"Her many friends and associates in Hollywood Hills were shocked yesterday by the tragic death of Mrs. Jessalyn Welles, long a leader in the community’s civic and cultural life
.

"Mrs. Welles, who was forty, was killed instantly when her car plunged one hundred feet from a cliff near the home that she shared with her husband, Dr. Gideon Welles
.

"Dr. Welles, 45, who had been at a medical seminar in San Francisco for the past week, flew back yesterday when informed of the accident
.

"For over a decade, Mrs. Welles had been in the forefront of many community endeavors. She was a member of the board of trustees of The Hospital in the Hills and is remembered for her role in raising funds for that institution’s expansion three years ago
.

"Mrs. Welles was one of the organizers of the annual Philanthropic Awards to those who did the most for the underprivileged. She helped raise funds for America’s Faceless Poor and was annual chairman of the hospital’s blood drive
.

"Active also in social endeavors, she was a member of the Hillfront Tennis Club and a member of the Sorrow Cove Yacht Club
.

"The tragedy occurred shortly after sunrise when Mrs. Welles was leaving the couple’s home at 3 Cliff Cove Drive, high in the Hollywood Hills, apparently on her way to open the elegant gift shop she operated on Wilshire Boulevard. Police said the woman apparently lost control of her expensive sedan, crashed through a small fence on the edge of the cliff and plunged a hundred feet to the rocks bordering Laurel Canyon Boulevard
.

"Mrs. Welles, the former Jessalyn Lindsley, was a native of Westport, Connecticut, and the only child of Elmer and Rochelle Lindsley. Mr. Lindsley died earlier this year
.

"The accident victim was a graduate of Wellesley College. Her husband is director of The Hospital in the Hills, and they have lived together in this community for fifteen years. Dr. Welles is often referred to as Doctor to the Stars, but the couple lived a quiet life, dedicated to each other and to their community
.

"Dr. and Mrs. Welles were childless. The doctor was too upset to talk to this reporter about his feelings
.

"Funeral arrangements will be completed today."

By Jenna Morning,

Special Correspondent for

The Hilltopper
, Hollywood Hills, CA.

Chapter One

Since Julian Burroughs did not want to be late for his meeting with his boss and since the meeting was being held in a cocktail lounge, Burroughs arrived three hours early.

He realized that the only thing Walter Brackler hated worse than late was drunk, so he decided to drink conservatively while he waited. No more than three drinks an hour. He was only four drinks over his limit when Brackler arrived promptly at 9:00 P.M. He was always prompt.

"Listen, Digger…"

"I don’t like that name."

"Oh. You don’t like that name. What can I call you? Will Mr. Burroughs be all right?"

"Such close friends needn’t stand on ceremony, Kwash. You can call me your holiness. As long as you don’t call me late for dinner. I had a school principal named that once. Leonard Late-for-Dinner. An Indian, I think. I hated the bastard. He wouldn’t mark on the curve. Flunked out the whole football team on the eve of the big Turkey Day game. We lost 131 to nothing. Worst loss in the history of high-school football. You could look it up."

"And you can kiss my ass. And stop calling me Kwash. I don’t believe this. Here I am, talking to one of my employees, and he’s telling me what I’m allowed to call him. I’d hate to have your nerve in a tooth, Burroughs."

"And stop saying that. That’s the second time you’ve said that to me in the last year. Same exact words. Get a new writer."

"I’ve got more than one tooth. I’d rather get a new investigator. What the hell have you got on Mr. Stevens, anyway?"

"He and I talk the same language. Did you know that Tycho Brahe had a silver nose? Frank Stevens knew. He and I spent a year one night trying to figure out how Tycho blew his nose. We decided he used those cloths with chemicals in them so that when he blew his nose, he polished it, too. Otherwise he’d be going around with a black nose. That’s why Mr. Stevens is president of the Benevolent and Saintly Life Insurance Company and why you will never be."

"Black nose?"

"No. Because he thinks and laughs. I think we even talked about Tycho Brahe on company time. Did you ever think about a silver nose on company time, Kwash?"

"How long have you been on the sauce?"

"I drink because of a great tragedy in my life."

"I don’t want to hear about it. I came here to work."

"I thought you’d never ask. Yes, sir, I drink, and you should find out what I’m drinking and send a case of it to all your other generals. And all your other claims investigators. I drink because here I am, thirty-eight years old, reasonably handsome, with no visible deformities, and it is my great misfortune to have a job with the Brokers Surety Life Insurance Company and my greater misfortune to have you as my higher-up. I would have said ‘superior,’ but that has connotations I can’t handle. I had a college professor once who thought that connotate was a verb. Of course, it isn’t. It isn’t even a word. Connote is a verb. He made the mistake of getting connotate from a back formation. Let me tell you, Kwash, don’t ever trust a back formation. Unless it’s got a quarterback who can throw the ball. Did I ever tell you why I was unhappy and I drink?"

