Fool's Flight (Digger) Read online

"A martini. Vodka," she said.

  "Good. But save your vermouth. I’ll just have vodka."

  "Why don’t you come in here and sit down?" she said, pointing to the living room. The two boys stolidly refused to look at him. The crumb-crusher was pouring a little milk into his crumb-powder on the floor. The checker-destroyer was restacking the checker pieces on the board, which was again balanced on the book.

  "I’ll be right back," the woman said.

  She left the room and the two boys immediately turned to Digger.

  "Who are you? Are you going to be our father?" the younger one asked.

  He had a whiney voice that sounded as if it belonged to someone who would spend his life licking snot from under his nose.

  "Christ, I hope not," Digger said softly so that their mother wouldn’t hear him.

  The younger boy made a face at him and stuck out his tongue. The older beast thumbed his nose. Digger stood up and grabbed his crotch in their direction.

  They turned away and Digger sat back down and looked around the room. There was an old upright piano with white water stains from wet glasses on it. The television set was black and white and the picture was two inches shy, top and bottom, of filling the screen. There was a rug that had not been too good to start with but could now be advertised as "worn tan with flecks of tired brown."

  Digger had always assumed that airline pilots were reasonably well off, but Mrs. Donnelly, recent widow of Steve Donnelly, chief pilot for Interworld Airways, was not exactly ready to buy a seat on the New York Stock Exchange.

  From his seat on the couch, he could see their car out alongside the house. It was a Volvo station wagon, the kind that advertised it would go for hundreds of thousands of miles but missed the point. Americans didn’t want cars that went hundreds of thousands of miles under one owner; they wanted a car that shouted every three years, "Hey, folks, I’m a new car, screw you and your Volvo."

  The two boys had not looked at Digger since he had made his gesture to them. Their mother came back into the room, holding her martini as if her life depended on it. She handed Digger his drink.

  "He grabbed his dick, Mama," the older one sniveled. "He grabbed his dick and waved it at me."

  The younger one was busy throwing checker pieces at the ceiling.

  Mrs. Donnelly looked at Digger who shrugged his shoulders and looked up at the seven-and-a-half-foot-high ceiling.

  "Oh, stop it," Mrs. Donnelly said, as she sat on a chair facing Digger. "It’s nice to have company and an excuse to have a drink," she said.

  "Sure is," Digger said.

  "I don’t like him, Mama," the older boy screamed. "He grabbed his dick."

  Mrs. Donnelly looked at Digger with a smile of what-can-you-do-with-such-wonderfully-creative-and-imaginative-children? Digger smiled back with a smile that said Try-dipping-them-in-molten-lead-and-using-them-for-doorstops.

  "Why don’t you children go out and play?" she said, turning to them. Immediately both boys went back to their chosen professions, the older one to crumb-crushing, the younger one to checker-launching.

  "Go ahead," she cooed. "Go outside."

  "We don’ wanna," the older one said.

  "Mister Burroughs and I have to talk. Big grown-up things that you won’t want to hear."

  "You and him is gonna fuck."

  Her back still to Digger, she tittered, "Oh, come on, Josh. Go ahead outside."

  "No."

  The smaller one agreed. "No."

  "Get the fuck out. Both of you. Now!" Her scream snapped both children from their catatonia. They scrambled to their feet leaving crumbs and milk and checkers behind and ran from the room. A few seconds later, Digger heard the front door slam.

  She turned back to Digger and sat in a chair at right angles to the couch where he sat. Their knees were only a few inches apart.

  "Hi," she said with forced cheerfulness, then sipped her drink.

  "High-spirited boys," Digger said.

  "Yes. And wonderful imaginations. They’re kind of lost without their father and I just haven’t…well, I don’t have the heart to crack down on them just yet. So soon."

  "It has to be a difficult, trying period for them," Digger said.

  "Yes. For all of us." She smiled at him with heavily mascaraed lashes.

