silently mocked and tormented Frank, consuming electricity to keep that bloated bag of fat from decomposing.
Thankfully, the coroner returned yesterday and picked up Big Al's body for delivery to the crematorium in the neighboring town of Caney Creek. Big Al left specific instructions with his attorney, that upon Big Al’s death, there would be no viewing, no wake and no visitation. His remains were to be cremated. The burial was to be private with a brief, graveside service conducted by Al’s brother-in-law, a shouting red-neck, mail-order preacher from Kentucky. Frank doubted any such minister could be brief, something he observed on a daily basis, and any mail-order preacher would be extra lengthy just to prove he could preach.
Obviously, the attorney knew nothing of Frank’s issues with Big Al. Or maybe he did. Maybe the attorney knew how desperate Frank was for business. Still, Frank took the skimpy funeral arrangements as a personal insult and an unequivocal slap in the face. A mere cremation discounted Frank’s invoice by six or seven thousand dollars which he could normally expect on a routine funeral with embalming and a casket commission.
Knowing Big Al’s taste for luxury, a casket alone for his bulk might have gone as high as ten or twelve thousand dollars. Then there were the kick-backs Frank could expect on the floral arrangements, which, of course, everyone who was anyone in the town of Bollinger Mills would send to publically express their feeling of loss over the death of their beloved “friend.” It would be more competition than condolences as to which mourner missed Big Al the most as determined by the size of the floral display. Frank imagined his viewing room as a floral barrage of wall-to-wall flowers and a suffocating fragrance from the multiple bouquets. But none of that was going to happen with a stingy cremation.
Still, Frank felt a modest lilt of optimism. Perhaps with Big Al gone, things might change for the better on the city council. But Frank also knew from other funerals how animosity lingered deep, even for several generations as if the deceased ruled from the grave with a controlling hand. He knew snakes still writhed even with the head cut off.
In a moment of morbid inspiration, a plan hatched in Frank's distressed mind. Maybe, given the circumstances, Frank could change things and grab the last word in their acrimonious relationship. Maybe selecting Frank's funeral home was not a slap in the face. Maybe it was providential. With the right ingredients, Frank might just be able to serve up a little hometown justice to give Big Al just what he deserved. And if everything went right, he could take out the city council as well. Frank's pulse quickened with the idea of a whole new administration ushering in a new era of prosperity, fairness and justice for all...all for the good citizens of Bollinger Mills, of course.
Frank picked up the office phone and dialed the newly-widowed Mrs. Swanson offering his deepest condolences, then requested the number of her brother, the presiding minister. Frank was polite and professional, more out of sympathy for what this woman put up with than for her lack of wisdom of marrying such a jerk as Big Al. Frank then called the minister’s house explaining the details of the burial.
“I’m not going to receive the cremains from the crematorium until tomorrow morning, reverend.” He almost choked on that title. He feigned those words as if he deeply cared and had a decent level of reverence for this supposed man of the cloth. “The cremains will come sealed in their container from the crematorium. You didn’t plan on scattering the ashes or have any need to open the container, did you?”
The minister said no, to which Frank added, “Good thing. It’s against state law to open a funeral urn to scatter the ashes, even in a deeded cemetery.” Frank informed the brother-in-law the vault company would be out early in the morning to open the grave, a shallow hole about two feet deep.
Frank also added cordially, “I’ll be out to the gravesite about quarter to the hour, reverend. I’ll take the urn from the hearse and place the cremains in the grave. Then I’ll let you take it from there when everyone else is ready to begin. Good to work with you.”
He hung up the phone and pushed back a wave of nausea. That minister was likely as unethical and immorally self-serving as Big Al himself. They’ll probably have adjoining suites in hell, Frank mused as he spit into the waste paper basket.
Frank left his office and hurriedly leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to the second floor of the funeral home. They didn’t use the second floor in the business except for storing official records and a lot of junk that seemed to accumulate every day. Frank shuffled through stacks of old magazines and newspapers until he found the magazine with the cover story about a terrorist bombing overseas.
