Read Online Dead Letter (Digger) by Warren Murphy - Free Book Online
Authors: Warren Murphy
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of wires to his right side. The wires ended in the golden open-mouthed frog microphone, which Digger clipped onto his tie. He reached behind him and through his shirt pressed a button.
"One, two, three, four," he said.
He pressed another button to rewind the tape and another to play it back.
He heard his own voice. "One, two, three, four."
He rewound the tape, finished dressing and drained his glass. He rinsed it out and stood it on the sink of the small kitchen.
Finally, he went inside and woke Arlo Buehler.
The doctor took two seconds to focus his eyes and clear his head, then started clambering out of bed with the energy of a man who’d just been told his house was on fire.
"Good," he said. "We’re awake. What time is it? We’ve got to get you going today. How do you feel? I feel terrific."
"Slow down," Digger said. "It’s 8:40 A.M."
"All right. My hours start at ten so I’m in plenty of time. I told you, you have to check into the hospital at one."
"Right."
"And I close up the office at three and then I’ll be over there. In the meantime, they’ll start running the tests and stuff."
"Okay," Digger said.
"What are you all dressed for?"
"I have a breakfast meeting."
Buehler’s eyes narrowed. "With whom? You don’t know anybody in Boston."
"With a beautiful redhead," Digger said.
"You prick. See if she’s got a friend."
"She does, but he’s too short for you. Give me the extra apartment key."
Buehler took it from the end table next to his bed. "Here."
"Don’t be late at the hospital."
"I won’t," Digger said.
"By one o’clock. Sharp."
"I know," Digger said. "Count on me."
Digger thought that college students, next to women, were the most victimized group in America. But women were the champs. His girlfriend, Koko, paid twice as much for her shoes as Digger did for his and she was happy if hers lasted six months of occasional wearing. Digger was outraged if his shoes fell apart in anything less than ten years and wrote letters to manufacturers telling them he was sick of their shoddy merchandise. When Digger bought a suit, alterations were free as long as he owned the suit, even if it involved remaking the whole garment. When Koko bought a suit and paid twice as much for it as he did for his, she had to pay for the alterations, too.
"It’s because you’re slaves to fashion," Digger had told her. "They know they’ve got you by the nose because they keep changing styles on you and you diddles keep buying the new stuff. This week, straight legs. Next week, flare legs. Then short skirts, and long skirts, then in-the-middle skirts. My suits never change. They look the same forever."
"Yeah," Koko said. "They look as fresh as the day you first picked them out of the garbage can."
"That’s immaterial," Digger said.
"Dig, if I wore my clothes the way you wore yours, and I looked the way in my clothes that you look in yours, you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I’d look like a bag lady."
"That’s irrelevant," Digger had said.
"And you’re incompetent," she had said, "particularly to talk about clothes. You look like an ambulatory compost heap."
But almost as bad as what was done to women, Digger thought, was what was done to students. He thought that again as he walked into the Coat of Arms luncheonette, which was large, dark, and dirty. A hand-lettered sign over the long counter said "Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. Two dollars."
Another rip-off. A buck meal for two bucks. No wonder kids hated the system; it had never done anything but gouge them.
As he walked in, he noticed Allie and Gilligan in the rear booth, talking vigorously to each other. Allie was shaking her head.
Then she looked up, saw Digger, waved, and smiled.
How the hell could the girl smile, he wondered. Maybe he would have to tell Frank Stevens that his daughter was simple.
Simple. But lovely. As he walked toward her, she had all the warm, self-assured radiance of a woman at peace with herself. Her green
"One, two, three, four," he said.
He pressed another button to rewind the tape and another to play it back.
He heard his own voice. "One, two, three, four."
He rewound the tape, finished dressing and drained his glass. He rinsed it out and stood it on the sink of the small kitchen.
Finally, he went inside and woke Arlo Buehler.
The doctor took two seconds to focus his eyes and clear his head, then started clambering out of bed with the energy of a man who’d just been told his house was on fire.
"Good," he said. "We’re awake. What time is it? We’ve got to get you going today. How do you feel? I feel terrific."
"Slow down," Digger said. "It’s 8:40 A.M."
"All right. My hours start at ten so I’m in plenty of time. I told you, you have to check into the hospital at one."
"Right."
"And I close up the office at three and then I’ll be over there. In the meantime, they’ll start running the tests and stuff."
"Okay," Digger said.
"What are you all dressed for?"
"I have a breakfast meeting."
Buehler’s eyes narrowed. "With whom? You don’t know anybody in Boston."
"With a beautiful redhead," Digger said.
"You prick. See if she’s got a friend."
"She does, but he’s too short for you. Give me the extra apartment key."
Buehler took it from the end table next to his bed. "Here."
"Don’t be late at the hospital."
"I won’t," Digger said.
"By one o’clock. Sharp."
"I know," Digger said. "Count on me."
Digger thought that college students, next to women, were the most victimized group in America. But women were the champs. His girlfriend, Koko, paid twice as much for her shoes as Digger did for his and she was happy if hers lasted six months of occasional wearing. Digger was outraged if his shoes fell apart in anything less than ten years and wrote letters to manufacturers telling them he was sick of their shoddy merchandise. When Digger bought a suit, alterations were free as long as he owned the suit, even if it involved remaking the whole garment. When Koko bought a suit and paid twice as much for it as he did for his, she had to pay for the alterations, too.
"It’s because you’re slaves to fashion," Digger had told her. "They know they’ve got you by the nose because they keep changing styles on you and you diddles keep buying the new stuff. This week, straight legs. Next week, flare legs. Then short skirts, and long skirts, then in-the-middle skirts. My suits never change. They look the same forever."
"Yeah," Koko said. "They look as fresh as the day you first picked them out of the garbage can."
"That’s immaterial," Digger said.
"Dig, if I wore my clothes the way you wore yours, and I looked the way in my clothes that you look in yours, you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I’d look like a bag lady."
"That’s irrelevant," Digger had said.
"And you’re incompetent," she had said, "particularly to talk about clothes. You look like an ambulatory compost heap."
But almost as bad as what was done to women, Digger thought, was what was done to students. He thought that again as he walked into the Coat of Arms luncheonette, which was large, dark, and dirty. A hand-lettered sign over the long counter said "Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. Two dollars."
Another rip-off. A buck meal for two bucks. No wonder kids hated the system; it had never done anything but gouge them.
As he walked in, he noticed Allie and Gilligan in the rear booth, talking vigorously to each other. Allie was shaking her head.
Then she looked up, saw Digger, waved, and smiled.
How the hell could the girl smile, he wondered. Maybe he would have to tell Frank Stevens that his daughter was simple.
Simple. But lovely. As he walked toward her, she had all the warm, self-assured radiance of a woman at peace with herself. Her green
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