  There was a smell in the room of stale cigarettes and in reaching for the ashtray, Digger looked down at the carpet in front of the couch and saw three small burn holes and a long cigarette burn mark. Mrs. Donnelly would be a lady who’d fall asleep on her couch at night with a cigarette burning in her hand.

  "So what can I do for you, Mr. Burroughs?"

  "I’m with the claims department of Brokers’ Surety Life Insurance Company. Your husband was insured with us and it’s usual procedure to check out accidental matters like this."

  "I understand. It’s funny, when you have insurance and you never think about it, but it gets really important. I bet I couldn’t even find the policy, but that insurance will be all we have to live on."

  "That’s the reason for our industry’s existence," Digger said. "To make it possible for people to survive in troubled times. That’s what my boss, Walter Brackler, always tells me. He says we’re here to serve the American public."

  "How long do you think it will be before I get a check?" Mrs. Donnelly said.

  "What check?"

  "From my husband’s insurance."

  "You’re not the beneficiary."

  "What?"

  "No. The beneficiary is the Reverend Wardell. He’s the pastor of that church," Digger said.

  "I know who he is. What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Your husband’s policy is made out to him."

  "In a pig’s ass, it is," Mrs. Donnelly said. She slugged down her drink, got up from the chair and walked from the room. Fifteen seconds later she was back with an insurance policy that she had never even thought of.

  "Found it, I see," Digger said.

  The woman was standing in front of Digger, reading through the typewritten pages at the back of the policy. She nodded as she found what she was looking for, folded the pages over and handed it to Digger. "There," she said triumphantly.

  He looked at it. In the place for beneficiary was written Trini Donnelly, wife. He looked at the front of the policy. It was a fifty-thousand-dollar policy written with Prudential.

  "Well?"

  "You’re the beneficiary of this policy. Of course," Digger said.

  The woman sat back down.

  "Then what are you talking about?"

  "Your husband had another policy. See, this one’s with Prudential. I’m with B.S.L.I. Your husband took out one of those airport insurance policies before the accident. He made it out to Reverend Wardell. Why do you think your husband would do that?"

  "Steve turned into a Holy Roller. He used to go to that church all the time. You know how dull it is having some psalm-singer hanging around the house masquerading as your husband? You want another drink?"

  "Yes."

  "Hold on." She went into the kitchen and made two more drinks, then brought them to the living-room door. "Let’s sit in the kitchen," she said.

  "Okay."

  They sat at a round kitchen table on wrought-iron chairs whose vinyl cushions had lost almost all trace of color.

  Mrs. Donnelly seemed to have recaptured her pose as grieving widow, Digger noticed, because she shook her head sadly and said, "Poor Steve."

  "Your husband was a member of Wardell’s congregation?"

  "Congregation? That’s a laugh. Wardell’s zoo. Faith healing. Clapping their hands. Rolling around on the floor. What bullshit. Yeah, he was a member."

  "How long?"

  "Last year or so. After he hooked on with that rinkydink airline. This insurance is for fifty thousand?"

  Digger looked again at the Prudential policy. There was no double-indemnity provision for accidental death.

  "Fifty thousand dollars," he said. "The company bought this for him
?"

  She nodded. "All the airlines do that. When I was a stew, I always had insurance. And Steve, too. When he was with Pan-Am and American. Mister Burroughs…"

  "Julian."

  "All right, Julian. You just look around you and you can see we’re not quite living in the lap of luxury. We haven’t even climbed up on its leg yet. Steve couldn’t buy a bus ticket. He couldn’t afford to pay for insurance. What about Wardell’s, how much is that for?"

  "If you don’t mind my saying, Mrs. Donnelly…"

  She touched his right hand. "My turn," she said. "Trini."

  "Okay. Trini, I always thought that airline pilotsmade a lot of money. I’m just…well, surprised that things are so tight for you."

  "Pilots do make a lot of money. It helps though if you’re flying for a real airline and not that barrage balloon outfit Interworld. It helps if you work regular. It helps if you don’t have a lot of old drinking and gambling debts to pay off."