The suspects in the bombing put together a simple, homemade bomb of farm fertilizer and diesel fuel. Frank remembered watching his uncle make similar bombs to loosen dead stumps along the ditch bank on his grandfather’s farm. It didn’t take much of a bomb to send those huge stumps sailing twenty feet into the air.
With enough information from the magazine, and with adequate recall how his uncle made the bombs in old, plastic milk cartons, Frank quickly drew up a mental shopping list. He could make it to the feed store before it closed and pick up the fertilizer. He'd tell them it was for his lawn, if they should ask. But he’d have to drive out to the truck stop by the Interstate to get the diesel fuel. He’d have to first circle back to Bargain Mart to pick up a fuel can, unless the one they used for the lawn mower was empty of gasoline. Next stop would be the hardware store for a battery operated, digital, kitchen timer. He thought he had some steel wool out in the carriage house, the final component. This was a doable plan. Big Al was going out with a bang. Frank felt a warm flush surface under his suit coat and sweat beaded across his upper lip.
By shopping at several stores, Frank would alleviate himself of any incriminating associations. By paying with cash, there would be no electronic record linking him to the transaction. He wondered about video surveillance, pondering if he should wear different coats at each stop, maybe a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. Then he blew out a confident breath. Hundreds of people buy diesel fuel, every day. Just as many people shop at Bargain Mart, every day. His trail would be hidden in the jungle of everyday activities committed by hundreds of ordinary people. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes as those terrorists who left a paper trail. No one could pin this explosion on him. Nothing would be traceable to anyone.
Before he went shopping, Frank made several, quick phone calls. He called as many of Big Al’s cronies as came to mind, mostly city council members and local crooks.
Frank explained that tomorrow’s obituary would list the services as private, but knowing Big Al, he would have wanted his closest friends in attendance and Frank openly shared with them the details of the time and place. He closed each phone call by saying, “And be sure you tell your friends as well. The family suggested it be private to keep reporters away, but I’m sure the family will want you present.” After making a dozen calls, Frank went shopping. The local gossip mill would facilitate further communication.
The next morning Frank arrived early at the funeral home. He nervously waited for the courier from the crematorium to arrive. He glanced at his watch every ten minutes feeling as if an hour had passed. His impatience growing, he walked out to the curb and looked down the street to see if the familiar brown van from the crematorium was on its way. Where was that rascal? He knew the driver knew how to find the funeral home. He had only been here a million times with other deliveries of cremains. Frank walked back to the carriage house where they parked the hearse on the back side of the property. The chill in the air finally drove him back to the office where he took up a window seat that faced the street.
Again, he glanced at his watch. Time was getting away from him. It was nine-thirty, already. The services were scheduled for eleven o’clock. Frank had a lot of preparations yet to make. As the courier van pulled up to the front of the funeral home, Frank sprinted out the door and directed the driver to the car
riage house in back. The driver did so and Frank followed on foot, scanning the neighborhood for any casual observers who might take notice. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought as he breathed hard and shallow. Am I really this out of shape? Maybe it was just nerves.
The driver pulled up to the carriage house and handed Frank a clipboard. Without jabbering on about the weather or other inane small talk, Frank quickly scribbled his name on the receiving invoice and dismissed the courier with a polite smile and nod of his head. The driver mindlessly detached the yellow copy of the invoice and Frank jammed it into the breast pocket of his navy blue suit. He was usually more careful about his signature and made a great effort to accurately file the invoice in order to correctly bill the family.
The driver reached into the van and routinely handed Frank the box of ashes as if it were a box of running shoes ordered through the mail. The box was wrapped in unmarked, plain brown wrapping paper with the discrete notation of “3721” written in one corner for confidentiality. It seemed unusually large to Frank, and it was heavy. Then again, they didn’t call him, “Big Al,” for nothing. All
Big Al's Last Blast Page 2
