The Embalmer: A Steve Jobz Thriller

by Vincent Zandri

  “We’re not without our warts, Mr. Jobz,” Marconi says. “But we’re a very capable alternative to the traditional police.”

  It dawns on me that these might be the first three people I have met in years who haven’t made a snarky comment about my name. Will small miracles never cease? The basement . . . their faces . . . going in and out of focus. I’m not going to retain consciousness for much longer. But that doesn’t stop the cat from being curious.

  “If you’re not police,” I say, my voice barely a whisper now, “what are you then?”

  Moonlight reaches into his black leather coat pocket, produces a pocket knife. He opens the blade with his teeth and cuts the table strap that’s wrapped around my legs. He then quickly slices the one that’s holding down my mid-section.

  “We’re private dicks,” he says. “Sometimes Miller hires us out to do special jobs the cops can’t do. Or don’t have the balls to take on.”

  Moonlight hands the knife to Blood who quickly cuts the remaining straps. I might still be in significant pain and on the verge of losing total consciousness, but at least I’m not pinned down to this table designed especially for the dead.

  The darkness comes on, but I fight it. For another few seconds, maybe.

  “Glad you guys could make it.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Jack says. Then, a loud slamming door noise comes from up above. Boot steps. Lug soles on the kitchen floor. A man stands in the door opening above the collapsed staircase.

  “What are we looking at down there, gentlemen?” It’s Miller.

  “That ambulance arrive yet?” Jack asks.

  Miller doesn’t have a chance to answer because he steps out of the way to allow two EMTs to jump down into the basement.

  “Move out of the way please,” says the first EMT. A woman. A rather good-looking brunette in tight blue uniform trousers and tight white button-down shirt. She’s the same woman who helped save Henry. I never noticed how attractive she was until now.

  Moonlight gives her a smile and wink.

  “GFR, asshole,” she quips, taking hold of the make-shift tourniquet while expertly applying a medically approved one.

  “What’s that mean?” Moonlight says, turning Blood.

  “It mean, Get Fucking Real.” Blood cracks a hint of a smile.

  Jack laughs aloud like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day. The male half of the EMT team injects me with something that immediately makes me feel warm and fuzzy and happy, and I fall to sleep to the sound of more laughter as though I’ve just spent the entire day at a picnic.

  I awake later to bright white lights. The lights burn my eyes until my retinas get used to them.

  “Where am I?” I say, for lack of something wittier. No doubt, the real Steve Jobs would have had something far more clever to open with.

  “Albany Medical Center,” answers the man standing at the end of my bed.

  “Are you Clint Eastwood?”

  “Just a close facsimile thereof,” Detective Miller says.

  It takes a second or two, but eventually my eyes are able to focus enough in on him.

  “Was I rescued by three private detectives who looked like thugs?” I say. “Or did I dream it?”

  He smiles. Or is it a smirk?

  “They didn’t give you a hard time, I hope.”

  I would shake my head if not for the pain. So I whisper, “Nope.”

  “Good, because I have an idea.”

  “Does it involve chasing after psychopathic men who overfeed their wives on purpose, embalm single women in the basement, and dispose of body parts with vats of hydrosulfuric acid?”

  “Maybe,” he admits. “Maybe worse than that. Depends on the case. Oh, and technically speaking, Herman wasn’t a psychopath. He was an EDP.”

  “EDP,” I repeat, like a question.

  “Emotionally Disturbed Person. It’s how the State Department wishes us to describe psychopaths so as not to hurt their feelings.”

  “Herman was more than a psychopath. He was running an unemployment insurance fraud racket.”

  “Which included his former employees at the Comer-Gannon funeral home. Nardillo and his goon, Walter. With Herman’s assistance, they were able to open up thousands of claims. One of the requirements of their relationship with Herman was them supplying him with embalming fluid and other toxins and tools of the trade.”

  “No doubt Herman was planning on collecting on the wife’s insurance once she passed on, which by the looks of her was going to be sooner than later.”

