would be nice to hook up with her for a couple of days someplace other than Las Vegas, where they shared a condominium apartment.
A glance at his speedometer gave Digger another smile. It wasn’t 397 miles to Belton. It was only 391. Digger decided he would be sure to report this to Brackler. If one of Brackler’s henchmen had driven out here and billed the company for a 397-mile trip, that was six extra miles. On a round trip, twelve. At twenty cents a mile, that would mean he had beaten the company out of two dollars and forty cents. Digger didn’t like people cheating on their expenses because it left that much less for him when it was time for him to cheat on his expenses.
He thought about that for a while, then decided it sounded too much like Corporate Man Goes to Fink School. Instead he would tell Brackler that it was 411 miles to Belton, PA, and that Brackler’s man had underbilled him for 14 miles, 28 round trip, and Brackler owed him $5.60 and it was no wonder nobody liked him because he was a cheap bastard and why didn’t he pay his man the $5.60 he owed him?
The thought of the coming conversation cheered him and he stayed cheered until he drove into Belton. The town was shaped like a bowl, and in one corner of the bottom of the bowl was the plant of Belton and Sons, belching smoke, air pollution and God knew what else into the air, from which they dropped down on the population. As he drove down the main street, Digger knew who the longtime residents of the town were because they all squinted and coughed a lot.
Route 8 took him through the center of town, then headed up again toward one of the edges of the bowl. A mile past the heart of Belton, he saw a sign that directed him toward Gus’s LaGrande Inn. He had chosen the place solely for the beauty of its name, and he expected linoleum floors, a bathroom in the hall and unlimited coffee privileges at a diner two miles down the road.
What he got instead as he turned off Route 8 was an elegant old estate with sweeping lawns and stately baronial buildings of old, faded red brick.
He followed the twisting road upward until it stopped at a circular drive in front of an old mansion.
Digger parked and carried his own bag inside the building. He was in a large central hallway, and no one else was in sight.
He heard a noise down a hallway toward the right, left his bag on the floor under a small table on which rested a vase of real cut flowers and walked down the hallway. He saw a young man with a thin dark moustache standing behind a counter. A telephone was propped between his shoulder and ear. As he talked he riffled through a stack of bills. When Digger drew closer, he saw that there was a round bar, with about a dozen stools, behind the young man. Farther down the hall, Digger heard the faint buzz of conversation and the tinkling of cutlery and glasses.
It was lunchtime at Gus’s LaGrande Inn.
The young man with the moustache put down the stack of bills and, still mumbling into the phone, turned to a low, small section of the bar next to him and began concocting a pitcher of whiskey-sour mix.
Digger waited in front of the counter. The man kept talking into the phone. Digger cleared his throat and the man turned toward him.
"Just a minute," he said into the phone. He said to Digger, "Can I help you?"
"I’m checking in."
"It’ll be a few minutes," the man said.
"I’ll wait at the bar," Digger said.
"That won’t do any good," the young man said. "I’m the bartender too."
Digger shook his head. "I don’t mind waiting to check into a motel, but I won’t be kept waiting at a bar."
"What are you drinking?"
"Finlandia."
"What’s that?"
Digger sighed. He should have known better. After all, this was Belton, PA. "Never mind," he said. "Vodka, rocks."
The young man scooped a glass full of ice, turned and slid it down the bar toward one of the seats. He handed Digger a bottle of house-brand vodka.
"Here," he said, "help yourself. We’ll
A glance at his speedometer gave Digger another smile. It wasn’t 397 miles to Belton. It was only 391. Digger decided he would be sure to report this to Brackler. If one of Brackler’s henchmen had driven out here and billed the company for a 397-mile trip, that was six extra miles. On a round trip, twelve. At twenty cents a mile, that would mean he had beaten the company out of two dollars and forty cents. Digger didn’t like people cheating on their expenses because it left that much less for him when it was time for him to cheat on his expenses.
He thought about that for a while, then decided it sounded too much like Corporate Man Goes to Fink School. Instead he would tell Brackler that it was 411 miles to Belton, PA, and that Brackler’s man had underbilled him for 14 miles, 28 round trip, and Brackler owed him $5.60 and it was no wonder nobody liked him because he was a cheap bastard and why didn’t he pay his man the $5.60 he owed him?
The thought of the coming conversation cheered him and he stayed cheered until he drove into Belton. The town was shaped like a bowl, and in one corner of the bottom of the bowl was the plant of Belton and Sons, belching smoke, air pollution and God knew what else into the air, from which they dropped down on the population. As he drove down the main street, Digger knew who the longtime residents of the town were because they all squinted and coughed a lot.
Route 8 took him through the center of town, then headed up again toward one of the edges of the bowl. A mile past the heart of Belton, he saw a sign that directed him toward Gus’s LaGrande Inn. He had chosen the place solely for the beauty of its name, and he expected linoleum floors, a bathroom in the hall and unlimited coffee privileges at a diner two miles down the road.
What he got instead as he turned off Route 8 was an elegant old estate with sweeping lawns and stately baronial buildings of old, faded red brick.
He followed the twisting road upward until it stopped at a circular drive in front of an old mansion.
Digger parked and carried his own bag inside the building. He was in a large central hallway, and no one else was in sight.
He heard a noise down a hallway toward the right, left his bag on the floor under a small table on which rested a vase of real cut flowers and walked down the hallway. He saw a young man with a thin dark moustache standing behind a counter. A telephone was propped between his shoulder and ear. As he talked he riffled through a stack of bills. When Digger drew closer, he saw that there was a round bar, with about a dozen stools, behind the young man. Farther down the hall, Digger heard the faint buzz of conversation and the tinkling of cutlery and glasses.
It was lunchtime at Gus’s LaGrande Inn.
The young man with the moustache put down the stack of bills and, still mumbling into the phone, turned to a low, small section of the bar next to him and began concocting a pitcher of whiskey-sour mix.
Digger waited in front of the counter. The man kept talking into the phone. Digger cleared his throat and the man turned toward him.
"Just a minute," he said into the phone. He said to Digger, "Can I help you?"
"I’m checking in."
"It’ll be a few minutes," the man said.
"I’ll wait at the bar," Digger said.
"That won’t do any good," the young man said. "I’m the bartender too."
Digger shook his head. "I don’t mind waiting to check into a motel, but I won’t be kept waiting at a bar."
"What are you drinking?"
"Finlandia."
"What’s that?"
Digger sighed. He should have known better. After all, this was Belton, PA. "Never mind," he said. "Vodka, rocks."
The young man scooped a glass full of ice, turned and slid it down the bar toward one of the seats. He handed Digger a bottle of house-brand vodka.
"Here," he said, "help yourself. We’ll
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