The Undertaker

by Brown, William

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Indiana: Get thee behind me, Satan…

  Uncle Ike's parking lot was the size of several football fields. Seventy or eighty 18-wheelers were parked three-deep, filling the lot, plus twenty more sitting around the perimeter and out on the exit road leading back to the Interstate. Most were big, fully equipped, over the road rigs. Like the pioneers out west who circled their wagons in Indian country, they used these big truck stops to keep an eye out for each other at night. Having them all in one place was a whole lot more efficient for the hookers, fences, bookies, and drug dealers. If there was strength in numbers, there were discounts for volume, too.

  I started at the exit, figuring I'd catch the ones leaving early and work my way back. Four big rigs rolled past me, but they didn't stop despite a thumb and my best smile. I walked back up the ramp, but the first three I passed that were parked were dark. Their drivers must be asleep. The next guy was awake, but that guy completely ignored me. The one after that at least leaned out and asked where I was going. When I said Chicago, he said, “Sorry, I'm peeling off on I-80 and going west.”

  With the fifth truck, I got a break. The driver of, a big White long-haul rig, motioned me over for a closer look. “We ain't supposed to pick nobody up,” he said.

  “I know, but I really need a ride.”

  “Yeah, you look like you do,” he said as he eyed me up and down. “Okay, hop in, son,” he pointed at the passenger side door. I didn't wait. I ran around and climbed up before he could change his mind. Even in the dim light from the dashboard, I could see he was a big man, maybe in his late-fifties, with muscular forearms from wrestling with steering wheels for too many years to think about. He wore a plaid, flannel shirt like I did, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Under the shirt, I saw a set of long johns, which I suspected he wore summer, winter, spring, and fall, along with the pointy-toed, snakeskin cowboy boots and the greasy Boston Red Socks baseball cap. With a beer gut that hung out over his belt, he was a classic.

  “I'm George, George Deevers,” I told him.

  “Marty Sims,” he answered as he dropped the big White into gear and steered it down the long ramp toward the Interstate.

  I looked around the cab, surprised at how spacious it was. It even had a built-in sleeping compartment up behind the front seats. “This is nice in here, Marty. You could almost rent out rooms.”

  “Yeah, but when you're in here all day long except for meals, for maybe a couple of weeks on-end, it don't seem big at all.” He looked over and studied me for a moment. “Where you goin’, Son?”

  “There's a wedding in Chicago I've got to be at.”

  “Yeah? Looks like you're travelin’ light. No suitcase? No bag? I had to do that myself a couple of times, travel light and fast, and staying one step ahead of the cops.”

  “You were a bad guy, Marty?

  “I wouldn't say bad exactly, but I shot a man once.”

  I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I didn't try. I sat back in the seat and tried to relax as the truck picked up speed. The cab was plush, with nice seats, all leather, and a laptop computer and a CB radio on brackets fastened to the dashboard.

  “A laptop?” I asked. “You've got to be kidding. ”

  “A driver's worst problem used to be a bad disk in his back or hemorrhoids. Now it's a bad disk in his computer and viruses in his e-mail. Most truck stops have Wi-Fi now and our “paper work” is all electronic. I have to check in every night to get new pick-up orders, routings, bills of lading, all the rest of that crap.”

  “And a CB? What's happening out there?” I asked.

  “Not much. A couple of accidents, some come-ons from the hookers back in Indy, and warnings about where the bears got their radar set up. The usual stuff.”

  “The usual stuff, huh?” I said, relieved.

  “Now, there was a lot of commotion about two or three hours ago back in Ohio. Some sheriff went missing up in Campbell County, north of Columbus. Him and his car.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Name was Dannmeyer, and all the little bears are tearing up the woods trying to find Papa.” I saw a sly grin cross his lips. “Funny thing, at least a half-dozen truckers called in sayin’ they'd go the bail for whoever it was put that big prick down.”

  “Really! A hard ass, huh?”

  “Last year he beat up a couple of truckers in that cracker-box jail of his. Word is he does even worse to women.”

