The Undertaker

by William F. Brown

  I found a rag under the front seat and ran it over the steering wheel, the dashboard, the door, the maps, and anything else I could remember touching. I scooped up the big wad of bills from the sheriff's coffee fund, jammed it into my pocket, and got out of the car. The trunk was the only place I hadn't looked. I popped the hood. In the dim light, I saw a spare tire and jack, a metal evidence storage box, a first aid kit, and a garment bag. The evidence box had a hasp with a big combination lock. No hope there. In the garment bag were a blue nylon windbreaker and a softball uniform with Yankee pinstripes with “Kiwanis Knights” lettered across the back and #10 on the front of the shirt. I unzipped the garment bag and found a sports coat and slacks on hangers. I stripped off my shirt, opened the first aid kit, and taped two of the big gauze pads over the scalpel cut. That should hold for a while. I put on Dannmeyer's baseball shirt and windbreaker. They were a tad big for me, but at least they were clean. They would do.

  Underneath the clothes lay a long, brushed aluminum gun case. Out of curiosity, I opened it. Inside, there was a place for the hunting rifle and the shotgun and several other cut-outs for handguns, two of which were occupied. I looked at the handguns. Should I take one? No. If it came to guns, I was a dead man anyway and I didn’t want to give Tinkerton an excuse, so I closed the case and pushed it back in the trunk.

  That was when I noticed an old-fashioned ‘Jimmy’ bar lying in the corner of the trunk. It was a piece of thin spring steel with a handle, designed to slide down a car window until you could pop open a door lock. Most cop cars carried them, because there were often some very legitimate reasons for a cop to open a car door. Maybe someone had lost his keys. Maybe a kid got himself locked inside. Maybe the cops needed to move a car fast or to tow it because of some emergency. Whatever, that’s why you usually see a Jimmy in the trunk of a cop car.

  That was when it dawned on me that I had the perfect use for one. I needed some wheels that would get me out of Columbus without being immediately ID’d and caught. My Bronco was dead. A cab or bus? Too easy to trace and the odds of my catching either one out here at this hour were zilch. The bus station? The train station? The airport? Too obvious. Tinkerton would have people watching those. Hitchhiking might work, but it would also leave me too visible and too vulnerable. No, what I needed was a car. Stealing one might also work, but that was only a short-term solution and it would inevitably add to my problems. The only car I could think of that no one else was laying claim to at the moment was the Buick my illegitimate twin brother, ‘Pete’, left parked under that oak tree on Sickles. With the Jimmy, I could get inside. If I could get it started, I could get well away from Columbus without constantly looking over my shoulder. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to get there.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Give the man a cigar…

  Walking alone down a major commercial boulevard in the middle of the night dressed in Dannmeyer’s baseball shirt and windbreaker made me fair game for every suburban cop who happened to be out on patrol, not that I had much choice. I put my feet in gear and set off around the far side of the shopping center, walking south through the parking lot to Longacre Boulevard, the next main street, putting as much distance as I could between the Campbell County sheriff’s car and myself. Longacre appeared to be an unbroken string of strip shopping centers, big-box stores, big electronic stores, big sporting goods stores, and big banks, but there was very little traffic at this hour. When an occasional car did come by, I’d stick out my thumb and put on my friendliest smile. After all, I didn't look like a total derelict and this wasn’t LA. Folks don't drive down the road with one hand on the wheel and the other on a .357 Magnum, waiting for some sucker to smile wrong or tell them to have a nice day. Even so, the few drivers that passed by looked away and ignored me.

  My prospects were looking grim until a fat guy on a Honda Gold Wing motorcycle swung over to the curb and stopped next to me. His arms were as thick as hams and he wore a leather Viking helmet with two twelve-inch, black-and-white cow horns poking out the sides. His chinstrap was a bicycle chain. He wore a stonewashed denim vest, and his bushy gray beard stuck out the sides of his black Plexiglas visor like a hairy halo. He gave me a quick once-over and pointed over his shoulder to the bike's padded rear fender.

  “You want a ride bad enough, hop on,” he said in a hoarse, gravelly voice.

