The Undertaker

by William F. Brown

  When she reached the 990 Michigan Avenue Shops, one of those tall, big-city atrium shopping malls, she stepped into the revolving doors and went inside. I stayed about fifty feet behind her, buried in the crowd as she rode the stainless steel escalator up. It hung suspended in space between the atrium’s floors, zigzagging up, and leaving me very exposed. If anyone had been looking for me in there, I’d be trapped.

  The girl got off on the fifth floor and walked to the door of what looked to be a small, but very exclusive art gallery. She pulled out a clunky set of keys from that big shoulder bag and opened the door. The name “Le Magnifique” was written across the window in a bold, gold swirl. She stepped inside, dropped the shoulder bag, the camera, the keys, and the sunglasses on a white and gold French provincial table that served as the receptionist's desk. When she turned around to lock the door, she found me standing in the open doorway with my best warm, friendly smile.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Of spreadsheets, shoe boxes, and Lil’ Eddie…

  She stopped in her tracks, eyeing me warily. “Excusez moi,” she said with a bad French accent and a forced smile. “Ze store does not open until 10:00.”

  “For a ‘tall, leggy blonde in a pale-green business suit,’ that's some disguise.”

  With the fastest set of hands I'd seen since Sugar Ray Leonard, she snatched an ornate gold letter opener off the table and dropped into a tight fighting stance, the long blade flashing back and forth in front of her.

  I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you win. All I want to do is talk.”

  “Talk, huh?” she answered as the accent disappeared and the letter opener flashed past my nose.

  “Whoa!” I stepped back and raised my hands higher. “Don't do that, please?”

  “Please, my ass. Try anything and you’re gonna bleed.”

  “Whatever that guy told you, it's a lie.”

  She feinted with the letter opener and jumped three feet in the air in a spinning karate kick. I leaned back as the heel of her shoe narrowly missed my nose. In the process, I knocked over a tall, brocade armchair and she knocked over a Chinese table lamp.

  “Keep that up and we'll total the place. Look, I’m not leaving until we talk.”

  She backed off and glared at me. The shock of black hair had fallen over her eyes again and she pushed it up and out of the way.

  “What did they tell you?” I asked. “It must have been a beauty.”

  “That you're the North Side serial rapist they've been after: a sicko-pervert who preys on helpless young women.”

  “Helpless young women? That’s funny,” I said, looking at the sharp blade and the killer expression in her eyes.

  “They said you've already killed three women, three that they know of.”

  “Jesus! And you believed that?”

  “They were the FBI! Why shouldn't I?”

  “For starters, if this really was a rape or murder case, it would be the Chicago PD knocking on your door, not the FBI. But why did you call them in the first place?”

  “I didn't call them; they called me, right after you did.”

  “Then they have your phone tapped.”

  “The FBI? Tap my phone? Get real.”

  “Yours, my friend Doug’s in Boston, his home and office, and probably everyone else I know.”

  She stared at me, wary, but a little less certain. “They told me they raided your apartment in Evanston and found my name and address on a slip of paper. They figured you were coming after me next, so they called to warn me.”

  “Convenient, but I don’t have an apartment in Evanston. I got in town about three hours ago from Ohio.”

  “That’s convenient, too.”

  I pointed at her camera. “What’s with that? The big photo op? ‘Feds Grab North Side Rapist.’ ‘Local Woman Sets Up Vicious Killer.’ Is that why the goon in the sunglasses got all uppity? Your camera?”

  “The goon in the sunglasses?” I saw a hint of a smile. “No, he kept insisting I go with them. I declined. He got pushy, but he won’t do that again.”

  “Be careful with those guys. They can be nasty.”

  “So can I. And I’m always careful with guys.”

  So much for Midwestern hospitality, I thought. “I’ll bet he didn’t appreciate you taking pictures of them, did he?”

  “That was one of his issues. I'm a stringer for some local papers and like I told that jerk, it's a living, it's mine, and it’s not negotiable.”