"Interminably," Walter Brackler said. "And I’m going to tell you why you’re really going to be unhappy and have plenty of time to drink. Because someday Frank Stevens isn’t going to be president of BSLI and you’re going to be out on your ass."

"It won’t be by you. The next president is going to have a silver nose, not a paper asshole. What do you want here, anyway?"

Brackler removed his billfold from his inside jacket pocket and with delicate, shiny-nailed fingers extracted a newspaper clipping, which he pushed across the table to Burroughs. While Burroughs read it, Brackler looked around the cocktail lounge. He had the look on his face of a man who had awakened one morning to find his bed had been moved into a room-sized septic tank.

"So Jessalyn Welles is dead. And she had the poor taste to be insured with us?" Burroughs said.

"For half a millions dollars, Bucko. Policy taken out by her husband six months ago. Double indemnity for an accident, that’s a million. That’s a lot of granola. Mr. Stevens himself said you should look into it."

"You have her application? Medical records? All that?"

"They’ll all be waiting for you in the Los Angeles office," Brackler said.

"She been planted yet?"

"Tomorrow. Two o’clock. That’s why I stopped here now—to give you a chance to sober up or get out of the rack or finish whatever disgusting thing it is you’re doing so you can make the funeral, if you want."

"I wouldn’t miss it for anything. What do you think about this Welles thing?"

Brackler shrugged. "Mr. Stevens said look into it, so look into it." He tried to stare at Burroughs, but he was looking down at the clipping. Brackler cleared his throat. Burroughs kept reading. Brackler waited out the silence for five more seconds.

"Actually, I think it’s just a coincidence. A big, famous doctor like Welles wouldn’t knock off his old lady. Anyway, he wasn’t even in town. So, big deal. Six months ago he insured his wife. A lot of people get into insurance when they make some bucks, when they turn forty, you know how they do it. That’s probably what happened here and we just wound up unlucky."

He stopped talking. Digger looked up. "Nothing to compare with Mrs. Welles’s unluck. She’s dead."

"Of course. Naturally. Very sad. We’ve got an insurance company to run. Can’t let anybody rip us off or anything."

"What does Frank say?"

"Mr. Stevens doesn’t say. He just thinks the timing is a lot of coincidence and we ought to look. Personally, I think he just wanted to find something for you to do for your yearly retainer."

"I’ve been busy as all get-out," Digger said. "It’s not easy thinking about silver noses all the time."

A young black woman, aggressively sexy in a tight jersey dress the color of wet blood, walked from the bar into the small lounge and stood alongside Burroughs’s table. He looked up.

"Hello, Lilac," Digger said.

"Digger, I thought maybe you and your friend might want to party. Bruno’ll be here any minute. We could…you know…do something. We’ve got some new stuff in." She leaned toward Digger. "Whips," she said.

She smiled at Walter Brackler and he stood up as if ejected from his chair.

"I’ve got to go," he said thickly. "Catch a plane."

"Maybe later," Digger told the woman. He winked at her. She winked back and undulated away toward the bar.

Digger stood up. Walter Brackler was five feet tall and Burroughs loomed over him, a full fifteen inches taller. "Can you slink back to the airport by yourself?" he asked.

Brackler walked through the noisy, crowded bar toward the exit. Digger followed him, calling out, "Make way for a very important person."

Hand on the door, Brackler asked, "Who’s Tycho Brahe?"

"Top salesman for Prudential. Million Dollar Club every year. People just can’t say no to a man with a silver nose. You ought to try to hire him away."

Brackler left. Burroughs walked back to the bar and slid onto a stool next to a woman whose makeup looked as if it had been applied during a stucco-spraying orgy. Her platinum hair had been teased and sprayed so that it looked like bleached shredded wheat. Her brassiere had surrendered and her bosom hung to her waist.

"Thanks a lot, Mittsie," Digger said.

"Looked like it was getting grim over there. I thought Lilac could brighten things up. Make you smile or him go. Who is that shit, anyway?"

"My boss. This goes on my record, you know. Consorting with known deviates of unknown gender."

"Sorry, Digger. Didn’t know."

"Don’t worry. When Frank Stevens sees it, he’ll give me a raise just so I can afford to elevate my class of women. Everything works out in the end."

"Stevens. He the one you brought here once? Tried to eat the girl on the bar?"

"He was always a class act," Digger said.

Without being asked, the bartender put an old-fashioned glass in front of Digger, then filled it with Finlandia vodka that he kept in a small freezer under the bar. The liquor, at zero degrees, burbled thickly out of the bottle. Digger nodded to him and sipped the drink. The bartender drifted away. Mittsie sipped at something made with cream. She nodded her head toward a babble of women at the far end of the bar pretending to be interested in each other’s conversation.

"Lot of prey here tonight. If you’re hungry enough."

"Thanks, Mittsie, but the tide wouldn’t go out with these women," Digger said.

BOOK: Smoked Out (Digger)

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