  It was a scary thought. I couldn't see his eyes through the dark visor, but my choice was Hagar the Horrible and his motorcycle or nothing. I threw my leg over the rear seat and grabbed onto his denim vest, not waiting for a second invitation.

  “Mind the glittery stuff back there, now,” he warned.

  I looked down and saw the hand-painted face of Elvis Presley staring at me from the back of the blue denim vest, complete with rhinestones and silver glitter. It was The King all right — the Las Vegas stage shot with the white jumpsuit and the dancing fringe. Elvis was humping the microphone, his right arm thrust upward in mid-wiggle, and his black hair falling in his eyes.

  “Got it at Graceland as part of the King’s Sixtieth Birthday Commemorative Package,” he announced proudly. “She’s a real collector's item now, you know.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, de-gripping the vest and shifting my hands to the seat frame.

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  “Sedgwick. It’s a residential street east of Sickles, maybe 3000 north.”

  Hagar nodded. “We’ll find it.”

  “You’re a real lifesaver, man. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. The name's Morrie, by the way,” he said as he threw a big paw over his right shoulder.

  “Mine's Pete,” I answered as we shook hands. “But I thought you bikers always used names like Ax Handle, or Eric the Red, or something like that?”

  “Biker? Me? I'm an internal auditor with the State Treasurer's office. My wife hates the bike,” he said as he fondly patted the gas tank of the big Honda. “If I don't sneak it out of the garage once or twice a week and blow the carbon out of the pipes — mine and the bike's — I’d go nuts.”

  Ah, the sweet taste of freedom, I almost said, but I didn't want to walk. “So, you’re just cruising around town?”

  “Going everywhere and nowhere,” he grinned, as he roared off down the deserted street and I felt the wind whip my face.

  This was great, I thought, but Morrie had asked me a good question. Where was I going? By morning, my face would be plastered across the front page of every newspaper in the state with headlines that screamed out, cop killer, building wrecker, flag burner, child molester, litterer, and anything else Tinkerton could make up. They’d pin my picture to the targets on the police pistol range and take particular delight in punching me full of holes. Boston? LA? From the rear fender of Morrie’s Gold Wing, they might as well be on the dark side of the moon. What other choices did I have? Pay a house call on Jimmy Santorini’s pals in New Jersey? Catch him on visitor’s day over at Marion? Something told me I didn’t want to play with them any more than I wanted to keep playing with Ralph Tinkerton or the Campbell County cops.

  If I wanted to unravel their little plot, I had to find a loose end or two and start picking and pulling at them with everything I had. A loose end? What about the other obituaries? If there was a problem with mine, maybe there was a problem with some of the others, too. Skeppington was from Atlanta, Pryor from Phoenix, and Brownstein was from Portland, Oregon. Those three might as well be LA, as far away as they were, but Edward J. Kasmarek was from Chicago. He was only thirty-two years old and Chicago was at least reachable for me. The guy must have family, friends, or drinking buddies up there who remembered him. Maybe I could get a copy of his Chicago death certificate and a copy of his obituary in the Chicago Tribune. Maybe I could find a photo, a high school or college yearbook, medical or dental records, something that would make his identification irrefutable. Yeah, the more I thought about it, the guy in Chicago was my best shot. Hell, he was probably my only shot.


  We turned right on Sickles and roared south until I saw the sign for Sedgwick. Morrie geared down. “Which way on Sickles?” he asked.

  “Right here’s fine. You don’t have to take me all the way.”

  “No sweat, I’ll take it slow and we’ll only wake up part of the neighborhood.”

  “Left, then,” I smiled as Morrie turned the Gold Wing east on Sedgwick.

  Two blocks down, we came to the big oak and I was relieved to see the Buick was still parked where it had been. “Right here,” I told him and Morrie swung the big bike into the shadows. “Morrie, that was great,” I said as I climbed off, slightly bowlegged, my back stiff and sore. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along.”

  “Hey, like I said, I was looking for any excuse to rumble off, ‘where no man has gone before,’ and you provided me with the perfect one.” He waved farewell and the big bike drove away. As he passed through the glow of the next street light, I’d swear I saw the King's glittery eyes wink at me as he faded into the night.