  “Again true.”

  “Emotionally disturbed person,” I repeat. “Give me a break, Miller. Herman knew exactly what he was doing.” Exhaling. “The Feds worry about hurting the feelings of the criminal element. Well, my entire body hurts right now and my eyeglasses are broken.” Another inhale and exhale, to ease the pain. “So, what exactly are you asking me, Detective Miller?”

  “How would you feel about coming to work for the department? You would run an offshoot of the city cops program and in part, receive federal funds.”

  “I already get a steady paycheck thanks to America’s taxpaying citizens.”

  “But you’d have more autonomy with this job, and it might even be fun.”

  “Let’s have the truth,” I say. “I feel like you’re feeding me the frosting first before the dry cake.”

  “Those three guys who saved you yesterday. They work for the department on a freelance basis. I call in one or all of them in situations like we had yesterday when sending in plainclothes law enforcement officials is far more advantageous than uniforms. You may or may not know this, but Herman made a point of telling me that if he should see a cop, things would start blowing up all over the city. It turned out to be bullshit, but still, I felt it more prudent to send in the three amigos . . . the independent professionals if you will.”

  “Not a very politically correct bunch,” I opine.

  “That will work to our advantage. They, like you, are able to establish more trustworthy relationships with the criminal element.”

  “Because not a whole lot separates us from the criminal element.”

  He smirks. “Most crooks can sniff out a cop at fifty paces. Even when he or she isn’t wearing the uniform. It’s a talent they have. The good ones, anyway. The hard-to-get ones.”

  “Plus, you’ll be able to send me into far more dangerous and volatile situations because I’m not the real cops, is that it?”

  He smiles. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “What’s this got to do with my old job at the Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency?”

  He cocks his shoulders.

  “That will remain your cover,” he insists, growing a broad smile. “You see, your boss, Henry? She’s doing remarkably well for a woman who took a dozen blows to the head with a framing hammer.”

  I nod and smile on the inside.

  Henry is alive . . . Henry is alive . . .

  “She always was hard-headed.” I can’t help but work up a small giggle, which hurts.

  Miller laughs.

  “I’ll be sure to pass that on to her.” Then, “Well, Jobz, what do you think about my job offer?”

  “Do I get to think about it for a day or so?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets, bites down on his bottom lip.

  “Of course,” he says. “Think about it while you’re healing. And by the way, Henry is here, upstairs. Soon as you’re feeling up to it, you can pay her a visit. By now you must be missing her friendly verbal assaults.” He turns, goes for the door. “You want me to bring you anything when I come back tonight?”

  “A girl would be nice,” I say. “Brunette, not too tall, not too short. Nice build. And a six pack of Bud.”

  “Wow,” he says. “You should fit in nicely with the . . .” Pausing, he purses his lips. “Well, let’s call them, the independent professionals.”

  “Why not make it simple,” I say. “Call them The Pr
ofessionals. Got a nice ring to it.”

  He puts his hand on the opener.

  “That a yes? You’ll take the job?”

  “Did I ever have a choice, Miller?”

  “Hey, it’s me you’re talking to. Fuhget about it.”

  He laughs while opening the door, just as a nurse is trying to make her way inside. She’s a cute, young brunette, and considering they come close to knocking into one another while she’s coming and he’s going, she’s a bit startled.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she says, a smile on her tan face.

  “No, excuse me,” Miller says.

  As she enters the room, her back to the detective, he points at her with an extended index finger, then issues me an approving thumbs-up.

  Something tells me I’m gonna like my new job. That is, it doesn’t kill me first.

  Five Days Later

  I was never comfortable in a suit since it’s not easy finding one that fits all that well when you’re built like a fireplug. But I couldn’t very well show up at Wendy Healy’s funeral in my boxer shorts. Now that everything has finally calmed down, I can relax a bit on the houseboat in the sun, maybe even drop a line in the steady current, and if I’m lucky, nail a late season Striper with one of the half a dozen fly rods I have hanging from the houseboat ceiling. Hey, you never know.