  “Good for you. Even if there is a North Side rapist, I'm not him and they know it. If I had shown up, there wouldn't have been any story and you'd have never seen your film or your camera again. That is, if anybody ever saw you again, or saw me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hi, my name’s Peter Talbott. Hi, I'm Sandy Kasmarek,” I said. “Pleased to meet you Peter. You too, Sandy. And now that we've been properly introduced, I’m tired.” I picked up the armchair and sat down on it.

  “Great. just what the world needs — another comedian.”

  “No, I'm a systems engineer. I do computer programming.”

  “Ah, pardon, a rocket scientist, then. Me, I play third base for the Cubs, but today’s an off day over at Wrigley, so I came in to sell some art... Gimme a goddamn break.”

  I stared at her. “I do mathematical paradigms and systems design.”

  “Yeah? Well, take your pair-a-dimes downstairs and drop them in a pay phone. Maybe somebody else will listen to your story, 'cause I'm not.”

  “Sandy, I came here because I need your help. I don't rape women, and I sure as hell haven't killed any.”

  “And I'm supposed to believe that because…?” she fired back, holding out her hand. “Let’s see some ID.”

  “I don't have any ID. They took my wallet back in Columbus. I have some newspaper and magazine clippings, but they’re going to take some explaining.”

  “Gee. Why doesn't that surprise me?”

  “It's the truth. Look at me. I'm not even half-way good at lying and it took a real pro to dream this thing up.”

  “A real pro?”

  “The goon with the bad manners and sunglasses you tangled with. His boss.”

  “The FBI? You’re telling me they set this whole thing up, just to catch you?”

  “They weren’t FBI.”

  “I saw his badge and his ID, and that was a US Government sedan.“

  “Yeah? Then why didn’t you get in the car with him, instead of tossing him into a brick wall? You knew he was bogus. The French cuffs and gold cuff links? Come on. If he was real, after you dented his head, why didn’t he arrest you for assaulting a cop? You knew he was a phony.”

  She studied me a moment and I could see some of it was sinking in.

  “Look, I stumbled into something back in Ohio.” I leaned back in the chair and tried to look my least threatening. “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but back in Ohio they're burying Mob guys under other people’s names, people who are already dead so no one will notice. When I got too close, they tried to kill me.”

  “Kill you? The government? You really are crazy.”

  “Am I? You told me Eddie died almost a year ago.”

  “Yeah,” she answered warily.

  “And he was buried here in Chicago?”

  “Out by Park Forest.”

  I pulled out the wad of newspaper clippings and laid the one for Edward J. Kasmarek on the desk in front of her. “Here, read this,” I told her. She snatched it up and read it, then read it again. “That was in February. They used Eddie’s name, but that wasn’t Eddie and I know where the grave is. That's why I came here and tracked you down, because we’re not the only ones.”

  “This is nuts.”

  I pulled out the ones for the Brownsteins, the Skeppingtons, and the Pryors, and the ones for Terri and me, and I laid them on the desk. After she read them, I pulled out the three flash drives. “These belonged to a mob accountant named Louie Panozzo; I found them h
idden in his car. They’re the financial records of the New Jersey Mob. He took them with him and I think it’s what got him killed.” I pulled out the George Deevers driver’s license and showed her that too. “This is a phony ID he had, but that’s his picture.”

  She looked at the ID and the three flash drives. She still wasn’t sure, but she was listening. There was a thin-screen computer monitor sitting on her receptionist desk. “You’ve got a PC? Let me use it, I’ll show you.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere near it... or near me.”

  “Fine, fine,” I put the first flash drive on her desk and plopped on the floor with my back to the door. “Is this safe enough for you? Go ahead and boot it up yourself. You do know how to use a computer, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know how to use one, smart ass! I got my Associate’s in Photography, but I’m not stupid. I know some bookkeeping, too.”