  The Buick was as dusty and leaf strewn as it had been the previous afternoon. I took a quick glance at the nearby houses. Except for the occasional porch light, they were all dark, so I pulled the Jimmy from my pants leg where I had hidden it, and stepped to the driver’s side door. I had no trouble slipping it between the window glass and the weather strip. Funny how breaking and entering, picking locks, slipping the latch on a window, and every other illegal trick and stunt in the book always looked so easy in the movies and so damned hard when you try to do it yourself. I shoved the bar down as far as it would go, but nothing happened. I pulled it halfway out and worked it back and forth, trying again and again to find the lock mechanism. That didn’t work any better, but I couldn’t stand out here with a burglary tool fooling with this door much longer. Eventually a car would come by and I would have a real problem. I pulled the bar up and slid it up and down, starting at the doorframe and working my way forward. There! About twelve inches over, the bar hit something hard. I began working around the spot until I felt something give way. The door lock popped up and I was in.

  When I opened the door, the dome light came on, so I slid in quickly and closed the door behind me. I knew I had to hot-wire the car, but I’d never find the ignition, much less the right wires if I didn’t take a couple of deep breaths and calm down. I popped the glove compartment and to my pleasant surprise, I found a flashlight. The batteries were almost dead, but they would do. I spun around in the seat and ducked under the steering column for a better look. Fortunately, this clunker was old school. I found the starter wire and the battery lead, touched them together, and the old Buick turned over. With some gas and a bit of coaxing, it coughed and sputtered, but I got it started. I sat up, dropped it into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb.

  Up ahead somewhere, I knew I would find a sign for or the I-270 Beltway. That would take me to I-70 and on to Indianapolis, where I could work my way north to Chicago. Once out of town, I needed desperately to get some food, ditch this Campbell County Kiwanis Club softball shirt, and get some new clean clothes. After that, I intended to take a leisurely look around the Buick. The gray-haired harpy on Sedgwick said Old Pete called this his “getaway car.” A curious phrase, I thought, making me wonder what he might have hidden inside.

  I debated the best way to get out of the city and finally decided to backtrack along the route Morrie had driven, keeping the Buick below the speed limit and being careful to stop at every traffic light and stop sign, staying invisible. An hour and a half later, I passed beneath a big white arch at the Ohio border and into the relative safety of Indiana. I wasn’t out of the woods, not yet, but I was getting there. When I reached the outskirts of Indianapolis, I took the beltway around to I-65 and Chicago. About ten miles up the road, I saw the sign for a big 24-hour truck stop called Uncle Ike's. It had a truck repair shop, gas, food, and a general store — everything a harried long-haul trucker might need on a lonely road.

  I ate two large cheeseburger platters and drank a full pot of coffee, then wandered through the store and picked out a red-and-green-plaid shirt, a pair of stone-washed blue jeans, a leather belt with a silver Colorado Centennial belt buckle, a small shaving kit, and a baseball hat that advertised Briggs and Stratton power mowers. For a California boy trying to pass as a long-haul truck driver, I figured that was as good as it got.

  I slipped into the restroom to change and got a good look at myself in the mirror. The way I looked, it was a wonder they even served me breakfast. I had nasty black-and-blue rings around my wrists and across my thighs from fighting the straps on the embalming table, and my right side and shoulder got some large purple and green bruises when the ambulance hit the funeral home’s front wall. The slice from Tinkerton’s scalpel had finally stopped bleeding, but I tucked a half-dozen paper towels under my belt just in case and threw my old clothes into the dumpster on the way out.

  Time to search the Buick. I drove it around to the rear side of the lot behind several rows of trucks and parked under a tall light pole. I started with the glove compartment. Inside, I found an old owner's manual, as dirty and abused as the car itself, and a big pile of crumpled MasterCard gas receipts. The name on all the charges was Peter Talbott. He was using the Sedgwick address and a scribbled signature that didn’t look anything like mine. In the very back, I found three wrinkled road maps, from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. There was an Ohio DMV registration card for the Buick with the Talbott name and same address. Other than that, all I found was a stick of stale gum, a handful of loose change, and an almost-dead flashlight.

