Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  “So why are you hitting me up?”

  “Because you’re the best.”

  “At some things. I’ll accept your compliment, but I don’t do cars.”

  “Make an exception, Poet.”

  I wanted to laugh, but Marty was looking so embarrassed I didn’t. Instead, I asked, “How did you get involved with heisting a hearse?”

  Marty tried to drink from his glass but found it empty. I picked up the phone and dialed the bar. Biscuit arrived a moment later with the ice bucket. Marty recharged his glass and pushed ahead.

  “It’s a Canadian, owns a small funeral home somewhere in Quebec. He needs a hearse but can’t afford it. You know how much those cars are worth? Eighty or ninety large. Because he’s in Canada he’d have to pay duty, import taxes and all that. Instead, he came to me. I get him a hearse. He takes it across the border, and everybody is happy.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “I am.”

  “But Marty! A hearse?”

  “I know. It’s a little unusual.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a job, Poet, I have my reputation to maintain. Sure, I can get you to steal the crown jewels, but I can’t get a backwoods undertaker a car?”

  “You have a point.”

  “Will you do it?"

  “What does this little adventure pay?”

  “Five grand.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You heard me.”

  “It’s easy money.”

  “No, it’s not. The funeral home, I assume you have a victim already selected, will have a security system. Nobody’s going to leave a 90 thousand dollar car sitting on a lot. That has to be disabled. Then there’s the car. The cops aren’t going to notice a hearse driving around empty in the middle of the night? Sure, I take risks, but not on a job like this. I pass.”

  “Ten,” said Marty.

  He didn’t know it, but that was my magic number. I was hoping he’d raise the stakes. It wouldn’t be quite as hard as I led Marty to believe, but there were risks.

  “Ten?” I asked.

  “That’s half of what I’m making on this little job.”

  Something new from Marty: He never talked about his take. I really wanted to pass, but the money was too good. “Okay,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Really. What’s the plan?”

  Marty smiled and drank some champagne. He put the glass on the desk and rubbed his hands together.

  “One night, late, you will slip into Orsini Brothers funeral home in Queens. As you said, they store their hearse in a garage behind their main building. I have a set of GM master keys for that model year. Then you’re done. Get the car and drive it to a paint shop in Brooklyn.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. The customer will pick it up from there and take it back across the border. He has Quebec license plates and paperwork all ready.”

  “You’re sure this isn’t a sting? It sounds stupid, like something the cops would come up with.”

  “No, it’s on the level. I checked it all out. You still game?”

  I leaned back and locked my hands behind my head. “Marty,” I said, “I haven’t stolen a car for the money in six years.”

  “You want to do it tonight?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Pushing things a little, aren’t you?”

  “I need it by the end of the week.”

  “Marty, it’s Monday. I’m sort of working on something right now, but I’ll do it tomorrow or the day after. I’m not going into anything blind.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he allowed.

  I took my feet off the desk and stood up. I extended a hand to Marty. It was a ritual between the two of us. We shook, and he left. I poured what was left of the Dom into a coffee cup and drank it slowly. A hearse. That was a first. I’d heisted some strange things but never a hearse. And this was a one-time thing; I had a reputation to uphold.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke just past noon and ate a breakfast of toasted Italian bread and boiled eggs in my kitchen. I read The Times and The Post clad in a bathrobe. With a little work, I made my third cup of coffee last until one o’clock. The lunch hour was over. While debating the merits of more coffee, I called the courthouse. I was cut off twice and left on hold for ten minutes until I received the information I was after.

  I called Orsisi’s Brother’s Funeral Home and made an appointment for four p.m. The man who answered was most gracious and agreed it always pays to plan ahead. I opted for the fourth cup of and drank it while laying in the bath. After forty minutes of soaking, I took a cold shower and dressed in a dove grey Brooks Brothers suit with a white shirt with extra starch, straight from the cleaners. I admired myself in the mirror. At times I think I don’t look at all like a thief. You could barely notice the gun under my left arm.

  To complete the look I walked three blocks to my garage. Maurice, the attendant, brought out my Saab. It was black, and the chrome shone like diamonds. I slipped Maurice a Finn and jumped in. I made it to Queens without incident and found the funeral home. I drove by three times, slowly, before parking in the lot. It always pays to get the lay of the land.

  It was unpretentious, a long, one-story building flanked by a large parking lot. As promised by Marty there was a garage at the far end. The hearse was either inside or delivering someone’s bones somewhere. There were two large Cadillacs parked under an awning by the main doors.

  I parked. The foyer was dim and smelled like stale flowers and furniture polish. There was an alarm panel on the wall and contacts over the doors. The carpet was a plush burgundy, and the walls were paneled in oak. It was as quiet as a tomb. I looked around for a bell to ring. I couldn’t just call out ‘hello,’ that wouldn’t be fitting.

  After a minute a heard footfalls from down the hall the intersected the foyer. A small man in a black suit entered. He had an olive complexion and close-cropped curly black hair. His whole being looked too sober. Even his smile seemed sad.

  “Mr. Owen?” he asked.

