Fool's Flight (Digger) (13 page)

She closed the door behind him.

"I heard you practicing," Digger said. "You don’t sing like that in church."

"No. Our folks like their music straight," she said. "Sit down," she said. Digger sat, thinking that while she might be afraid of her husband, she was certainly not afraid of Digger. "Sit down" had been an order, not an invitation.

"Is that all true?" she said. "What my husband said?"

"Yes."

"Six million dollars?"

"Yes," he said. "Give or take a couple of hundred thou. All made out to your husband as beneficiary."

"That’s weird," she said. Her soft blond hair was framed foggily about her face in the glare of light from the room’s only window. Digger saw that the window opened onto the parking lot behind the rectory.

"You didn’t know anything about it?" Digger said.

"No, not a thing."

"It just seems odd that a whole planeload of people would have decided to do something like that, and you wouldn’t even have a clue."

"Mister Burroughs. I’m sorry, for your company, but I’m sorrier for those losers who died." She was about to say more but the door burst open.

"Dacey dear," said Erma who bustled into the doorway. "I…" She saw Digger and stopped.

"Not now, Ninde. Later," Mrs. Wardell said.

"Sorry. I didn’t know you were…"

"Later," Mrs. Wardell said sharply.

The young blonde left. Digger thought that while Candace might jump when her husband barked, she knew how to bark herself.

"Did you charter the plane for the flight?" Digger asked.

"Yes. I asked Erma to do it, but she’s not much on bargaining."

"What do you mean ‘bargaining?’"

"Bargaining," she repeated. "We were paying the cost of this flight. The people who were going didn’t have any money so we were paying for everything and we wanted to get the best price."

"Where were they going in Puerto Rico?" Digger asked.

"A little town up in the hills. Cidra. There’s a building there we were going to use. An old mansion. We had hired some staff and everything."

"I’m sorry it didn’t work," Digger said.

"I am, too. Damien really wanted to do something for those people."

"He did," Digger said.

"Yes?"

"Yeah. He got them killed."

"That isn’t kind," Mrs. Wardell said. She looked out the window at the parking lot. "You say there’s how much insurance?"

"Six million. My company looks into it and if it’s on the up and up we pay. Unless there’s some kind of court action or something that could tie it up."

"Court action?"

"You know. There are all kinds of possibilities. Like other potential beneficiaries. Take Mrs. Donnelly, the pilot’s wife. You remember him, don’t you?"

"Yes. He came here frequently. What about Mrs. Donnelly?"

"She’s all bent out of shape because she wasn’t his beneficiary. She might just sue to get her hands on some of that insurance money."

Mrs. Wardell nodded thoughtfully. "I see," she said.

"Did the passengers just meet at the airport?" Digger asked.

"No. They met here and went by bus."

Just then, the door to the room opened again, and a tall, genial-looking, red-haired man walked in. "Candace," he said, "Damien just told me about…" He stopped when he saw Digger.

"Jack, come on in," Mrs, Wardell said. Mister Burroughs, this is Jack Thomasen, our accountant." The man looked at Digger with almost a territorial interest. "Mister Burroughs is with the insurance company."

"I see. Nice to meet you, Burroughs." He shook Digger’s hand, squeezing.

"Mister Burroughs just told us that there is some insurance money on the plane."

"I know. Damien told me. We’ll discuss it later. So long, Burroughs." He had made the word "later" sound dirty.

Digger nodded and when the man left, he rose from his chair.

"Thank you for your time," she said.

"My pleasure."

"We don’t get many music lovers here," she said.

"Call me when you book your concert tour."

She smiled, opened the door of the room and stood in the doorway watching him until he went out into the waiting room, where four people now sat on sofas waiting for the Reverend Wardell.

On the front steps, Digger lit a cigarette, then darted alongside the house to the window of the room he had just been in. He peeked inside through the slit between the curtain and the window frame and saw Jack Thomasen enter the room, and happily slap his hand on Candace Wardell’s shoulder. Then he clapped his hands together in an obvious display of glee.