  “Maybe he got what he had coming.”

  “You know, maybe he did. Maybe he did, at that.” Marty said with a twinkle in his eye as he looked across at me again.

  I leaned back in the seat and relaxed. After all the stressful things that had happened to me that day, we weren't on the road for five more minutes before I fell asleep in the corner, slumped against the door. As I faded into that floating world of half-sleep and half-dreams, I saw Terri's face hanging in front of me, all hazy and ephemeral. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but my arms wouldn't quite reach that far. Finally, I dropped into a deep, black well of sleep and I felt her wrap herself around me like a thin, protective haze. Terri. It was strangely comforting to know she was there with me like that. I only wished she would learn how to talk. It would make figuring her out a whole lot easier.

  I felt the truck stop and awoke with a start. We were in another big parking lot with dozens of other trucks. “Where are we?” I asked.

  “A truck stop near Portage, maybe a half hour south of the turnoff to Chicago. I'm getting’ some coffee. You want some, George?”

  I reached in my pocket and handed him one of Dannmeyer's twenty-dollar bills. “Here, my treat. The coffee's all I need, but if you're going, bring us back a box of donuts. And would you mind if I use your computer for a few minutes?” I asked as I pulled the three flash drives from inside my pants pocket.

  “No problem. Looks like you know what you're doing with that thing, so as they say, mi casa, es su casa, amigo.”

  A computer. I beamed as if I had run into and old, dear friend. The laptop was already booted-up, so I slipped Louie's drive #1 into the USB port. Immediately, “ACCESS DENIED” popped up on the screen. I let my fingers do the walking and tried the obvious things to open the disk's directory. Same result, “ACCESS DENIED.” I tried “Run.” I tried “Setup.” I tried “Browse.” I tried getting in through DOS and all the other little tricks I knew, but nothing worked. Same thing for the other two disks. Each one had a file encryption program in place.

  Wanna play games, eh, Louie? I muttered to myself. Not to worry. You can run, but you can't hide, not from me, anyway, because I know just the kind of can opener that will pop these babies open.

  The blue icon on the laptop showed that a Wi-Fi system was in range, so I clicked on it and quickly found myself out on line. I went to Google and typed in “Data Encryption Satan.” I had used “Satan” many times before and it would open almost any data lock this side of the CIA or the National Security Agency, some more quickly than others, but it would find all the little back doors and wormholes. To download the program, I needed $299, and I couldn't think of a better use for Louie Panozzo's “George Deevers” MasterCard. In less than a minute, I had Satan downloading to the laptop. I figured the credit card linked to some secret bank account that neither Tinkerton, the FBI, nor the mafia knew anything about it. Even if I was wrong, even if they had an alert out on the card, they would have a hell of a time tracing it to this truck and finding it before I got off in Chicago.

  The download was finished when Marty opened the door and handed me four big chocolate covered donuts and a cup of hot coffee. “You all set, sport?” he asked.

  “Good to go, “I smiled at him. “If you don't mind, I'm going to keep playing with this thing for a few minutes.”

  “That's okay by me. Like I said, it looks like you ain't no stranger to a computer, so knock yourself out.”

  He put the big White in gear and drove off as I opened the “Satan” program
and turned my attention to the first flash drive. From the program's start-up menu, I clicked the box for “Permanently De-Crypt All Files,” and hit “Enter.” Ten minutes later, the Directory opened in English and all the files were decrypted. I smiled again. Louie must have been using some simple, off-the-shelf encryption program. That would probably be good enough for a New Jersey bean counter who wanted to keep the Gumbahs from snooping, but if Louie had been a real pro, it could have taken hours.