  “Great. Put the drive in and bring up the directory.”

  She picked up the flash drive. “Remember, I still have this,” she said as she showed me the letter opener again and slipped behind the desk. “If you’re messing with me, you’re gonna hurt in places you didn’t know could hurt.” It took a few minutes, but before long, she was staring at the monitor, not at me, and I saw her fingers moving across the keyboard. “Okay, they’re spreadsheets, general ledger accounts.”

  “Nice to see the Associate's wasn’t wasted.”

  “Don’t start with me,” her eyes narrowed. “It isn’t good salesmanship, especially when you’re the one with your ass against the door and I’m the one with something sharp.”

  “I think those are Mob-owned businesses in New Jersey. They probably launder their money there and skim it back off the top.”

  “Jeez! There’s even a spreadsheet here for ‘Payoffs’. And what’s this? Foreign bank accounts? Guess he wasn’t worried about getting caught, was he?”

  “He’s dead. He’s the guy they buried under my name.”

  “Did you get a look at the names on that Payoff list? I’m not a political junkie, but even I recognize some of them.”

  “You still think I’m crazy? There's a lawyer back in Columbus who is running the whole thing. The guys you met today work for him. And they have a doctor, a clinic, a funeral home, and their own cemetery. If I’m right, I know the names of nine people they buried back there, and there are probably a lot more.”

  “Nine people? How could they get away with something like that? Think of all the paperwork: the death certificates, insurance, taxes, driver’s licenses, Social Security. Nobody can do that.”

  “Sandy, they're the government. Waco? Ruby Ridge? Guantanamo? The CIA? The FBI? NSA? The Patriot Act? They can do anything they want.”

  “But nine people?”

  “Four couples, husbands and wives, and a single guy. He’s the one they used Eddie’s name for. See, they didn’t know about you. They thought he was single.”

  “And what? You think they’re after me now?”

  “Well, I dropped some names on them — the New Jersey Capo and some of his hoods who are missing, a guy in Atlanta and his wife, a couple from Portland, a couple from Phoenix… and Eddie. Those are the names they buried the hoods under. I was trying to shake them up, that’s why I mentioned their names... and Eddie’s. Anyway, when I got away and headed for Chicago, they must have put two and two together and found out about you the same way I did. That’s why they put a tap on your phone.”

  “You dumb bastard!” She jumped to her feet and pointed at the door. “I was doing just fine until you came along.”

  “No, no. They’d have figured it out sooner or later. Then you’d have quietly disappeared some night and never known what hit you.”

  She continued to stare at me, still angry. “Wait a minute, are you some kind of cop or spy or something?”

  “No. All I did was go to the public library and look back through the obituaries. It’s all there in the newspapers, if you know what you’re looking for. That's how I found the one for Eddie and decided to come to Chicago. I need to find some hard evidence that shows Eddie died here, not in Columbus. When I got in town a couple of hours ago, I started calling Kasmareks. That’s how I tracked you down.”

  “Yeah? Well nobody was bothering me until you showed up.”

  “No, you were in danger long before that. But we’re safe for the moment. They think I never showed up. And they don’t think you know anything.”

  She looked across at me and shook her head, still trying to take it all in. “Okay, let’s say all this stuff you’re telling me is true. Why Eddie? Why would anybody pick a weasel like him?”

  “He was the right age. No close relatives. And the timing and distance worked for their computer. Who knows? All they wanted was a general match.”

  “With what? Another shit-head?”

  “No,” I laughed. “He was a nobody, that was the whole point, someone with no ties and no family, who wouldn’t be remembered. Look, if you want me out of here, I need a copy of Eddie's death certificate from Cook County, maybe his obituary from the Chicago papers or a copy of the insurance payoff. Do you have any of that stuff?”

  “I wasn't keeping souvenirs.”

  “But you do have them?”