  "Steve drank?" Digger could feel the woman flinch. Her hand moved away from his. She was thinking that she might have said something that could cost her insurance money. Digger put his hand on hers. "It doesn’t matter, Trini. It doesn’t have anything to do with the insurance." He smiled at her, reassuringly.

  "He didn’t drink anymore. He used to. He used to drink everything. He lost his good jobs because of his drinking. Then he got himself sobered up and went to work with Interworld. He didn’t drink anymore. He didn’t have time. He just went to church or whatever Wardell calls his tent show. I never thought he’d leave money to him, though. I used to think he was just telling me he was going to church and he had a girlfriend stashed somewhere. But I checked and there he was, in church with the other loonies. He’d hang out down there and I guess help them clean the elephant crap out of their tent. How much was the insurance for?"

  "Do you have any idea how the accident might have happened?" Digger asked, ignoring her question.

  She shrugged and took her hand out from under Digger’s to hold her martini with both hands. Her hands were small and her skin was soft.

  "It’s hard to say. Steve was really a good pilot. Maybe the plane exploded or something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Steve’s fault. He was really good, Mr. Burroughs."

  "Julian."

  "Julian. Steve was really a good pilot, particularly now that he was sobered up. How much was the other insurance for?"

  "You didn’t really believe he was going to church at first?" Digger said.

  "No. Not until I followed him there. Then I thought he was getting it on with that Mrs. Wardell, but when I looked at her, I realized she’d never go for him. She’s too cold and formal, and Steve liked his girls bouncy. How much was the other insurance for to Wardell?"

  "A quarter of a million."

  "Bullshit. I don’t believe it."

  "It’s true."

  "I’ll sue," she said.

  "Sue who?"

  "Wardell. That brainwashing bastard. His wife. Somebody. I get a stinking fifty thousand dollars out of all this and that horseshit station wagon out there and two sociopaths for kids and this house with nothing in it and vinyl cushions you can read through and Wardell gets a quarter of a million? For what, for singing ‘Rock of Ages’?"

  "Maybe your husband wanted him to carry on his work?"

  "What work? He’s an auctioneer in a robe. I’ll fight it in court. I wasn’t married all these years so Wardell gets rich when Steve dies. The court’ll understand things like that. I’m his wife. Those two are his kids. We deserve that money."

  "Of course you do." Digger realized that Trini Donnelly was on the edge of being very drunk.

  "When we got married, I never thought it was going to end up like this. I could have married a lot of people. He was a senior captain. What have I got, I got shit."

  "Well, anything that I can do…"

  "What can you do?"

  "Nothing, I guess. But you seem to think that Wardell might have done something underhanded to get your husband to sign insurance to him. Maybe that’ll check out. If it does, well, we’ll see. Maybe something could work out."

  "I’m going to sue."

  "Just wait a little bit until you see how everything turns out."

  "Maybe you’re right. Fresh drink?"

  "No thanks," Digger said. "I’ve got a long day’s work."

  "Would you like to stay for lunch?"

  "I don’t think your sons would approve."

  "Who cares? I can send them over to a neighbor’s. Get them lost for a couple of hours. She’s got two morons that I watch too."

  Digger stood up and held Mrs. Donnelly’s hands in his. "If I didn’t have work to do, I’d take you up on that offer in a flash."

  He squeezed her hands hard. She looked into his eyes trying to make hers limpid. They were a little bloodshot.

  "Well, I owe you one. The door is always open," she said.

  "I’ll be around town a few days. Maybe later, Trini."

  "I hope so."

  "I can let myself out."

  "Okay. If you see my boys, tell them to stay near the house. Unless somebody offers them a chance to run away and join the circus. Tell them to take it."

  The two boys were on the curb in front, near Digger’s rented car. As he stepped out of the house, he reached behind him and pressed a button turning off the tape recorder that had been running through-out the conversation with Trini Donnelly.

  The older boy said to Digger, "Did you fuck?"

  "You’re a disgusting little creep."

  "I’m gonna tell my mama."