  “Yes, Wilfred Owen,” I replied.

  We shook hands, and he covered mine with both of his.

  “I’m Giulio Orsini. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke in hushed tones, barely above a whisper.

  I nodded, unsure what to say next.

  “You are interested in planning for your eternal rest?” he asked.

  I nearly choked.

  “Yes,” I said, recovering. “I’m touring several funeral homes to see which is right for me.”

  “I’m sure you will find Orsini Brothers offers dignified services. We pride ourselves on that.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Shall I take you on a tour?”

  “Please.”

  I let him lead me down the hallway he just appeared from. There were three sets of double doors at intervals down the left-hand side of the hall and two on the right. The floor was covered in the same carpet. Along the length of the hall, tables held vases of fresh flowers. I hoped my suit didn’t pick up the smell, it was a little much.

  “We have four chapels,” said Orsini, “Depending on how large you believe your service will be.”

  He opened the first set of double doors. We walked silently into the room. There was a dais at one end of the room, empty, luckily, and a podium. Several rows of chairs ran the length of the room. Down the hall, I could hear a clock strike four.

  “How many people would you be expecting,” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “At your service, sir.”

  I pondered that for a moment. How many people would show up if I died? I couldn’t remember the last time I went to a funeral. I’m sure they happened. People got aced all the time. But I never actually went to a funeral. Maybe it was the cold-heart that lived inside my chest. Or perhaps it was something else.

  “Fifty,” I announced. That seemed high. I couldn’t think of more than ten people who wou
ld show up to send me off. They might have a blast at the Liar’s Breath with Biscuit pouring drinks on the house. But I doubted those mutts would travel to Queens to view what was left of me.

  “Excellent sir, this would be the perfect room. Do you go to church?” he asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Have you given any thought to clergy? Or do you have a friend that would be officiating?”

  “Probably a friend,” I said. Who thought dying would be so complicated?

  “You seem a little agitated,” said Orsini, “That is natural. Some of these decisions are very difficult to make.

  I walked to the window. It was covered with grey velvet curtains. I pulled it aside and saw the parking lot. There were no bars on the windows but alarm contacts in the upper corner. I let the curtain drop. “You’ll have to excuse me, this is a little unusual.”

  “I completely understand, Mr. Owen. This way, please,” he said and led me toward the door.

  We walked to the end of the hall. Orsini kept up chatter about the funeral home, how long they had been in business and how they prided themselves on customer service until we reached the final door. He opened it, and we entered. There was a desk, a massive teak number I could have made a couple of bucks on, in the center of the room. A collection of overstuffed chairs surrounded it. The windows behind the desk opened onto a screen of cedar bushes. The windows all had alarm contacts. There were several certificates on the walls, all suitably framed. I guess they were to show that Orsini and his brother had been to undertaker school and were in good standing with the Morticians Association. I saw what I was looking for on the wall just behind the desk: A pegboard loaded with keys. Orsini motioned me to a chair. I sat.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent discussing various cemeteries, caskets, cremation and the final resting place of my earthly remains. I nodded a great deal and asked questions at intervals to make it seem like I was actually interested in what Orsini was selling. In the end, I thanked Orsini for his time and told him I was seriously considering his firm. I told him it was a decision not to be made lightly. With his grave manner, he agreed and led me out.

  I found a diner and drank coffee until it got dark. I should have brought a change of clothes. When I returned to the building just after seven o’clock, the two Cadillacs were gone. The door was locked. I guess they didn’t have any business right at the moment.

  I circled the building and shot out the security lights mounted on its side with a pellet gun I keep in the trunk of the car. There were still lights in the parking lot, but that didn’t matter, I just wanted some shadows around the building in case I had to hide. There was an alarm in the building keeping all those keys safe. Marty had a set of master keys, but I didn’t trust them. I didn’t want to find at an inopportune time they didn’t fit. As for the alarm, that was okay, there were ways around it. There always are.

  I drove back to my apartment and changed. I hung my suit in the main hall hoping some of the funeral smell would air out of it. I had a quick meal while watching CNN then had a nap. I never need a clock. It must be my secret weapon. I wanted to wake up by 2 a.m. I looked at my watch, and it was 1:50. Time to work.

  I gathered the tools I would need and dressed in jeans, a dark shirt and a pair of running shoes. While I didn’t look like my dapper self, I did look presentable. I called a cab and went outside to wait; I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting on a train. It was risky, leaving a witness like that, but I didn’t think the police would throw up barricades over a stolen hearse. No one would know it was missing until tomorrow.

  I paid the cabbie and walked the last five blocks to Orsini Brothers. It was a pleasant neighborhood complete with trees and manicured front lawns. The old homes holding offices look prosperous. I noticed one small sign for a commercial jeweler. I filed the address away in my head. That was just my type of job.

  The building was still bathed in darkness, no one must have noticed the destroyed lights. I circled the building once checking out the lay while pulling on a pair of latex gloves. I found what I looking for in the narrow space between the garage and the main building. I pulled a pair of lineman’s pliers from my pants pocket and cut the phone lines. Then I took a small socket set and went to work on the hydrometer.

