love them. Except maybe my father. But if I ever loved anybody, it’d be you. Maybe…someday…ahhh, bullshit. We’re going to be too busy forever, laughing at each other’s jokes, telling each other stories. Never happen, kid. And ain’t it a fucking shame."
Then he got up and went inside to shower and brush his teeth and look at his beet-red body and curse the sun and the woman who exposed him to it.
Koko was still asleep when he came out. He taped his recorder under his shirt, made sure he had several extra cassettes in his light tan jacket pocket, and wrote her a note with the pen he found in her purse.
"Koko. Went out to find me a kind woman who’ll give me some. I don’t know if I’ll ever return. Have a nice day. Digger."
It was obvious to Digger that Dr. Josephson, for all his medical education, had never been exposed in childhood to the Peter Slump and Peter Posture health books. He sat behind his desk like a soft pile of wet laundry.
"Dr. Josephson, my name is Julian Burroughs."
Josephson shook his head. "I’ll never understand. You New Yorkers come down here and refuse to believe that this is the real sun. You hang around out there all day boiling like a lobster, and then come running to a doctor. Did you put anything on that burn?"
"I didn’t come for my sunburn, Doctor. I’m fully prepared to suffer in silence for the sin of stupidity."
"What’s the problem then?"
Digger handed the doctor one of his business cards. "I’m with the Brokers’ Surety Life Insurance Company."
Josephson nodded. He was a huge man and after he stopped nodding, his jowls continued to flap up and down in agreement for what seemed to be another full round trip.
Josephson handed the card back.
"What can I do for you?"
"I’m doing some routine checking for my company before we pay off on some insurance involved in that Interworld air crash a couple of weeks ago."
"Whose insurance did you have?"
"A couple of passengers."
"And how can I help?"
"You were Steve Donnelly’s private physician?"
"That’s right."
"He was due for a company physical soon."
"Is it a year already?"
"Time flies," Digger said. "At least better than Interworld’s planes. I want to know the state of Captain
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