  "She doesn’t want you in that house. She said go play in the street. In the middle. If you ever give me any snot again, I’m going to remove your scrotum. Both of you. Now get the hell out of here."

  The two boys ran away and Digger got into his car and drove off, thinking the Donnelly family wasn’t exactly the Waltons.

  Chapter Six

  Digger entered police headquarters and went directly to the basement because detective bureaus were always in the basement.

  A policeman in plainclothes sat at a desk inside the door. Digger knew he was a policeman because he was trying to type with two fingers, neither of which seemed to be able to select one key over another. He was swearing a lot under his breath.

  He looked up, saw Digger and said, "Be with you in a minute." He hunched forward over the typewriter and raised his right index finger high into the air. His eyes scanned the keyboard. He seemed to find what he was looking for. The index finger crashed down. The policeman shook his head and sighed. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?"

  "My name’s Burroughs. I wanted to see the detective commander."

  "That would be Lieutenant Mannion."

  "What’d you say your name was?"

  "Burroughs." Digger handed him a business card.

  "What is it about, Mr. Burroughs?"

  "That plane crash two weeks ago. I’m with the insurance company."

  The plainclothesman nodded and dialed two digits on his phone.

  "An insurance guy named Burroughs is here about that plane crash." He nodded and put his hand over the mouthpiece. "He says what about that plane crash," he told Digger.

  Digger shrugged. "I’m looking into it. This is kind of a courtesy call."

  "It’s kind of a courtesy call, Lieutenant," the officer reported dutifully. He listened some more, then hung up. "He said he’s too busy right now to be courteous."

  Digger got up. "Okay. Hang onto my card for him, though, will you?"

  "Sure thing."

  Digger had his hand on the doorknob when he heard a voice bellow behind him.

  "Burroughs."

  He turned around to see a man shaped roughly like a refrigerator standing in the door to one of the side offices.

  "Yeah?"

  "I’m Mannion. Come on in but be quick about it."

  Digger followed Mannion inside. If Hollywood had been casting about for a cop to play Broderick Crawford, instead of alwa
ys the other way around, Mannion would have been a natural. He was big and square. His hair was thinning on top and his voice had an echo, almost as if it rattled around inside the massive body before finally escaping from the mouth. Mannion had bags under his eyes and big puffy jowls that made him look vaguely like an orangutan.

  "What do you want?" Mannion asked. He sat behind his desk but didn’t invite Digger to sit. Digger sat anyway.

  Digger fished another business card from his wallet, checking first to make sure it carried his real name.

  "I’m Julian Burroughs, with Brokers’ Surety Life Insurance Company." He handed Mannion the card. The policeman looked at it, then dropped it in the wastepaper basket alongside his desk.

  "That won’t stop me," Digger said. "There’s more where that came from. My printing budget is unlimited."

  "What kind of a name is Burroughs?"

  "Two syllables, nine letters, your usual kind of name."

  "That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean."

  "It’s Irish."

  "You Irish?"

  "My father’s Irish," Digger said.

  "You’re not?"

  "I’m half-Irish."

  "What’s the other half?"

  "Jewish."

  "You Catholic or Jewish?"

  "Neither."

  "You an atheist?"

  "I’m a born-again drunk."

  Mannion looked at him as if he were a gravy stain on a favorite tie. Finally, he said, "What do you want here anyway?"

  "My company had insurance on that plane that went down a couple of weeks ago. I’m looking into it."

  "What for?"

  "Before we pay. Just a normal check. I just wanted to stop in and let you know I was in town."

  "You always do that?"

  "I try to. I think it’s a good idea. If my name comes up for any reason, you’ll know who I am."

  "If your name comes up for any reason, it’ll mean that you broke the law and if you break the law, I’ll arrest your ass."

  "You know, Lieutenant Mannion, I get this idea that you don’t like me."

  Mannion’s big hands clenched and unclenched. Why would he want to hit me, Digger wondered. The big policeman leaned back in his chair and said, "You are right. Now I guess we understand each other."

  "I guess we do."