The Undertaker

by William F. Brown

  “Let’s take the train to Indiana,” I decided and told her. “The South Shore. It’ll get us out of here, and it’s in the right direction.”

  “Okay. The South Shore station is under the Prudential Building.”

  “I was there yesterday. I had to fight off the hookers for a pay phone.”

  “It’s so nice to be wanted,” she laughed as she latched onto my arm again. “We’re disguised as a couple. But to make it work, you’ve got to pretend you’re enjoying it.”

  We walked up Randolph past a long line of stores. Every half block I pulled her into a doorway. She would put both arms around me inside my jacket and rest her head on my chest while I looked up and down the street. “We could move a bit faster if you didn’t keep doing that,” I told her.

  “I’m pretending, remember. So stop complaining.”

  What could I say? I looked up at the sky, expecting a lightning bolt to zap me any minute, but the tall buildings and deep doorways probably ruined Terri’s aim.

  At the next corner I saw the entrance to the underground commuter rail station. We passed two gypsy girls on the stairs hawking cellophane-wrapped roses to the tourists. Sandy started down the stairs, but I pulled her back and reached into my pants pocket. I pulled out a badly wrinkled five-dollar bill and handed it to one of the girls, who smiled and gave me one of the big red ones.

  “Here,” I said sheepishly as I turned and gave it to Sandy.

  Her face lit up like a small child. “A rose? A red rose? You?” I seemed to have caught her completely by surprise. “Uh… I really don’t know what to say, Talbott.”

  “You said to pretend we’re a couple,” I answered.

  Before I could stop her, she reached up and kissed me softly on the cheek. “This is very sweet of you,” she said. “I know you’re just pretending, Talbott, and that’s okay. You’re safe out here on the street, but don’t do something like this when we’re alone.”

  Hand in hand, we ran down the stairs to the underground railroad station under the Prudential Building. There was a large framed railroad route map standing next to the ticket booths. I found downtown and let my finger trace the line that ran south and east around Lake Michigan. Each colored dot represented a local or express train station.

  “Here's my plan,” I told her. “We’ll take the next South Shore train, like you said, whatever comes first, and head into Indiana. If we move quickly, while Tinkerton and the cops are still streaming north, maybe we can slip through before they can close the net.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Then stay close and keep quiet.” We walked up to the ticket window at the far end. “When's the next train to Kankakee?” I asked the bald-headed ticket agent.

  “That would be the Illinois Central. One's leaving on Track Six in...” he squinted through his bifocals as his finger ran down the schedule. “I make it twelve minutes.”

  “Two tickets, please,” I smiled and handed him two twenty-dollar bills. Next to the window was a rack with Amtrak brochures. I pulled out the one for the trains headed east from Chicago and stuck that in my pocket. With the tickets in hand, I smiled at him again and pulled Sandy away.

  “Kankakee?” she whispered, confused. “That's straight south. I thought you said you wanted to go east, to Indiana?”

  “Later,” I answered as we walked to the far side of the cavernous waiting room. Sitting on a hard wooden bench was a pre-teen girl with blue jeans, a book bag, and a Cubs baseball hat on her head. Her eyes were closed. She had earphones in her ears and an iPod hanging around her neck, and her feet were dancing to the music. I walked up to her with Sandy in tow and tapped her on the knee.

  “Wow, a Cubs hat!” I said with a friendly grin as her eyes opened. “You know, I promised my girlfriend here that I'd buy her one while we were in Chicago, but the store in the hotel was out and we've got to leave.”

  “So?” the girl eyed me suspiciously.

  “Twenty bucks. I'll buy it from you.”

  Slowly, the girl took the hat off, examined it carefully, and looked back up at me as she considered the offer. “Fifty,” she countered.

  “Fifty!” Sandy said. “For a lousy fifteen buck hat?”

  The girl shrugged and put the hat back on her head. “I'm not the one with the promises, am I?” She answered with a knowing smile and eyes much older than her years.

