Read Online Fool's Flight (Digger) by Warren Murphy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Warren Murphy
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Call me when I get back to the office."
"Sure," he said. "You’re doing a good thing and I’m going to try to help. Mrs. Donnelly. And Interworld."
"Maybe we could talk about it over dinner to-night?"
"I don’t know. I’ll try but I don’t think I’ll be able to swing it."
"Why not?"
"I’ve got somebody from the home office with me."
"Bring him, we’ll ditch him later."
"It’s a her. Some old grouchy harridan dastard. That’s it, a dastard. She’s got the room next to me and she listens at the wall. She’s on the phone with my office twelve times a day."
"Poison her," Jane suggested.
"I can’t. I think she’s immune. I think she’s a secret drinker and she’s getting jaundice ’cause she’s this funny color, like yellow. All that alcohol and she can’t catch anything."
"Try to ditch her."
"I’ll try." He looked at her beautiful bosom, as had every other man in the restaurant, and said it again. "I’ll try."
Randy Batchelor’s apartment was in a long, low, three-story building in the shape of a backward C. There was parking for tenants on both sides of the building and, without looking, Digger knew there would be a pool in back, inside the arms of the C, with a large ice machine, chaise lounges, patio tables, and a lot of young women.
As he drove into the parking lot, a young man with dark hair and a Clark Gable mustache walked from the side exit of the building. He was wearing white trousers, a blue Navy blazer and a yachtsman’s cap. The cap was bent down on both sides, toward the ears, in the style that World War II pilots used to affect. It was called a fifty-mission crush, implying that its wearer had flown so many missions that the earphones he wore over his hat had permanently crushed it into that peculiar saddle-shape.
The young man strolled toward a brown Porsche and Digger glanced at the license plates. There were no numbers; just the word FLYBOY.
He walked to the car just as the young man was unlocking the door.
The man turned around, startled, to look up at Digger, who at six-feet-three was four or five inches taller than he was.
"Yes?"
There was a hint of nervousness in the voice and Digger jumped on it.
"Glad I caught you here, Batchelor. Might save you a trip downtown."
"Who are you? What’s this…"
"Name’s Lincoln. I’m looking into that plane crash."
"The F.A.A.? I already talked to…"
"I’m working with the local police, too. They put me on to you. I need a couple of questions answered." Digger leaned against the fender of the car and lit a cigarette.
"You want to go inside, Officer…."
"Lincoln. No. Here’s all right. And nobody calls us officer anymore. Here’s fine."
Territoriality, Digger knew, was one of the keys to interviewing. When you wanted people to be at ease, you interviewed them at their homes, in their offices, wherever they felt comfortable. When you wanted them to be a little on edge, you tried to talk to them in uncomfortable places where their discomfort level worked for you. Digger had found what he considered the best middle ground: he interviewed people in bars, whenever he could, because most people were ill at ease in unfamiliar surroundings and Digger was as comfortable as a clam in silt. But parking lots were okay, too.
"What can I do for you?" Batchelor said. He noisily glanced at his watch.
Digger pressed. "If you’ve got an appointment or something, we can arrange something later. Down-town."
"No, no, that’s all right. What is it you want?"
"Just tell me how it was you weren’t on that death flight?"
"Death flight? Christ, you sound like the National Enquirer . I already told your people."
"Yes, and there’s a report drifting somewhere through channels and it’ll be on my desk in a month or a year, but in the meantime, it’d help if you told me yourself."
"Okay. I went into the cockpit where Steve was. I got sick. Upchucking goddam pukey throwuppy sick. I went back to the crew lounge. I couldn’t even walk.
"Sure," he said. "You’re doing a good thing and I’m going to try to help. Mrs. Donnelly. And Interworld."
"Maybe we could talk about it over dinner to-night?"
"I don’t know. I’ll try but I don’t think I’ll be able to swing it."
"Why not?"
"I’ve got somebody from the home office with me."
"Bring him, we’ll ditch him later."
"It’s a her. Some old grouchy harridan dastard. That’s it, a dastard. She’s got the room next to me and she listens at the wall. She’s on the phone with my office twelve times a day."
"Poison her," Jane suggested.
"I can’t. I think she’s immune. I think she’s a secret drinker and she’s getting jaundice ’cause she’s this funny color, like yellow. All that alcohol and she can’t catch anything."
"Try to ditch her."
"I’ll try." He looked at her beautiful bosom, as had every other man in the restaurant, and said it again. "I’ll try."
Randy Batchelor’s apartment was in a long, low, three-story building in the shape of a backward C. There was parking for tenants on both sides of the building and, without looking, Digger knew there would be a pool in back, inside the arms of the C, with a large ice machine, chaise lounges, patio tables, and a lot of young women.
As he drove into the parking lot, a young man with dark hair and a Clark Gable mustache walked from the side exit of the building. He was wearing white trousers, a blue Navy blazer and a yachtsman’s cap. The cap was bent down on both sides, toward the ears, in the style that World War II pilots used to affect. It was called a fifty-mission crush, implying that its wearer had flown so many missions that the earphones he wore over his hat had permanently crushed it into that peculiar saddle-shape.
The young man strolled toward a brown Porsche and Digger glanced at the license plates. There were no numbers; just the word FLYBOY.
He walked to the car just as the young man was unlocking the door.
The man turned around, startled, to look up at Digger, who at six-feet-three was four or five inches taller than he was.
"Yes?"
There was a hint of nervousness in the voice and Digger jumped on it.
"Glad I caught you here, Batchelor. Might save you a trip downtown."
"Who are you? What’s this…"
"Name’s Lincoln. I’m looking into that plane crash."
"The F.A.A.? I already talked to…"
"I’m working with the local police, too. They put me on to you. I need a couple of questions answered." Digger leaned against the fender of the car and lit a cigarette.
"You want to go inside, Officer…."
"Lincoln. No. Here’s all right. And nobody calls us officer anymore. Here’s fine."
Territoriality, Digger knew, was one of the keys to interviewing. When you wanted people to be at ease, you interviewed them at their homes, in their offices, wherever they felt comfortable. When you wanted them to be a little on edge, you tried to talk to them in uncomfortable places where their discomfort level worked for you. Digger had found what he considered the best middle ground: he interviewed people in bars, whenever he could, because most people were ill at ease in unfamiliar surroundings and Digger was as comfortable as a clam in silt. But parking lots were okay, too.
"What can I do for you?" Batchelor said. He noisily glanced at his watch.
Digger pressed. "If you’ve got an appointment or something, we can arrange something later. Down-town."
"No, no, that’s all right. What is it you want?"
"Just tell me how it was you weren’t on that death flight?"
"Death flight? Christ, you sound like the National Enquirer . I already told your people."
"Yes, and there’s a report drifting somewhere through channels and it’ll be on my desk in a month or a year, but in the meantime, it’d help if you told me yourself."
"Okay. I went into the cockpit where Steve was. I got sick. Upchucking goddam pukey throwuppy sick. I went back to the crew lounge. I couldn’t even walk.
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