  Alarms are funny things. They’re put there to keep people like me out, but they seldom work. With enough time, diligence and money you can circumvent any alarm system. I was betting that the alarm Orsini Brothers employed wasn’t state-of-the-art.

  Alarms are simple to understand. When a door or window is opened, the signal is activated. This sounds a klaxon that is supposed to scare the burglar away. At the same time, the alarm company is notified via a phone line. They dispatch guards or call the police to secure the scene until the owner arrives. There are little kinks added into the routine to help foil men like me. There can be a cell phone rigged up in the system so even if the phone lines are cut the alarm company can be notified. There can be a secure electrical line or a generator to keep the system active if the power goes off. I was hoping the Orsini’s hadn’t added either of these. If they had, I would have to hoof it pretty fast.

  One of the bolts was a little stubborn, but after a bit of lubricant was added, it came right off. A little-known fact: If you remove the whole meter section off the pole the electrical service is interrupted. I grabbed hold of the meter and yanked. I could hear metal squeaking. In the end, I was rewarded as the meter came free. I dropped it to the ground. I double-checked my work and headed for the front corner of the building.

  I came to the window I thought was the office. I pulled a wool sock full of pennies from my bag. This was the test. If the alarm were somehow still active, I would soon know. I hit the window with the sock and took a step back. The crash was muted as most the glass fell against the carpeted floor inside. I waited for that alarm to sound, for that klaxon to break the stillness of the wee hours of the morning.

  Nothing but silence.

  I waited. I felt naked without a gun, not that I often use one. I had opted to leave it at home. There didn’t seem to be any need. If I was going to be arrested tonight, I wanted it to be for stealing a car, not carrying a concealed weapon in the commission of a crime, even though I had a permit to carry a pistol. I did carry a knife, a butterfly knife I was clumsy with but couldn’t seem to stop using.

  I smashed the rest of the glass out of one side of the window. Obviously, Orsini hadn’t heard about burglarproof glazing. He might think about when he came to work in the morning and found his office burgled and his car gone.

  I hoisted myself in careful not to cut my hands in the remaining glass in the frame. Once inside I flipped on my two-cell flashlight and looked around. The office looked as it had earlier. The desk was clear, save for a blotter, a pen set, and a to-do list. There had to be a safe somewhere, behind one of the watercolors perhaps. No, I focused myself on what I came for, the keys.

  Keys or no keys I could have heisted the car. A slimjim between the window and the weather stripping to pop the lock, crack the steering column and you’re in business. That smacked of amateurism. Not that the smash-and-grab I was committing was the high point of elegance. A master criminal like myself could have bypassed the alarm, picked the lock on the door and entered like wind through an open window. After getting the keys, he would have closed the door, locked it and reactivated the alarm. I could have done that, but it wasn’t that kind of job. $10K only buys so much of my expertise. If this were the commercial jeweler down the street, I would have pulled out all the stops.

  My light found the pegboard. All the keys were neatly labeled. I selected the ones marked garage and hearse. I jumped back through the window and headed back to the garage, walking in the shadows. As I rounded the corner of the house, I could see a sliver of light coming from the open garage door. The knife jumped into my hands. I walked on the balls of my feet. Inside was the hearse, black, huge and menacing. I could see a shape moving behind the
wheel.

  I pushed open the door enough to enter and continued inside. If the person behind the wheel knew I was there, they were keeping quiet about it. The garage smelled of gasoline, oil and Turtle Wax. On the back wall stacked on shelves were buckets and an expensive looking auto soap.

  I rounded the back of the car. There were two feet clad in black safety boots sticking out from the driver’s door as if someone was working under the dash. I could smell an amateur a mile away.

  “You’d do better with the key,” I said.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath from inside the vehicle.

  “Go on, get out of there,” I added.

  I didn’t see much of what happened next. The body accordianed out of the front seat. Before I could say something witty, I saw the gun. I acted on impulse. I stepped to the left and reached for the gunny’s right wrist. I wrenched around its back and pushed it up to the shoulder blade, a little further, and a nasty injury would have resulted. There was another sharp intake of breath and gun dropped to the floor. I gave the form a sharp shove and reached for the pistol. It was a cheap piece of crap, an old Colt .32 semi. I held it against my thigh.

  In retrospect, the smartest thing I could have done was pressed that Colt to the back of the thief’s head and pulled the trigger a few times. In most situations where is a gun is involved, I would do just that. No one can kill you later if they are sleeping under four feet of a boggy swamp.

  “This is my car,” I told the form’s back. Then it turned.

  Some say that anger makes a woman look radiant. At that time, in that place, it was the truth. She was five-foot-ten of redheaded fury. There was color in her pale cheeks, and her hands were clenched into fists. She had high cheeks bones, a strong jaw, and a thin nose. She wasn’t quite a beauty but within spitting distance.

  “What do you think you’re doing,” she spat at me. I could hear the lilt of Ireland in her voice.

  “You were taking my car. I have the key,” I said as I waved it at her.