The Undertaker

by William Brown

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “And you lived in LA?” she asked. “Where? Under a rock?”

  “I'm an engineer, Sandy. I work all day with computers.”

  She looked me over again, from head to toe more slowly this time. “And there's no female touch out there to help un-geek you? No wife? No girlfriend?”

  “There was a wife,” I answered. I looked away, but the elevator door was polished metal and there was no place to hide from her eyes. This was a conversation I didn't want to have with anyone, least of all an attractive young woman I barely knew, but I had no choice. “Her name was Terri. That was her obituary. She died a year ago of cancer.”

  “Oh, Jeez, I'm sorry.” I saw her raise her hand to her mouth, legitimately embarrassed. “Me and my big mouth. Well, if you knew me, you'd know I didn't mean anything. I mean, I know you don't know me, but if you really did know me, you'd know I was just joking around. Not that I want you to get… Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “Hey, it's okay, Sandy. You didn't say anything, honest.”

  “I did, but I didn't mean to. I know a little bit about pain, too. Maybe that's why I'm always joking around, until some big guy steps in and scares the snot out of me.”

  We rode the rest of the way down to the loading dock in silence. As we got out, I said, “Most of the people they buried were couples. They used my name and my wife's to bury the bean counter and his wife. That's what really pissed me off. They had no right to hi-jack her name and my memories of her like that. They're all I have left of her now.”

  She stopped and stared at me, her expression softening. “Must be nice. I mean to have memories of someone you care about, good ones, that mean something to you.”

  We walked outside through the service door. There were no gray sedans with black-wall tires and no goons in suits and sunglasses waiting for us, so we turned up the alley and headed north. She pulled a cell phone out of her purse and started pressing buttons.

  “You better not use that thing. Tinkerton's people will be all over us in minutes.”

  “No cell? Jeez, I'll be lost,” she whined, but she turned it off and dropped it in her shoulder bag. We continued west two blocks and then turned north before she spoke to me again. “Back there,” she finally asked. “All that stuff you about your wife, that wasn't more of your bullshit, was it?”

  “No, unfortunately it wasn't,” I sighed. “Neither was the rest of it.”

  “’Cause I'm a real sucker for stuff like that.”

  “I wish it was a story. But you lost somebody too,”

  “Yeah, but you didn't want to lose yours. Me? If Raoul from the Happy Pancake hadn't shot Eddie first, I would have.”

  “Funny, one of the Kasmareks thought you did.”

  “That bunch of shits?”

  “She said that too. I think she was another in-law. She called him “little Eddie.”

  “Little Eddie?” she chuckled. “That was not one of his problems... Sorry.”

  “If he was such a big jerk, why did you keep using the last name? It's been what? Almost a year now?”

  “I suppose I could blame it on my photography business,” she shrugged. “I had just put new ads in the phone book and I would have had to buy all new business cards. They don't come cheap, especially when I'm not making much money to begin with, but the truth is I couldn't deal with it, with any of it.”

  “Yeah, I know what that's like. I was frozen for months after Terri died. I couldn't even open her dresser drawers or look on her side of the closet, much less box up any of it up. I couldn't even touch her stuff.” I looked over and saw her staring at me with large, wondering eyes as if she was a kid on a field trip to the zoo and I was some strange specimen she found sitting in the back of a cage. “It took five months before I finally let a couple of her friends come over and clean everything out for me. All of it. If they hadn't, I'd still be sitting there in that house in California. I couldn't let her go.”

  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked over at me. “Why do I think you've never talked to anyone about this before? I'm right, aren't I?”

  I shrugged as I walked away. “I don't know. I can't explain it.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “I'm not, it's just that you kept asking, and… maybe it's easier with a stranger.”

  She caught up and gave me that puzzled look again. “You are a really strange guy, Peter Talbott,” she said, but this time the defensive wall and the hostility weren't there. She opened her mouth as if she was going to say more, then thought better of it and stopped.