  I got out and popped open the trunk. Slim pickings there too: a nearly-flat spare tire, a rusty jack, and a box of road flares that were probably too old and too wet to light. I felt around inside, under the insulation, inside the spare tire, under the carpet, and along the sides. Nothing. But there had to be something in the Buick. There had to be. I went around front, popped the hood, and examined every inch of the engine compartment with the dying flashlight. I unscrewed the air cleaner cover. Nothing inside but a very dirty filter. I felt inside every nook and cranny where something might be hidden. Still, nothing. I closed the hood and felt around inside all the wheel wells. Other than getting my hands filthy, I found nothing there either.

  That only left the passenger compartment. I started with the back seat and went through the trash. Carefully, piece by piece, I picked up each section of newspaper, each coke can, and each candy bar wrapper, felt them, looked inside them, tore them apart, and stacked each piece on the ground outside. Nothing. I felt under the front seat. With the flashlight, I rolled over and looked underneath the seats to see if anything was wedged up in the springs or in the seat mechanism. Nope. I sat up, frustrated. I knew I was smarter than this guy. There was no question he hid something inside, but there were only so many places left where he could have put it. Slowly and methodically, I felt my way across the front and rear seat cushions looking at each seam, but there were no bulges, no cuts, and no re-sewing.

  Finally, I looked at the padded door panels. Like most cars, they were fastened to the doorframe with plastic clips. I got the flashlight up close and worked my way around the edge of each panel, looking for any scratches or signs it had been pried off. I started with the driver’s side front, then went to the passenger’s side front, and on to the passenger side rear before I finally saw something. Along the top edge, the painted metal doorframe bore the unmistakable signs of having been scratched. I didn’t care about leaving more marks, so I wedged the Jimmy under the panel and popped it off. Sure enough, I saw what appeared to be a cigar box duct-taped to the inside of the door.

  I ripped it loose and leaned back in the seat with a huge grin on my face. The box said White Owl cigars. Figured. That was about as cheap a brand as you could buy, and I could picture ‘Pete’ with a White Owl in one hand and a Racing Form in the other, leaning back in his desk chair in that dumpy accounting office on Sickles. Inside the box
lay a dirty business-size #10 envelope with a rubber band wrapped tightly around it. Inside the box was a New Jersey Driver's License in the name of George Deevers. The photo was of a fat man with thinning hair and round cheeks. DMV photos anywhere were notoriously out of focus, but this guy bore a striking resemblance to one of the photos I saw in the public library yesterday morning. I tried to remember which one, then it suddenly came to me. It was Louie Panozzo, Jimmy Santorini’s bean counter who ratted him out and put him in the Federal pen in Marion. That answered a lot of questions. I stuck the driver’s license in my pocket. I could say I had lost a hundred pounds working out with Fergie at Weight Watchers. After all, when you have no papers, even a bad ID is better than no ID at all.

  In the envelope, I also found a New Jersey insurance certificate in George Deevers’s name, a Visa card, and $2,500 in cash. So you did have an escape plan, eh, ‘Pete?’ In the bottom of the box, under the money, I saw three small computer flash drives and knew I had just hit the Power Ball Lottery.

  A flash drive is smaller than a lipstick tube and the latest in data storage devices: cheap and very easy to use. Even one could hold an unbelievable amount of data — reports, spreadsheets, data files, photos, whatever you might want. The top one had a black “#1” written on it in Magic Marker. The others were similarly labeled “#2” and “#3.” You had to give bean counters high marks for originality, but other than the three numbers, there were no other markings or hints as to what they contained. Louie had been a Mafia accountant, and I’d bet the farm these were copies of the financial records of the Santorini crime family in New Jersey. No doubt, they were what Tinkerton had been trying to pry out of me on the embalming table, and what he had tried to pry out of the other ‘Pete', and that had made my life a whole lot more interesting and a whole lot more dangerous.