Candace looked glum. She said a few words and Thomasen, the smile vanishing from his face as rapidly as the look of pain from a baby’s face, turned and left the room. Mrs. Wardell looked up a number in the telephone book and picked up the telephone on the desk in front of her.

She dialed and then began to speak. But the windows were tightly closed and Digger could not hear what she was saying.

He wished he knew who she was talking to.

Koko was not in their room when Digger returned. He called New York.

As she always did, Walter Brackler’s secretary said, "Julian Burroughs?"

"Yes. Julian Burroughs. The same name I always give when I call."

"I’ll see…"

"I know, you’ll see if he’s in. He’s in. Where would he be except in the office? Who would allow him anywhere else? Just put him on the line."

It was no use.

"Just a moment, sir. I’ll see if he’s in."

Digger hoped she was good looking because that girl was going no place on her brains. The random thought occurred to him that maybe Brackler was sleeping with her, but he put it out of his mind as preposterous. Not Watler Brackler. Not Kwash, all five feet of him, all slick-back hair of him, all cheap suit of him. No. Preposterous.

"Hello, Burroughs?"

"Kwash, are you hitting that chick?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your secretary. You banging that?"

"You’re disgusting."

"Sight unseen, so is she probably," Digger said.

"Eat your heart out. She’s a beauty."

"I’ll believe it when I see it. Listen, there’s a religious retreat in Cidra in Puerto Rico. It’s run by Damien Wardell."

"Yes?"

"See if our guys in Puerto Rico can find out anything about it. Who owns it? What’s it for? I’m just scratching around."

"Another waste of time," Brackler said. "I bet you’re sunburned."

"Yesterday, I hurt. Today I’m all right."

"Instead of spending your time on the beach, tanning at our expense, you might call in once in a while and let us know what’s going on."

"Nothing’s going on," Digger said. "Another thing. Those insurance applications? Do you have the originals?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Have somebody look at them. See if the handwriting looks alike."

Brackler sighed. "Am I supposed to hire a handwriting expert for this?"

"No. Just give it to somebody with eyes and brains. They’ll be able to tell. Oh, and another thing…so far, we’ve saved you three hundred thousand."

"How’d you do that?"

"First, by finding out that one passenger used a phony address. That should void the policy. The other is by reading the freaking policy. Pilots can’t insure themselves that way."

"I’ll be…of course not."

"I’m ashamed of you, Kwash. Do I have to do everybody’s job for them?"

"We would have realized it."

"Sure, sure, sure, sure, sure."

"Your mother has been trying to reach you."

"Did you tell her I was out of town?"

"Yes."

"What else did you tell her?"

"I told her where out of town you were."

"You told her I was here?" Digger said.

"Yes."

"I hate you, Kwash."

After hanging up and pouring himself a drink, Digger finally understood what had been bothering him about Wardell. Today, Erma had told him there was no charge for personal counseling by Reverend Wardell. And there had been no admission charge, when he had gone to see Wardell preach, no passing of the plate. There had not even been a charge for parking in the lot.

And today, Candace Wardell had told him that the church was even paying to charter the airplane that had gone down.

What the hell kind of twentieth-century church was this? Didn’t Wardell realize that passing the plate was as central to fundamentalist theology as the infallibility of the Bible as historical record? How did he raise money?

Digger went to the phone to Trini Donnelly. He had dialed half the number when he hung up, and had to think about what name he had given her when he had first gone to see her.

His own name. That was a surprise.

He dialed again and she answered the telephone on the first ring. Her voice sounded bright and happy.

"Trini, this is Julian Burroughs."

Her up turned into an instant down. He could almost hear the corners of her mouth dropping.

"Oh? Yes?"

"I was wondering if I might come over?"

"What for?"

"I don’t know. I thought, well, maybe we could have that drink."

"I don’t think so, Mr. Burroughs. I’m kind of busy."

"Oh. I see. Well, the telephone’s all right. The night of the accident, did you pack your husband’s lunch? And the name’s Julian."

"He didn’t take a lunch."

"He brought coffee."