  When we reached Clark, I paused to look up and down her street. “Why don't we take the long way around,” I told her.

  “You think they're watching?” she said as she dropped her big sunglasses down over her eyes. “Then I shall go incognito.”

  Instead of the route we took that morning, we swung west two blocks, then north as far as Schiller, approaching Clark from the far end of her block. It was a nice walk, until we looked around the corner and saw a white sedan parked near her building with two men inside. Sandy's mouth dropped open as that reality sank home. We slipped back around the corner and backtracked a block. There was a narrow walkway that brought us back to the alley behind her building. Peeking around a fence, we saw the rear end of another government car.

  “Still think I'm paranoid?” I asked.

  “I don't believe this. Maybe I could sneak past them and go upstairs?”

  “That's too risky. We can wait them out. When I don't show and you don't either, Tinkerton will pull them off.” We walked back down the narrow passageway crossed the next street, and several others, and turned south again.

  “Do you know some place we can hide for a while?” I asked.

  “We? You mean “we” as in the-two-of-us-we?”

  “A couple of hours, that's all. Until they give up. A friend's? Maybe someone with a computer I can use, and a printer?”

  She stopped and studied me through those dark sunglasses. She was hard to read, but I could tell she was deciding about a lot more than just a place to hide.

  “I'm not making those cars up, am I?” I asked. “Or the goon with the gold cuff links and bad manners. You saw what was on that computer disk, Sandy: the spreadsheets, the books, the payoff lists, the Swiss bank accounts, all of that stuff. If we can print it out, we can blow this thing wide-open and get both of us off the hook.”

  “A rocket scientist, huh? And you know all about computers?” She shook her head, still skeptical. “I know I'm gonna hate myself in the morning, Talbott, and that won't be the first time, but okay. I'll trade you. My Aunt Penny has a condo over at Marina Towers. She's out of town, I have a key, and she has a computer. So, I'll take you over there for a while. You can take a look at the disks, then you're going to teach me that computer stuff.”

  “That computer stuff? I don't know how much time you've got, but it's a deal.”

  “One thing, though,” she looked me over again. “That cowboy costume has got to go. Me and plaid do not get along.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Billy Rae Bob sings in black-and-white…

  Marina Towers wasn't far away, on State Street where it crosses the Chicago River. They were two round, contemporary residential towers that stood on the riverbank. They call them “salt and pepper,” and they were trendy and expensive. The lower floors were a circular parking garage and I remembered an action flick where a car flew out of one of the towers and took a nosedive into the Chicago River. Her aunt's apartment was on the 10th floor. It was small, but nicely furnished and it had a great view. From the balcony, you could look out across downtown, the lakefront, and half the city.

  “I take it your aunt isn't a Kasmarek.”

  “Oh, God, no, she's my aunt, a DePiero.”

  “Is she coming back soon?” I asked.

  “She's in Spain for another month. She's single and I'm her favorite niece, so she lets me use it anytime I want
. After the business with Eddie, I really needed to get away. This is where I came to hide.”

  Her aunt's PC was on a computer stand set against the wall. I went to check it out while Sandy opened the sliding glass door and stepped out on the balcony. She immediately took out her camera, raised it to her eye, and scanned the city. I had quick fingers on a computer keyboard, but hers looked to be just as talented and fast as she worked the lens and light stops, the camera clicking away. Her expression was intense and I felt like I was intruding on something very private and very personal.

  While the computer booted up, I looked around. Hanging on the walls were eight large, framed, black-and-white photographs. Each was more interesting and visually stunning than the one before. Their focus was crisp. The lines and contrasts were sharp, some with soft shadows and hazy fade-outs. One was all composition — an eerily empty downtown street with a long pan down a line of storefronts. Another was the front steps of the Art Institute I passed in the truck, its lions standing tall and wet beneath a hazy rain. There was a shot of an empty Lake Michigan beach in the winter, close up, ice piled up, steam rising off the water, with the city's tall buildings in the distance. There was a shot at the zoo, with a line of animal cages, empty, their doors hanging open. Finally, an empty tropical beach with tall overhanging palms, spectacular clouds, and a mirror-smooth ocean. It too was done in black-and-white, not the familiar bright pastels.

