Free Lucifer's Weekend (Digger) by Warren Murphy

Digger said.
    She shook her head. "I don’t think so."
    Digger patted her free hand on the bar. "Too bad," he said. "From what I’ve heard so far, he was Jack Armstrong and Superman rolled up into one."
    She shrugged. Digger squeezed her wrist gently, then released it.
    "Is that what you do?" Dolly asked. "Go around, convincing people to take money? I shouldn’t think that would be a very hard job under most circumstances."
    "No, it wouldn’t, but that’s not what I do. Actually, I’m an investigator but because they think I’m a little crazy, they give me all the crazies to deal with."
    "That man you sent the drink out to today? Was he another one of the crazies?"
    "A friend of the family." Digger nodded. "Another crazy. Who owns you?"
    "I beg your pardon," Dolly said.
    "Today, you said that Eddie, your boss, didn’t own you but a lot of people did. Who are the lot of people?" He put his hand on her back, just below the neck.
    "You have a good memory, don’t you?"
    "Yes. And the truth. We’re doing truth tonight," Digger said.
    "Okay," she said. She paused and took a deep breath as if to enable herself to tell it all at once. "Three years ago, I was doing the housewife number down in Bavington. That’s a little town near Pittsburgh. My husband was a plumber. Two kids. House. All very middle America."
    "Sounds nice," Digger said. His right index finger touched her fine silky hair.
    She nodded. "Yes, it was. My husband was a wonderful man. Kind and thoughtful and…well, he’d do anything for our two kids and me." She paused and looked at her glass before drinking off some of the amber liquid. "Except stop riding his motorcycle. Three years ago, he went over the line and wound up under a truck."
    "I’m sorry," Digger said. He opened his hand fully and placed it on the middle of her back.
    "You’re sorry because you think he died," she said in a flat voice. "I’d be happy if he died. But he didn’t. He lived. In a way. Dig, my husband’s a vegetable. He can’t move. He can’t talk. All he can do is sit or lie down. Nothing else. He has to be fed like a baby. He has to be cleaned like a baby."
    There was nothing Digger could say so he looked across the room.
    "He had no insurance and no pension money. I tried to work, but we lost the house because we couldn’t keep up payments. The medical bills were killing me. I had to sell everything. Even my wedding ring. I had to come back here to live with my mother, with him and my two sons. That’s who owns me, Digger. My husband, my two boys, my mother, my obligations. Any more questions?"
    "I’m sorry, little girl," Digger said. He squeezed her shoulder warmly. "But why the wig? Why the floozy impersonation?"
    "When I got here I looked for work. There weren’t many jobs then, and those that there were didn’t pay enough to eat. I thought about waitressing ’cause I used to do that once, but even those jobs were hard to come by. I even tried up here at this place. An older fellow owned it then. No luck. Then one day, just on an impulse, I bought that wig and did the chorus girl-makeup number and the swishy walk and the push-up bra and I went around applying for jobs. I had to sort out the offers. Eddie’s was the best. He gets a lot of driving-through truckers and they tip big for a big-titted smile. And the regulars like to ogle me and make dirty jokes behind my back, and I play stupid and make believe I don’t understand. The tips are worth it, so I put up with it. A lot of them don’t even know what I really look like or where I live. And I’m careful not to get involved. Telling lies about me is one thing; telling the truth about me would be something else."
    "All right. Enough," Digger said. "I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s change the subject. Tell me about Belton."
    "Not much to tell. It’s a company store. Lucius Belton owns the factories and the plants and the movie theaters and the groceries and the banks, and if you tried to breathe while