  In the directory, I saw a list of thirty Excel spreadsheets. They included names like, “Bayonne Solid Waster Management,” “Atlantic Tire and Recapping,” “Villa Palazzo Restaurant,” “Santucci Chevrolet,” and the “Ramada Inn, Bayside” in the titles. I'll bet. The file dates on the directory were from 2002 through 2006. Below them were seven other directories. I saw, “Financial Statements,” “Payables,” “Receivables,” and “Account Ledgers.” Below that was, “Pay-Offs ’01-06.” In that happy instant, I knew exactly what I had. I was staring at the financial records of the Santorini Mob's business activities, right up to the point the Gumbas got busted. Some of those companies were undoubtedly illegal, but I could see their tentacles would reach out into dozens and dozens of otherwise legitimate ‘front’ businesses where they invested and laundered the money from their drugs, gambling, prostitution, and protection rackets. And “Payoffs.” This was dynamite.

  Louie, I've got you, you fat piece of shit. I've got you and I've finally have some leverage on Ralph McKinley Tinkerton, Esq., too. I have him by the short hairs.

  I saved the de-crypted files, put in the second flash drive, and ran the “De-Crypt” routine again. He titled the spreadsheets in this one, “Rapier Imports.” That list was shorter, but the individual spreadsheet files were much larger and layered. I had no idea what “Rapier Imports” was, but I suspected it was a big part of the Santorini Family empire. At the bottom of the list, I saw a directory titled “Deposits.” I clicked on the title and saw a list with names like Grand Cayman, Geneva, Barbados, Bern, Lucerne, Basel, and Lichtenstein. Fantastic! I had a sneaking suspicion these were Santorini's offshore bank accounts.

  I saved those too, and tried the third flash drive. This one was titled, “Amalgamated Construction and Building Products.” It was laid out like the others, and there were other files like “Florida Portfolio,” “South Carolina Land Deal,” “Dallas Buildings,” and Canada Oil Wells.” That was all I needed to see. The Godfather had become a conglomerate. I saved those files too, deleted the “Satan” program from Marty's laptop, and sat back in the seat, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “You okay, son?” Marty eyed me with some concern. “You hardly touched them donuts I got you.”

  “I will now,” I said, taking a big mouthful of the first one, quickly devouring it and three others.

  “Get what you wanted off the laptop?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I got that and a whole lot more.” From being down and out and on the run, I felt a huge adrenaline rush. This was power, real power, if I could figure out how to use it. There was enough here to take down Ralph McKinley Tinkerton and the rest of them, and be positively bulletproof in the process.

  I looked up and saw we were leaving I-65, getting on the long entrance ramp to the Chicago Skyway. That was where the rust belt of northwest Indiana met the southern extremities of the City of Chicago. We rode up and over a tall, six-lane bridge that spanned the Calumet River. From the top, I saw the city's magnificent skyline laying in an arc ahead of us like a picture postcard. I saw the Sears Tower, the Hancock Building, and dozens of other skyscrapers in the clear, early-morning air twenty miles to the north.

  “Where you want me to drop you?” the driver asked.

  “Anywhere. I don't want to put you out; you've done enough already.”

  “You're not putting me out. There's no traffic yet anyway.”

  I pointed toward the big buildings. “Downtown, then. I can get a bus from there.”

  “Downtown it is,” he smiled as we entered the city and rolled down the ramp to the Dan Ryan Expressway. Marty eased the big rig over into the Express Lanes. The Local Lanes were three lanes wide and the Express Lanes had another four. Next to us, running down the center of the big expressway was a big mass transit line.

  “That's the El tracks,” Marty said, pointing out his window. “They're named for the old elevated railway that used to loop around downtown.”

  It must carry a lot of people, I thought, because every half-mile or so a long, concrete station sat in the expressway median. It had a roof and a long flight of stairs coming down from the cross street up above. There were several dozen people standing on the platform waiting for the train. If Chicago was anything like LA, this was probably the safest time of the day. The pimps, drug dealers, and gang-bangers weren't early risers and never came out this early. The people who did were either very old or very young, mostly women, looking tired, expressionless, sullen, and all black.

  On my side of the expressway lay block after block of dirty yellow, ten-story, brick apartment buildings standing like shoe boxes tipped on their sides. “That's the “projects,” the Robert Taylor Homes,” Marty announced glumly. “It's gang country, no man's land, like Beirut or Baghdad. They don't make the six o'clock news, because the Chicago reporters are too chicken to go in there. So are the cops.”