  Sandy stepped back in the room and saw me as I examined the photos. “You took these, didn't you?” I asked.

  “My aunt is my biggest fan. She blew them up and had them framed.”

  “And I can see why. Nice contrasts. Powerful, very emotional, even moody, but just beneath the surface. Interesting stuff, vivid, and haunting.”

  “Wow! Think you can analyze me just like that, Talbott? Which is your favorite?”

  “The beach.”

  “I'll get you a copy… if I ever see my darkroom again.”

  “I'd love one. I have a big airline poster hanging in my office right across from my desk. It's the beach at San Jose down near Cabo on the Baja. But it's in color.”

  “An airline poster? In color. I bet you got yourself stuffed in a lot of trashcans in high school, didn't you?

  “Baja's where Terri and I were going to go last spring.”

  “Jeez, I'm sorry. I did it again, didn't I?” She scrunched up her face. “I'm famous for my total lack of sensitivity.”

  “Maybe you put it all in your photos. You ever think of that?”

  She gave me that curious look again and then smiled. “Thank you, that was nice.”

  I pulled a chair over and sat behind the computer. She came over and stood behind me, watching. That was as close as she had gotten since I walked into her store. Maybe I broke the ice. Maybe it gave her a better shot with the letter opener.

  “You said you know some accounting,” I asked.

  “Well, I keep the books for Old Man Fantozzi — all three sets.” Puzzled, I looked up at her and she added, “The ones for the IRS, the ones for his ex-wife, and the real ones. That's the other reason the old bastard won't fire me.”

  “You'll do fine,” I laughed. “Why don't you make us some coffee while I print out some of this stuff. Maybe you can make sense out of the accounting.”

  As I was working, Sandy came back with two cups of coffee and picked up the first stack of paper off the printer. The makeup was gone and she had changed into a baggy sweat suit. She knew I was watching her as she flopped in a big leather chair, slung her leg over the armrest, and pulled a red felt tip pen from behind her ear.

  “Something wrong?” she asked without looking up.

  “No, no, you just surprised me, that's all.”

  “I'm full of surprises, Talbott.”

  I went back to the computer and the next thing I knew, shadows were cutting across the floor from the patio window. My watch showed it was 4:30 PM and Sandy was lying on the floor. There was a thick pile of printouts next to her and she was doing some very painful looking stretches, watching me intently the entire time.

  “You're not going to break something doing that, are you?” I asked.

  “You've been at that for five hours. You really get zoned-out on a computer, don't you?”

  “Pretty much. You have a total lack of sensitivity and I have a total lack of awareness.” I looked at her but she kept staring up at me, stretching, and staring. “What?” I asked, knowing I was being studied. “Am I that interesting?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby,” she quickly answered.

  I looked down at the stack of papers. “Find anything interesting in the printouts?”

  She picked up the top sheets. “Talk about your creative accounting. They own half of New Jersey — trash hauling, restaurants, car dealers, construction, and all the politicians. They got mega-bucks squirreled away in those foreign bank accounts and in some very complicated real estate deals. It would take years to unravel it all.”

  On the wall hung a flat-screen TV. She picked up the remote control and turned it on. “The local news should be on. I want to show you something.” She flicked through the stations until she came to what looked like highlights from a congressional hearing in Washington. The hearing room was jammed with reporters and cameras, all focused on the tall, curved, elevated dais and on the witness table in the middle, covered with microphones. “That's the Hardin Commission,” she said. “He's the good-looking guy in the middle and our Senator from Illinois, “Tough Tim” they call him now. Great hair, capped teeth, and a tanning bed. Film at 6:00 — the locals are eating it up.”

