Dead Letter (Digger) by Warren Murphy Read Free Book Online Page A

out."
    "Ah, come on," Digger said.
    "It’s true, Julian," Buehler said.
    "When?"
    "Four days ago," Buehler said.
    "Get her back. If the place gets like this in four days, in three weeks I won’t be able to find you under the rubble."
    "The hell with her," Buehler said. "Screw her."
    "I tried to. She preferred you. I always knew there was something wrong with that broad. Why’d she leave?"
    "Who knows? Doctors’ wives are always leaving them. They don’t like the hours. Or the tension. Or something. What tension? I’m a g.p. I treat colds and stomachaches and sore throats. Then the wives come back because they’re too old to get anybody who makes as much money as a doctor," Buehler said. He sipped and held his glass in both hands, staring down at it morosely. "Am I a bad person, Julian?"
    "You’re a pain in the ass," Digger said cheerily.
    "That’s funny. That’s just what Evvie said. Are you still living with that Sicilian fortune cookie?"
    "Koko?" Digger said.
    "How many other Italian-Japanese broads do you live with? Of course, Koko. How is she?"
    "She’s fine," Digger said. "Cruel, heartless, malevolent, and smart. She’s fine."
    "Is she ready to dump you yet?" Buehler asked. "I’m available." He had finished his drink and was pouring more Scotch into his glass. It was the kind of Scotch that sold for five dollars a fifth and had the grocery store’s initials for a brand name.
    "No. We’re coexisting, nicely," Digger said.
    "Tell her to call me when she dumps you," Buehler said. "I always wanted to give her an internal with my face."
    "I’ll have her keep your name on file," Digger said. "Why are you drinking that shit?"
    "To get drunk, why else?"
    "Can’t you get drunk on something that’s worth drinking? Do you have to drink Sears Roebuck’s Scotch?"
    "Don’t knock it. I can remember when you used to drink Russian vodka and then they invaded Peoria or something, and you wouldn’t drink it anymore," Buehler said.
    "This is good vodka," Digger said, holding up his glass.
    "It’s from Finland," Buehler said. "You know what it’s made out of? It’s made out of frozen reindeer piss. How do you know what somebody in Finland is putting in your drink? Nobody ever died from Montgomery Ward Scotch anyway. Did you come here to argue or to have me pronounce you dead?"
    "Neither, I hope," Digger said, looking carefully at his friend and feeling a little disturbed about his attitude. He had known Buehler for almost twenty years, since they had met in college, and he couldn’t remember a time when the young man from the Midwest wasn’t happy and filled with life. Hyper would have meant he was slowing down. Ordinarily, three minutes after Digger had entered his apartment, Buehler would have shown him three new books he had just read and read him a passage from one. Demonstrated a new TV game. Showed him a new tennis racket guaranteed to hit the ball back over the net without human intervention. Complained about the American Medical Association. Described the anatomical perfection of two nurses who had just come to work at the hospital where he sent his patients. Offered to get Digger laid. Those last two would have been out of earshot of his wife, Evangeline, a tall willowy ash blonde who had been the undisputed beauty queen of their college class and who had married Arlo right after college and worked to put him through medical school.
    That was how Buehler normally would have greeted him. But, instead, here he was, sitting sullenly at a bottle.
    "I figured we were going to get drunk tonight," Buehler said, "so I booked you into the hospital tomorrow afternoon. That’ll give you a chance to sober up."
    "How long do I have to stay in the hospital?" Digger asked.
    "Jesus, every year you come up here and every year you ask the same stupid question. One night. You go in tomorrow afternoon and you get released the afternoon after. I don’t know why we bother with this. If that reindeer piss hasn’t killed you by