  I had no choice but to laugh as I dug in my pocket and handed the girl two twenties and a ten. I took the girl's hat and pulled Sandy back into an alcove.

  “I don't believe you. Fifty bucks? You're nuts.”

  “Hush,” I told her. “Put your aunt’s wig on.” She did and I put the Cubs hat on over it, pulling it down low, so it rode on top of her ears. “Now go to the ticket window at the other end and buy two South Shore tickets on the first train for Indiana.” I took her shoulder bag from her and the rose. “It won't take Tinkerton’s people long to check all the stations and talk to the ticket agents. When they lay our photographs in front of baldy back there, he'll remember us and he'll remember the two tickets I bought for Kankakee. With the Cubs hat and the blond hair, the other guy won’t. Now go.”

  “Talbott.” She looked up at me with a new hint of respect. “Underneath that slightly dim-witted dweeb exterior, you can be one sneaky son-of-a-bitch. I have hopes for you.”

  She walked away toward the ticket booth as I took a seat on the bench. I had her big shoulder bag. It was like a cookie jar on the kitchen counter. I could grab the papers and be out the door before she knew I was gone. It was a thought, a good one, and probably even the right one, but I couldn’t do that to her.

  She came running back, took my hand, and pulled me along. “Let's go, we gotta hurry. Our train's leaving on Track Four in three minutes.”

  “South Bend?”

  “No. I bought tickets on a local. There’s an express leaving in thirty minutes that goes as far as Michigan City, but we don't want to sit here that long. The local connects with it at 59th Street. We can get off, wait there, and buy tickets on the express.”

  “Very smart. And very sneaky, too.”

  “See, Talbott?” She grinned happily. “What ever would you do without me?”

  “Don't let it go to your head.”

  “Then move your ass, because the three minutes we had is now two.”

  She grabbed her shoulder bag and the rose and we ran down the tunnel. “By the way,” she asked. “How come you didn't grab the papers and take off without me?”

  I looked shocked. “You know, that never even occurred to me.”

  “Bullshit! You thought about it all right, but I’ve got eyes like a hawk and you aren't half fast enough to get away with it.”

  “You know, that must have been it,” I answered as we jumped on board the nearly empty commuter train and plopped side-by-side in one of the rear seats on the far side of the car. The South Shore Line had gaudy orange cars with diamond-shaped accordion contraptions on top that connected to overhead electrical wires. Not that I cared. The train could burn cow chips as long as it got us the hell out of Chicago.

  She put the rose to her nose and took a big sniff. “Presents are nice,” she said as she gave me a hug. “So we’re off to Boston?”

  “I have friends there. Maybe we can get some help.”

  “That works for me. I locked the store. I've got my camera and a tooth brush,” she said as she patted her bag. “I've even got a rose and a new baseball hat, and I’ve got you. What more could a girl possibly want?”

  “Sandy…”

  “Relax, Talbott. I’m just joking with you again. Really. I don’t go where I’m not wanted, so you’re safe.”

  Wasn’t this going to be fun, I thought. This trip with her is going to be a ball of laughs, if it doesn’t get us both killed first. Fun? Laughs? She was pressed up against me, holding tightly onto my arm. Despite her promises, I could tell she wasn’t joking at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Praise the Lord for Cath
olic girls schools …

  The South Shore tracks were in a deep cut well below street level and the train finally found sunshine a couple of blocks south of the station. A staccato of black shadows flashed across the windows as we passed under a succession of trestles, overhead wiring, and bridges. As we went under one of the wider ones, a line of Chicago police cars raced by above us, sirens wailing and their blue strobe lights flashing, headed for Michigan Avenue.

  “Right direction.” Sandy pointed a finger at them like a pistol and pulled the trigger. “But a tad too late.”