  The newspapers have piled up, and basically, all I have to do is glance at the headlines to catch up on the local news. Insurance Fraud Investigator Doubles as Serial Killer . . . Mortician Murderer Force Fed Wife . . . Mortician Murderer Raked in Thousands Per Week in False Unemployment Insurance Claims . . .

  The headlines go on and on.

  There’s even a small piece about Lu Chin and the cargo van he loaned to Herman. Innocently loaned, I should say. Lucky for Chin, no charges are to be filed by the Albany County DA.

  But the one headline that makes the short hairs on the back of my neck stand up is as follows: Insurance Fraud Investigator and Former Cop Jobz to Join New APD Task Force. I scan more than just the headline on this one. Of course, there’s a quip about my name, Steve Jobz. “Not to be confused with the late great CEO of Apple,” the reporter writes.

  “So much for going undercover,” I whisper. But then, maybe Miller couldn’t resist the obvious PR op.

  The short piece goes on to recount how I was nearly the victim of a homicide attempt after being abducted by the mortician murderer, Herman Healy, while seeking out his whereabouts. But thanks to the quick work of the APD and several members of the same task force previously mentioned, my life was spared.

  I must admit that it feels pretty good seeing my name in the paper. Especially when it’s associated with having done something good. Even the real Steve Jobs would be proud. I’m a sort of semi-hero for the day. But in the final analysis, I hope I’m making the right decision by joining the fight against crime in a city where the crime rate isn’t just through the roof, but above the clouds.

  Standing on the ever-swaying floor in the kitchen area of my houseboat, I recall the horrible day I had no choice but to discharge my weapon at a kid who, with his own loaded semi-automatic, was about to blow the brains out of a scared shitless convenient store counter clerk.

  Like I already mentioned in a previous reel, I caught a lot of grief for my decision to put him down from people who swore the kid never had a gun in his hand and that he put up his hands in surrender. Turns out the majority of the people who testified in this manner weren’t even on the scene. But such was the new volatile political landscape in which cops were fighting crime. Especially gang-related street crime.

  I mean, let me ask you this: If the kid put his hands up to surrender, how is it he was able to maintain a point blank bead on the proprietor with a fully loaded 9mm Glock?

  It was hard as hell to find a friend in and outside the department after that incident, and even my fellow brothers and sisters in blue felt they had no choice but to keep their distance. I was tainted merchandise, after all. Even now, as I shuffle through the old manila file that contains the transcripts, newspaper clippings, and details of the trial that followed, I’m not seeing much in the way of support from my fellow officers.

  But wait just one moment. Hold the phone and reign in the horses.

  Now, I’ve been over this file more times than I care to count, usually while under the influence of too much Irish whiskey. So much so that the file is perpetually stored on the narrow wood block counter in the houseboat galley. Think of the file as a kind of elaborate breakup letter from the one woman you loved more than any other. You’re constantly reading and rereading it to see if you missed anything between the lines . . . missed any secret message detailing something that might let you, your guilt, and your sadness off the hook.

  But there is one letter written on my behalf that originates from Albany. As I read the letter for what feels like the first time, I’m struck at how the writer felt compelled to offer his support of my actions. The writer even went so far as to state that “Overburdened and chronically underpaid officers of the law are often forced to make split second life and death decisions that aren’t very popular with certain political ideologies and opinions of most media outlets, and the case of Mr. Jobz was one of them. I don’t personally know Officer Steve Jobz, but having studied his case inside and out, I see his having no choice but to have pulled that trigger. It was an act motivated, in my mind, out of saving the life of the proprietor and not out of racial prejudice. My guess is that Mr. Jobz did not see color when he made the difficult, but necessary, decision to pull the trigger. He saw only imminent threat. In short, he was doing the job he was trained to do upon making the commitment to serve and protect his fellow man. I hope the court sees fit to allow Mr. Jobz to retain his badge, his gun, and his honor.”