"He was finicky about coffee. He always made his own. If that’s all…"

"Just one thing. I wanted to tell you that you really might think about suing over that insurance. I asked my office and they…"

"Sue? I think that’s kind of ridiculous."

"You said you were thinking about it."

"Just anger talking, Mr. Burroughs. There’s nothing to sue about. If Steve wanted his insurance to go to the church, that was his prerogative."

"You didn’t feel that way yesterday."

"Times change."

"Well, my company might sue anyway. Hold up all these insurance payments," Digger said. "Get everything out in the open."

"That’s up to you. I really have to go, Mr. Burroughs. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Trini. Give my love to those boys of yours."

Chapter Eighteen

"Mom, this is Julian."

"Julian? Julian who?"

"Your son, Mother. How many Julians do you know who call you Mom?"

"Oh, that Julian. Tall? Blond? Let’s make sure we’re talking about the same person."

"It’s the same person, Mother. The one you kept exiling to summer camp the day public school closed."

"That’s not funny, Julian."

"After I escaped I thought it was hilarious."

"I want to talk to you. Can’t we talk civil for a change?"

"I’ll try. What do you want to talk about?"

"I’ve been trying to reach you and trying to reach you. I called that number in Las Vegas where you live with that thing but she wasn’t there."

"That thing’s name is Koko, Mother. You can call her Miss Fanucci if you don’t want to get too personal."

"It’s not important. Anyway, I kept calling that nice Mr. Brackler. He finally reached you?"

"I knew you’d love Kwash, Mother. Yes, he reached me. What do you want?"

"It’s not for myself."

"What? For who?"

"For Cora."

"What does Cora want?"

"I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me a lot since you left her. She said it was important. Probably something to do with the children. She didn’t sound too panicky, though. Probably it’s not a
real
emergency."

"I’ll call her, Mother. Where is Pop? Is he there?"

"Mister Brackler was nice enough to tell me you were in Fort Lauderdale and then he found out where and I was going to call you. I wasn’t about to call every place in Lauderdale."

"No, Mother, of course not. I was counting on that. Is Pop there?"

"I’ll get him."

"Thank you."

His mother put the telephone down with all the care and attention that he wished she had lavished on him when he was a boy. His father would be sitting on the enclosed back porch, under the thirteen engraved police citations that attested to his excellence as a New York City policeman before he was put out to pasture. A beer can would be almost totally hidden inside his massive hand as he sat watching the Mets game, talking to the television set, trying by the force of his will to teach clumsy fielders to field and blind batters to hit.

He heard his mother’s glass-cutting voice scream.

"Patrick. It’s him."

A few seconds later, the telephone was picked up.

"Hello, Digger."

"Hello, Sarge. How’s it going?"

"Another grinding day like all days, filled with events that do nothing to alter or illuminate our time. And I have to be there."

"If you had it to do over, Sarge, would you marry again?" Digger asked.

"Once wasn’t enough? Would you?"

"I don’t know."

"I wouldn’t turn my back on that little one so fast."

"Koko?" Digger said.

"She’s a sweetheart, sonny."

"I know, Pop. Do you know what Cora wants?"

"Probably to bust your balls. I didn’t hear."

"Okay, Sarge. See you when I get back."

"Okay. We’ll go get some drinks."

"Since when have you started drinking again?" Digger asked.

"Since I ran out of other excuses to get out of the house."

"Take it easy, Sarge. That way lies death and destruction."

"Here in the house, too," his father said.

"Love ya, Sarge."

"Me, too, son. Throw Koko one for me."

"I’m trying, Pop. I’m trying."

Before calling his ex-wife, Digger had another drink for courage. He hated to talk to her.

In the first few years they had separated, her voice was always reeking with smarmy self-pity about how her life had been ruined and what was there to live for. After a while, that gave way to pure animal hatred of the man who had done her wrong.

But lately, she had become unpredictable as she worked to perfect a new approach. She pitied Digger. She pitied him because he had no wonderful family to care for him. He had no one on whom to lavish his love. How empty his life must be. How sad and pathetic a figure he really was.