do not like the work I do for a living. I was happier when I was a degenerate gambler, living in Las Vegas on what passes for my wits. You’ve always wondered, Kwash, what I had on Frank Stevens that he ever hired me to work for Old Benevolent and Saintly. Since I’m leaving you this tape in my will and now that I’m dead, I can tell you, Kwash.
I can but I won’t. Let you guess on forever. Just let me give you a tip out of the depths of our friendship. If you’re ever in Las Vegas and you meet the president of an insurance company and he’s just been ripped off for five hundred thousand dollars in negotiable securities, don’t volunteer to get them back from the hooker who swiped them. I won’t say I did that, Kwash, but if I did, look where it got me.
Expenses. Gas, twenty dollars. All that driving up and down Belton’s dirt bowl. Drinks to wash away the dirt and to research the intrinsic socioeconomic factors and the infrastructure that makes Belton, PA, such a unique American community, twenty-five dollars. Eight bucks for the cab to take me back to my car after that idiot cop hauled me in. Fifty bucks to try to bribe Deputy Dawg, who took the money, didn’t report it and took me in anyway. Total, one hundred and three dollars, and the day has only just begun. And don’t think that’s the end of it. If I suffer permanent emotional trauma from being threatened today, you guys are going to have to pay for the shrink. Maybe I’ll take my ex-wife and What’s-his-name and the girl. We can probably get a group rate.
See how upset I am. I forgot to say that this is Tape Recording Number Two, it’s 7:00 P.M., Friday, there’s still no answer at Koko’s house, and I am going to take a shower and wash away this crud and then, maybe, slip off someplace to have a nice cocktail before my drinks.
If you’re listening to this, Kwash, it means I’m dead. Think kindly of me. Remember. I always tried to do my best.
Chapter Nine
Downstairs, Gus told Digger that there had been a phone call for him.
"Why didn’t you put it through? I was in my room."
"He didn’t want to be put through."
"He?"
"Yeah. Some guy. He wouldn’t give his name."
"What was the message?" Digger asked.
"Orleans."
"Orleans?"
"That’s right. Orleans."
"What the hell is Orleans?" Digger asked.
"There’s a jazz club outside town called Orleans. Maybe that’s what he meant."
"You better tell me exactly what he said."
Gus said, "He called about fifteen minutes ago. He said he wanted to leave a message for Julian Burroughs. I said I’d ring your room. He said, no, he just wanted to leave the message. I said, okay what’s the message? He said Orleans. I said, just like you did, Orleans? And he said it again, Orleans; then he hung up."
"No name?" Digger asked.
"No."
"Did he sound old? I’m expecting a call from Lucius Belton."
"No, I know Belton’s voice. It wasn’t him. I don’t know who it was."
Gus gave him the directions to the Orleans jazz club, and as Digger walked out to the car, he wondered who had called and why. It wasn’t Koko, which was the only call he wanted, and it wasn’t Lucius Belton. Who? Cody Lord? Ben Spears? Doc Leonardo? Deputy Dawg? It could have been anybody. It seemed like everyone in town knew he was visiting. Maybe it was Huckleberry Slockbower calling to give the name of the latest maid he had deflowered. And what kind of ridiculous word was "deflower," anyway?
It was probably Cody Lord.
Inside the Orleans, a four-piece combo labored with "Perdido." The music was bad but blessedly low-volumed. A dozen people sat around the big inside room at tables, but the bar was empty. The bartender looked at Digger as if he resented his disrupting the pristine, empty purity of his establishment.
"Vodka, rocks. You have Finlandia?"
"No."
"Anything as long as it’s not Russian."
When the bartender brought the drink, Digger said, "Start me a tab. I think I’ll be here awhile."
The bartender stuck the
I can but I won’t. Let you guess on forever. Just let me give you a tip out of the depths of our friendship. If you’re ever in Las Vegas and you meet the president of an insurance company and he’s just been ripped off for five hundred thousand dollars in negotiable securities, don’t volunteer to get them back from the hooker who swiped them. I won’t say I did that, Kwash, but if I did, look where it got me.
Expenses. Gas, twenty dollars. All that driving up and down Belton’s dirt bowl. Drinks to wash away the dirt and to research the intrinsic socioeconomic factors and the infrastructure that makes Belton, PA, such a unique American community, twenty-five dollars. Eight bucks for the cab to take me back to my car after that idiot cop hauled me in. Fifty bucks to try to bribe Deputy Dawg, who took the money, didn’t report it and took me in anyway. Total, one hundred and three dollars, and the day has only just begun. And don’t think that’s the end of it. If I suffer permanent emotional trauma from being threatened today, you guys are going to have to pay for the shrink. Maybe I’ll take my ex-wife and What’s-his-name and the girl. We can probably get a group rate.
See how upset I am. I forgot to say that this is Tape Recording Number Two, it’s 7:00 P.M., Friday, there’s still no answer at Koko’s house, and I am going to take a shower and wash away this crud and then, maybe, slip off someplace to have a nice cocktail before my drinks.
If you’re listening to this, Kwash, it means I’m dead. Think kindly of me. Remember. I always tried to do my best.
Chapter Nine
Downstairs, Gus told Digger that there had been a phone call for him.
"Why didn’t you put it through? I was in my room."
"He didn’t want to be put through."
"He?"
"Yeah. Some guy. He wouldn’t give his name."
"What was the message?" Digger asked.
"Orleans."
"Orleans?"
"That’s right. Orleans."
"What the hell is Orleans?" Digger asked.
"There’s a jazz club outside town called Orleans. Maybe that’s what he meant."
"You better tell me exactly what he said."
Gus said, "He called about fifteen minutes ago. He said he wanted to leave a message for Julian Burroughs. I said I’d ring your room. He said, no, he just wanted to leave the message. I said, okay what’s the message? He said Orleans. I said, just like you did, Orleans? And he said it again, Orleans; then he hung up."
"No name?" Digger asked.
"No."
"Did he sound old? I’m expecting a call from Lucius Belton."
"No, I know Belton’s voice. It wasn’t him. I don’t know who it was."
Gus gave him the directions to the Orleans jazz club, and as Digger walked out to the car, he wondered who had called and why. It wasn’t Koko, which was the only call he wanted, and it wasn’t Lucius Belton. Who? Cody Lord? Ben Spears? Doc Leonardo? Deputy Dawg? It could have been anybody. It seemed like everyone in town knew he was visiting. Maybe it was Huckleberry Slockbower calling to give the name of the latest maid he had deflowered. And what kind of ridiculous word was "deflower," anyway?
It was probably Cody Lord.
Inside the Orleans, a four-piece combo labored with "Perdido." The music was bad but blessedly low-volumed. A dozen people sat around the big inside room at tables, but the bar was empty. The bartender looked at Digger as if he resented his disrupting the pristine, empty purity of his establishment.
"Vodka, rocks. You have Finlandia?"
"No."
"Anything as long as it’s not Russian."
When the bartender brought the drink, Digger said, "Start me a tab. I think I’ll be here awhile."
The bartender stuck the
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