nice weekend. Koko’s weekend."
"Digger, don’t whine. You get very nasal and it’s unbecoming. Did you convince that woman to take the money?"
"No. She rejected me too."
"Oh, poor baby. Nobody wants you."
"That’s about the size of it," Digger said. "Here I am, looking out my window at this corral full of lalapaloozas, just yearning to be ridden, and I’ve got nobody to share it with." He glanced out his window. There was not a horse as far as the eye could see.
"I’d like to be there riding them," she said.
"I think I’m going back to Las Vegas soon," Digger said.
"Don’t do that. I really want to be with you. Really. But I want everything here resolved first. Is that so hard to understand?"
"No, I understand very well," Digger said. "You don’t want me around until things are right. Are they right when Hucko Slaphammer leaves town? Is that when they’re going to be right?"
"Hugo Stockelbrinner," Koko corrected. "I can’t believe this. Are you jealous of what I did when I was seventeen?"
"Yes," Digger said.
"Digger, go get drunk and call me tomorrow."
"That’s two things I’ll never forget," he said.
"What’s that?" asked Koko.
"This and Pearl Harbor. Good-bye forever."
Digger hung up.
Chapter Four
DIGGER’S LOG:
Tape recording Number One and Only, 9:00 P.M., Thursday, Julian Burroughs in the matter of Tamiko Fanucci, roommate and worthless ingrate, and coincidentally in the matter of Louise Gillette, whose mind shall ever hereafter be known as The Wreck of the Old Ninety-Seven.
I hate it when I can’t get over on women with my charm. Why doesn’t Koko want me to come and see her in Emporium? What the hell kind of name for a town is Emporium anyway? Why won’t she come here? What is she up to? Does she think it’s any fun for me to be sitting in this room, drinking alone, looking up at the crimson dot in the chandelier that marks the very spot where Huckleberry Hackenberger deflowered her? This is fun? This is how she welcomes me to Pennsylvania?
What did I expect from a woman who’s a blackjack dealer among other things? When I left my wife, Bruno, and the two kids, What’s-his-name and the girl, a million years ago and I moved to Las Vegas, somebody told me never to trust a blackjack dealer. I should have listened.
Who told me that? Oh. Koko told me that. Well, she should know. If I ever open my apartment door again and find a beautiful young Eurasian naked in my hall, hysterical, never again will I invite her in. Never again will I go retrieve her clothes and purse. Oh, no. That was my mistake last time. Never again. The next time I will call the local vice squad and have her arrested for soliciting.
I’ll perjure myself on the witness stand. I’ll tell how she came scratching at my door. How when I wouldn’t let her in, she slid her tongue under my door and licked the tips of my boots. How she made all kinds of vile propositions that I, as a decent, God-fearing American, would have nothing to do with. I’ll nail her ass. Tamiko Fanucci, I sentence you to be taken from this place to another place and thence to a place where you shall be hanged by your gorgeous Oriental-Sicilian neck until you are dead, dead, dead.
And then, Koko, when I see them cut your body down, I’m going to go out and get drunk for a week in celebration.
On sake.
I will make a special occasion of it and drink your rotten warm Japanese rice wine and let you know just what I think of you. So how do you like them pomegranates?
What the hell is she doing in Emporium anyway? If I read that one Hucko Hangleglider has died of sexual exhaustion in Emporium, she is in deep and rich trouble.
Well, who cares? To hell with her.
And while I’m at it, to hell with Louise Gillette. There are two tapes in the master file. There will not be any more tapes in the master file.
But I did my master’s bidding. I came to Belton, PA, to talk to Louise and convince her to take a million dollars.
Kwash will ask me.
"Digger, don’t whine. You get very nasal and it’s unbecoming. Did you convince that woman to take the money?"
"No. She rejected me too."
"Oh, poor baby. Nobody wants you."
"That’s about the size of it," Digger said. "Here I am, looking out my window at this corral full of lalapaloozas, just yearning to be ridden, and I’ve got nobody to share it with." He glanced out his window. There was not a horse as far as the eye could see.
"I’d like to be there riding them," she said.
"I think I’m going back to Las Vegas soon," Digger said.
"Don’t do that. I really want to be with you. Really. But I want everything here resolved first. Is that so hard to understand?"
"No, I understand very well," Digger said. "You don’t want me around until things are right. Are they right when Hucko Slaphammer leaves town? Is that when they’re going to be right?"
"Hugo Stockelbrinner," Koko corrected. "I can’t believe this. Are you jealous of what I did when I was seventeen?"
"Yes," Digger said.
"Digger, go get drunk and call me tomorrow."
"That’s two things I’ll never forget," he said.
"What’s that?" asked Koko.
"This and Pearl Harbor. Good-bye forever."
Digger hung up.
Chapter Four
DIGGER’S LOG:
Tape recording Number One and Only, 9:00 P.M., Thursday, Julian Burroughs in the matter of Tamiko Fanucci, roommate and worthless ingrate, and coincidentally in the matter of Louise Gillette, whose mind shall ever hereafter be known as The Wreck of the Old Ninety-Seven.
I hate it when I can’t get over on women with my charm. Why doesn’t Koko want me to come and see her in Emporium? What the hell kind of name for a town is Emporium anyway? Why won’t she come here? What is she up to? Does she think it’s any fun for me to be sitting in this room, drinking alone, looking up at the crimson dot in the chandelier that marks the very spot where Huckleberry Hackenberger deflowered her? This is fun? This is how she welcomes me to Pennsylvania?
What did I expect from a woman who’s a blackjack dealer among other things? When I left my wife, Bruno, and the two kids, What’s-his-name and the girl, a million years ago and I moved to Las Vegas, somebody told me never to trust a blackjack dealer. I should have listened.
Who told me that? Oh. Koko told me that. Well, she should know. If I ever open my apartment door again and find a beautiful young Eurasian naked in my hall, hysterical, never again will I invite her in. Never again will I go retrieve her clothes and purse. Oh, no. That was my mistake last time. Never again. The next time I will call the local vice squad and have her arrested for soliciting.
I’ll perjure myself on the witness stand. I’ll tell how she came scratching at my door. How when I wouldn’t let her in, she slid her tongue under my door and licked the tips of my boots. How she made all kinds of vile propositions that I, as a decent, God-fearing American, would have nothing to do with. I’ll nail her ass. Tamiko Fanucci, I sentence you to be taken from this place to another place and thence to a place where you shall be hanged by your gorgeous Oriental-Sicilian neck until you are dead, dead, dead.
And then, Koko, when I see them cut your body down, I’m going to go out and get drunk for a week in celebration.
On sake.
I will make a special occasion of it and drink your rotten warm Japanese rice wine and let you know just what I think of you. So how do you like them pomegranates?
What the hell is she doing in Emporium anyway? If I read that one Hucko Hangleglider has died of sexual exhaustion in Emporium, she is in deep and rich trouble.
Well, who cares? To hell with her.
And while I’m at it, to hell with Louise Gillette. There are two tapes in the master file. There will not be any more tapes in the master file.
But I did my master’s bidding. I came to Belton, PA, to talk to Louise and convince her to take a million dollars.
Kwash will ask me.
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