  The letter is signed, Detective Nick Miller, APD Homicide Division.

  I’ve read this letter, or scanned it anyway, dozens of times before. So how is it that I haven’t put two and two together or at least made the connection before now? Maybe the booze had something to do with it. Or maybe considering the way things turned out, I never gave it much credence. But then, thinking back on it all, I had no idea who Detective Miller was or why he’d go out of his way to write such a nice, honest letter on my behalf. When you think about how my career ended up in the gutter, regardless of his glowing opinion, I must have found it impossible to make an emotional connection.

  Truth of the matter now is this: Miller has indeed known me for all these years. Standing totally sober over the wood block counter, I read the letter again, and one more time just for good measure. Suddenly, I feel not like Steve Jobz the loser, but Steve Jobz, the winner. If only it were possible to high-five myself, I would.

  Instead of stuffing the letter back into the manila folder with the rest of file, I stick it to the refrigerator with an old magnet shaped like a miniature bottle of Budweiser Beer. Because now, there is most definitely an emotional connection to those typed words. My heart feels suddenly a bit lighter looking at it displayed out in the open like that. Like a good report card I missed entirely.

  It’s the first time in what seems like a long time that I’ve had a moment to myself to really think. The first moment in a long time I’ve really felt good about myself. Proud even. Even my mom has stopped calling incessantly, which tells me she’s having a good day for a change.

  I recall my lunch the other day at Jack’s Diner and the waitress, Janice, who slipped me her phone number. In the old days . . . the old days being last week . . . I might have forgotten all about her, convinced myself that she was only being nice. That she had no real interest in dating me. But I’m a new man now. A confident man.

  “What the hell,” I say aloud, digging the little slip of paper from out of my wallet. “Why not give her a call? You can do it, Jobz.”

  I retrieve my cell from the kitchen counter by the sink, select the dial pad. But then, just as I’m about to punch in the seven-digit number, comes a knock on the houseboat d
oor.

  “Crap,” I whisper, setting the phone back down.

  I’m not expecting anyone, but what the hell. I go to the door open it onto three smiling faces.

  “Hope you don’t mind the unexpected visit, Jobz,” says Dick Moonlight. “But we thought we’d stop by, check in on you.”

  Moonlight is wearing his black leather coat. From where I’m standing, I can see he’s got a Browning 9mm semi-automatic shoulder holstered against his left ribcage, and he’s got a six pack of beer in each hand.

  Blood is standing behind him wearing a black T-shirt that sports the smiling face of Barack Obama. It’s so tight on his bulging biceps it looks like a second skin. He’s carrying a huge aluminum foil covered platter of what my nose tells me are barbecued ribs.

  Standing beside him is Jack “Keeper” Marconi. His mostly gray hair is receding, but it’s recently been trimmed. He’s wearing a blue blazer, a neatly pressed, light blue button-down, blue jeans over a pair of old cowboy boots, and he’s a holding two bottles of red wine in each hand. Ruffino Chianti by the looks of it.

  “Looks to me like you guys wanna get drunk,” I say.

  “Good idea,” Moonlight says. “Drunk is good. It’s a good day for that.”

  “What he said,” Keeper says.

  “Don’t make me stand out here all day, Steve Jobz,” Blood says. “I wanna eat me some ribs.”

  “Well, come on in,” I say. “And make yourselves comfortable.”

  The three amigos enter my humble castle on the water. It’s a sunny, warm, optimistic day in Albany and as Moonlight uncaps a cold beer and hands it to me, I can’t help but feel indebted to these guys. Maybe I should be the one bringing the beer, wine, and ribs to them.

  Peeling away the tin foil on the ribs, Blood reaches for a big meaty bone, but not before Moonlight snatches it out of his hand, shoves it into his mouth.

  “Damn you, Moon,” Blood shouts. He reaches out with lightning quickness, grabs the collar of Moonlight’s black leather coat, yanks him back so hard I think his neck might snap.