  I looked closer. On the first two floors, all the windows had thick steel bars. On the higher floors, many windows were boarded-up and there were black smudges on the brick fascia above, where a fire must have gutted the apartment. The grounds were even more depressing. Trash lay up against the fences, the playground was little more than bare dirt, and the swing set had no swings. The chains made good weapons and no parent in their right mind would let kids play out there to begin with.

  “Drive up State Street over there, you'll see fifteen year-olds with $500 Starter Jackets, $200 Nike's, Oakley sunglasses, cell phones, and a wad of green in their pants pockets the size of an apple, and every one of 'em are carryin'. They run the place, and it don't matter what color you are or they are; they're strictly equal opportunity thugs.”

  Marty turned off the Dan Ryan at 23rd street and cut over to Lake Shore Drive. We rolled past Soldier Field, the Aquarium and the City's other big museums, Grant Park, Buckingham Fountain, and the Yacht Basin, where the white masts of a thousand sailboats stood upright, ready for another day of fun on the Lake.

  “Well, George,” he said. “You wanted downtown, so downtown it is. I'll drop you off at Michigan and Randolph. That's about as downtown as it gets. From there, if you walk a block left, you can catch the El on Wabash, or you can walk east to the Prudential Building. There's a big underground train station there where the Illinois Central, the South Shore, and a couple of other commuter trains come in.”

  Marty cut over to Michigan Avenue and we passed the Art Institute with its pair of bronze-green lions standing on all four feet, alert and on the prowl, guarding the front doors. I'm not sure what for, since the sidewalks were mostly empty at that hour.

  “The next traffic light is Randolph,” Marty said.

  “Hey, thanks for everything.”

  “No problem,” he said as he pulled over and we shook hands. “You helped keep me awake, so the pleasure's all mine. Go on, now, before the light changes. And you be real careful out there… George.”

  “I will, man. And thanks.” I jumped down from the cab and waved good-bye. He drove away and I suddenly found myself alone again. In a big city like Chicago, that can be very depressing and a bit scary.

  I patted my pockets and took a mental inventory of my meager possessions. I still had a fistful of cash from the Sheriff's Coffee Fund, the envelope from the Buick, a New Jersey driver's license with a photo that didn't look anything like me, and Louie Panozzo's three flash drives. I wasn't even sure I had my own name anymore, but what bothered me most was the utter loneliness I felt. To be fair, it had been building inside for months, but standing alone on that street
corner, it was crushing the life out of me. I had no one to talk to or share my feelings with. Whether I cared to admit it or not, that wasn't my natural state and probably no one else's either.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Chicago: on State Street, that great street…

  Other than some movies and TV shows, I didn't know a lot about Chicago. I figured the best place to start my hunt for Edward J. Kasmarek was in a city telephone book. Marty said there was a train station under the Prudential Building, and that seemed as good of a place as any to find a phone booth. As I entered the brightly lit waiting room, it was still early and they hadn't rousted out the last of the bums and hookers. They would be called "the habitationally disadvantaged” and “the alternatively employed” in a more politically correct city like LA, where they probably wouldn't be rousted at all.

  There was a big, round clock on the far wall that showed it was 6:45. The ticket booths lined the near wall and a bank of telephone booths were on the opposite side. As I walked across the room, I saw two glassy-eyed hookers sizing me up. One was young and white, with dull, dishwater blonde hair and too much baby fat. She looked to be one Greyhound bus ride out of Kentucky. The other was black and lean, with a short, red party dress and the half-closed eyes of a young, but very old pro. When I did not respond, her eyes went dead again. I had to smile as I remembered the Carl Sandburg poem they drilled into our heads about another, earlier Chicago, “They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps, luring the farm boys.” Well, I didn't see any gas lamps or farm boys down here, and I preferred to start my mornings with Starbucks, but the custom could be different in the Midwest.