  The train began to slow as we approached the first station. The car’s doors opened, but the platform outside was nearly empty — no cops, no dark suits, no sunglasses, and no Disciple 35th Nation homies waiting on this platform. I saw nothing more sinister than a handful of housewives with shopping bags. Still, I could not completely relax until the doors closed and the train headed south again. As it picked up speed, I leaned my head back on the seat and realized how bone tired I was. The physical pounding and emotional stress of the past three days had all taken their toll.

  Twenty-five minutes and eight stations later, we finally reached 59th Street and got off. We found ourselves on a high, wind-swept platform a half-mile west of the lakefront. The tracks and the station were up at the second story level, giving us a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama of a run-down southeast side neighborhood. We slipped around the corner of a billboard and tried to blend into the graffiti. I looked at my watch. We had ten minutes before the express train to Indiana caught up with us. Sandy looked at the panorama and pulled out her camera.

  “Get me in the foreground and you can get top dollar from The Enquirer,” I said.

  “That is so unfunny. The Enquirer? I’m an artiste, you dolt.” Clearly, I had hit “ze hot button.” I made the mistake of grinning and she saw me. Her eyes narrowed. “You were pulling my chain, weren’t you? Teasing me, about my work? About my camera? Do you have a death wish, Talbott?” She walked slowly toward me with her lethal fingers out. “You like pain?”

  “No, no, I love photography. Black and white. Never color.”

  “Why do you think I work at that art gallery? You think I like that old fart Fantozzi chasing me around the storeroom? The kids’ pictures? The Polish weddings? I've been taking classes at the Art Institute, working on my own show,” she said, still coming at me. “Le Magnifique and all that other crap pays my tuition.”

  “I was only teasing,” I said, backing up until she had me trapped against the billboard.

  She broke up giggling. “That was way too easy,” she said as she pressed in against me. “Gino was right, you really are a wuss.”

  “There’s a reason why men hate women, you know.”

  “It isn’t fair, is it?” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “And now I’ve got you right where I want you.” She put her arms around me, her small, hard breasts pressing into my stomach. One could argue that it was just “one of those things” — two bodies at the same place at the same time. Most guys wouldn’t complain or even comment, but this wasn’t “one of those things.” She knew exactly what she was doing and I didn’t dare say a word. That would only make things worse. I could have turned or pulled away, but she had me backed up to the billboard, so I couldn’t do that either. I didn’t want to. And I couldn’t kid myself that I didn’t like it, because I did.

  Her head only came up to my chest. I looked down and saw those jet black eyes locked on mine. Neither of us said anything, but almost imperceptibly she shifted her body and her breasts moved ever so lightly across me. I closed my eyes. That was one of the most incredibly erotic feelings I had ever experienced.

  “Please don’t.” I leaned forward and whispered into the top of her head. I could tell she was about to say something, so I laid a gentle finger across her lips. “Please don’t,” I repeated, thinking how wonderful her hair smelled. “And don’t say anything. Please.”

  She could tell from my expression that I wasn’t playing anymore, so she backed away. She started to say something, but she stopped and looked confused and deeply embarrassed. I could see she was about to cry. “It’s your wife again, Terri, isn’t it?” she whispered as she pressed her face into my chest and began to blubber. “Peter, I didn’t mean anything. No, that’s a big lie. I did mean something. I meant a lot! But I was only being playful, flirting, trying to make you feel good. Now I feel so horrible, because the last thing in the world I want is to hurt you.” She buried her face in my chest and started to sob. “I can do that, Peter, make you feel good and help you, if you’ll let me.”

  I tipped her head up and pressed my finger against her lips again. “It’s okay. We can talk about it later, I just can’t talk about it now, okay?” I knew this was going to happen some day. It had to, and I knew I would be no more prepared for it then than I was the day Terri died. Maybe I would never be. Looking down at Sandy, I knew the choice was going to be made for me, and I had better figure out how to deal with it.