  “Yeah, I have them,” she relented. “They're in a shoe box on the top shelf of my closet. Nobody else would do it, so I got stuck closing out his ‘affairs’. The bastard had ‘affairs’ all right, with anything warm that would spread their legs for him.”

  “Sandy, I really am sorry to stir this all up for you. I know that under all that raw anger, you still hurt. I know.”

  “Yeah, well, the dumb jerk couldn't even die right.” She looked at me and frowned. “And don’t try to play me, Talbott. Been there, done that.”

  “Okay. But, the papers. Can we go over and get them? I can get some copies made and get out of town, and then you can pretend I was never here.”

  She stared at me for a moment, not comprehending. “What? You want me to go back to my apartment? Now? With you? Au contraire.” She shook her head.

  “I'm at the end of my rope, Sandy.”

  “That's a good place for you to stay. I live up in Winnetka, there's no way...”

  “Winnetka? You live at 1414 Clark.”

  She glared at me again, but all I could do was shrug, trying to look my most helpless. “I followed you this morning. I had to know which side you were on.”

  “What makes you think I’m on yours?”

  “Look, pretty soon the guy in the sunglasses and his three pals will come walking through that door looking for you, so help me, please.” It must have been my look of complete hopelessness, but something worked.

  “Oh, man,” she moaned. “I'm supposed to open up the shop in ten minutes. I’m up to twelve dollars an hour now and if Old Man Fantozzi docks me a day’s pay, I'm really going to be pissed.”

  I pulled out Dannmeyer’s coffee money, peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill, and laid it on the table. “That should buy me hour or two.”

  The expression on her face turned cold and angry as she shoved the money back across the table. “I don’t know what you think I am, but I’m not for sale.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” I quickly back-pedaled. “All I was doing was making sure this doesn’t cost you anything, okay? And I apologize if you took it wrong, but I really do need your help.”

  She stared at me a while longer before she finally relented. “Okay, I’ll get that stuff for you,” she said. “I just can't believe I'm letting you drag me into this thing.”

  “I didn't, Eddie did.”

  “Men. You're all such bastards.”

  “Probably,” I stood up. “But let's get out of here while we still can.”

  She picked up a pen and scribbled a quick note on a pad of paper on the desk. “That’s for Old Man Fantozzi. I told him I’m out shopping with his wife.”

  “Won’t he check?”

  “Are you kidding? He got gr
abby in the storeroom last week and he knows if I say a word to his wife, she’d kill him.” She looked over at me long and hard once again. “Just remember, if you’re bullshitting me, you’ll wish I was the FBI.”

  “With this honest face?” I gave her my best smile.

  “Yeah, with your honest face and my total stupidity when it comes to guys, you figured me for an easy mark.” She handed back the flash drive. “Well, don't get cocky. You may be bigger than me, but I still have the letter opener and I really do have a black belt. Touch me and you'll be in traction.”

  “One more thing,” I asked. “Call me Peter, okay?”

  She gave me a long, hard look. “Don't count on it,” she glared as she picked up her camera and her shoulder bag and headed for the door.

  She walked next to me, but she kept her distance. When we reached the escalator, I stopped and stared down into the huge atrium. All I could see was the tops of heads as people walked around below. Too many heads. Too many dark suits, and I didn’t like it. “Is there another way down?”

  “Getting a little paranoid, Talbott?”

  “Only when people are trying to kill me.”

  “We could take the elevators.” She pointed to two high-speed, all-glass capsules that ran up and down the atrium wall. They were as exposed as the escalators. She looked around. “Or the service elevator around back. It’ll take us down to the loading dock.”

  “Perfect,” I said. It was around a corner, and it had solid walls and solid doors. “Besides,” I pointed at her short black leather skirt and lacy white blouse. “You’d be pretty easy to spot in that outfit.”

  “Me?” her eyes flashed angrily. “You come in here dressed in plaid and old denim, like an ad for Cowboy Bob’s Gay Bar in Arlington Heights, and you’re giving me crap about my clothes?”