  “What are they talking about?” I asked.

  She gave me that look again. “Organized Crime, you dolt. The mob.”

  “I thought that was last year.”

  “It was, but Hardin reconvened them last Monday,” she told me. Why bother to read the “book” here, when we can watch the movie.”

  “His hearings last year got the ball rolling against the Santorini family in New Jersey. Those are his spreadsheets you're looking at.” He was theatrically aggressive as he leaned forward and wagged an accusing finger at his witness. The object of his attack was a distinguished, bald-headed man in an expensive suit sitting at the witness table. Other than a thin, condescending smile, he appeared completely unfazed by Hardin's ranting.

  “Who's that guy?” I asked.

  “I think his name's Billingham. He's a mob lawyer from New York.”

  “Give him a lollipop; he could pass for Kojak, in the old TV series.”

  “Hardin's been after him since last year.”

  “Well, we better keep reading the book, because he hasn't laid a glove on him yet.”

  She stood up and scratch her head with both hands, violently, shaking it, letting her hair fly around in frustration.

  “I was wondering where you had it done,” I dared to quip.

  She glared at me. “I'll let that one pass, since it was your first, albeit very lame attempt at humor. And I'm hungry.”

  “We can order in. Maybe a pizza?”

  “No. I've got to get out of here. There's a little Korean take out place down the street, I need some air. I'll get us some stuff and a couple of six packs, okay?”

  “You think that's a good idea?” I asked, concerned.

  “The beer? After all you've been through, I thought you might want to relax.”

  “No, I mean you going out.”

  “Don't worry, I can do enough ‘girl magic’ on myself that my mother wouldn't recognize me. Want to come with?”

  “No. Right now, you'd be a lot safer out there without me.”

  She disappeared into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, she came out wearing a peach, summer-weight suit, pastel makeup, and a very real looking shoulder-length blond wig that completely covered her short raven hair. She topped it off with a white beret.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “My aunt,” she said.

  “She's a very attractive
woman,” I smiled.

  She cocked her head and gave me that pleasantly puzzled expression again.

  “Seriously, it looks really good on you, all of it.”

  “Thank you, Peter Talbott.” She made a small pirouette and opened the front door, then paused and looked back at me. “You really trust me to go out there by myself? You don't think I'll call the FBI on you?”

  “Sandy, I'm not holding you here. I think you'll do whatever you want to do. Besides,” I pointed to her camera lying on the floor. “I have the Pentax as hostage.”

  “Sneaky.” She stared at me again, debating. “You know, I do a lot better with jerks and assholes. Them, I can figure out.”

  “Be careful out there, okay?”

  “You sound like my older brother, and what I don't need right now is another older brother. See ya,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

  I shook my head and went back to work on the spreadsheets. I finished looking through the last of them and I had to agree with her. Louie Panozzo might have been a fat slob, but this was a masterpiece of creative accounting. By then, I was brain dead, so I stretched out on my back on the floor. The next thing I knew, the front door was opening and the light from the hallway spilling across the living room floor where I lay. The door quickly closed with a soft “Click” and the room was cast in long, dark shadows again. I snapped wide-awake as someone tiptoed into the room and stepped over me, carrying an armful of bags into the kitchen.

  “You shouldn't do that in a skirt.” I told her.

  “Pervert. You couldn't see a thing.”

  “Black underwear?”

  “Liar. We both know it's too dark in here for you to see much of anything. And you forgot I changed clothes... all of them.”

  She turned on the lights in the kitchen and I lay there watching her unpack the bags. She reached over and turned on the radio. It was country music.

  “What a horrible way to wake up.”

  “Say, what?” She glared over at me, hands on hips.

  “No, not you. Billy Ray Bob on the radio.”

  “You just dodged a nasty bruise,” she said as she opened two beers and brought one over to me without waiting for an answer, taking a long pull on hers.