  Mercifully, I saw the headlights of two silver electric railroad cars bouncing down the tracks toward us. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered. She pulled away as the train stopped next to us and we quickly got aboard. The car was about half full, and we were able to find an empty seat near the back. Sandy sat down a few inches away from me, stiff and wooden. Seconds later, the train pulled out and quickly picked up speed. I looked out the window. There wasn’t a single cloud in the high, blue sky, but I knew Terri was up there somewhere watching all of this. I was still hopelessly in love with her, but I knew I was quickly falling in love with Sandy at the same time. But she had me tied in knots so bad, I couldn’t even talk to her about it.

  Out of totally lame desperation, I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sandy. I’m just damaged goods and you’re going to have to give me some time and space to work it out, okay?”

  “Damaged goods? You?” she looked up at me in disbelief “I had a husband go gay on me. He gets shot to death by his boyfriend. I’m a not-so-recovering alcoholic who goes to AA meetings three or four times a week, and I haven’t had a guy even want to leave my toilet seat up for two years. And you think you’re damaged goods?”

  “Sandy, look…”

  “No, no, I swear I’ll behave, just don’t be mad at me, Peter. I don’t think I could take that.” She leaned her head against my chest and we sat like that without talking for a long time, longer than I could imagine her staying quiet. “You know,” she finally said. “In Michigan City, I remember there’s a big commuter parking lot near the station, one of those self-park things.”

  “And?”

  “And we can get off there, well short of South Bend, boost a car, and head east. In a commuter lot like that, it could be a long time before a car would ever be missed.”

  “Is ‘boosting’ cars something else from your wayward youth?”

  “Seventh Grade at Infant Jesus of Prague,” she said, then looked up at me. “It’s a Catholic girls’ school on the North side… Really.”

  “Really?” I looked at her, convinced she had to be making this up as she went along.

  “I’m serious. Bobby McNally taught me a lot of things and boosting cars was one of them. By junior year of high school, he was running a car-parts-to-order business from the back of the cafeteria. If you needed a transmission for a '95 Olds. A carburetor for a new BMW. Maybe custom chrome hubcaps, bucket seats, the whole engine. Bobby’s little band of elves would have it for you the next morning. Half the body shops on the south side were calling him.”

  “And you were one of his elves, I suppose?”

  “Let me put it this way. You keep doing all the deep thinking and I'll handle the little details like getting us there.”

  I leaned back in the seat and the rocking of the car and the rhythmic rattle of the steel wheels on the rails proved too much. With her head on my chest and a drowsy afternoon sun washing in through the
window, sweet girl smells slowly wrapped themselves around me and I fell asleep. The next thing I felt was Sandy's soft fingers on my cheek. “Wake up. We're getting near Michigan City and I don't want you to be a zombie when we get there.” I sat up and looked out the window, as we passed the first sign for Michigan City and the train began to slow. As the train pulled into the station, I saw the large fenced commuter lot she mentioned, sitting across the street from the train station.

  “It's got a guard,” I pointed down at the booth and the gate across the exit.

  “A parking lot attendant?” she scoffed. “Piece of cake.”

  We walked down the long flight of concrete stairs, across the street, and past the guard as if we belonged there. She was right. He was at least sixty, fat and gray, studying the centerfold in Hunter’s Digest with a stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth.

  “A retired postal worker,” Sandy walked me to the rear of the lot and held out her arms like a used car salesman surveying her empire. “What's your preference today, Mister Talbott? Feel a little racy?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “No? That Volvo's got your name on it. Or, maybe that lovely Toyota Corolla.” She pulled me farther away from the gate. “I've got it. That dusty, dark-green Chevrolet two rows back that looks like it hasn’t moved for a couple of days That’s the one for us.”

  As we walked over, I saw she was right about the dust.

  “It’s less obvious than the imports,” she went on. “And I won't need a computer to get into the ignition. Besides, the button on the passenger door is up, which means it isn’t even locked. Here, hold out your hand.” She opened her bag, dug to the bottom, pulled out a quarter, and dropped it in my palm. “Pretend it’s a screw driver. While I play with the ignition, you switch the rear plate with the one on that Firebird in the next row. It'll give us a little edge.”

  “More Bobby McNally?”