The Undertaker

by William Brown

  “What time is it, anyway?” I asked.

  “Almost 7:00.”

  “Korean took that long?”

  She ignored the question and turned on the living room lights. “Here,” she beamed. “Look what I got you.” She looked like a little kid at Christmas as she dumped a big bag of clothes on the floor next to me. She picked up a short-sleeved blue-striped dress shirt, a pair of dark gray Dockers slacks, some socks, underwear, a belt, and a stylish light-gray herringbone sports coat. “Usually I know a guy a whole lot better before I go buying him clothes, but that plaid had to go. I guessed at your sizes, so try them on.”

  I took one of the shirts and a pair of slacks and rose slowly to my feet. I unbuttoned my shirt, and pulled it off. The next thing I knew, she was standing next to me looking intently at the big bruises on my back and ribs.

  “Man, I thought you were bull-shitting me,” she whistled. “You really are all black and blue back there. They did that?” She walked around me for the full view, running her fingers lightly over the bruises.

  “Hey,” I winced. They looked worse and hurt a whole lot more than they had in Uncle Ike's and in the nearly twenty-four hours since I acquired them.

  “Sorry. The doctor is just checking.” Then she grabbed my hands and looked at the bruises around my wrists. “What's with these? They look kinky.”

  “Kinky?”

  “Well, you know…” she tried to feign demure.

  “Leather straps.“

  “Don't you just hate that?” She saw the wad of paper towels stuck to my lower abdomen and her mouth fell open “What the hell is that?” she asked as she took another drink from the beer can, gently pulled the paper towels forward, trying to look underneath.

  “Hey!” I pushed her hand aside. “Tinkerton did that with a scalpel. I was strapped naked to an embalming table at the time…”

  “Yeah, kinky. Your sex life is your business, but it looks to me that somebody got a little carried away with the moment, didn't he?”

  It was my turn to give her a look.

  “Okay, I won't go there. But that needs looked at. My aunt's got some first aid things in the cabinet,” she said as she turned and walked away. “So down on the floor, I'll be back.”

  “Sandy… “I tried to argue, but she wouldn't hear about it.

  She came back with some alcohol, bandages, and a towel to put under me, and handed me the beer. “Drink and scootch your pants down a little.” I looked up at her. “Don't be a child. I'm trying to clean this thing out, not get personal.”

  I lay back and did what she said. The alcohol stung but I was surprised at how gentle her fingers were as she worked. Finally, she taped some gauze pads over the cut and stood up. “See all the things I can do?” she said. “Now get up and look at the new clothes.”

  “Thank you,” I said sheepishly as I stood up and started to unzip my jeans. She just stood there, so I motioned for her to turn around.

  “I have three brothers, you know.”

  “Yeah, but I'm not one of them. Now turn around.”

  She turned her back to me and looked out the balcony door to the dark city below while I changed behind her.

  “Where'd you get all this stuff, I asked.”

  “Some men's stores over on Michigan Avenue. Don't worry, I moved fast.”

  “You paid cash, didn't you?”

  “Cash? Oops. I used plastic. I never thought.”

  “My fault. I should have warned you. When they look at the charge slip and see what you bought, it won't be hard for them to figure out I'm with you, not after you left work and didn't go back home.”

  “But they don't know where we are,” she said.

  “True, but Tinkerton will flood the streets with people. You sure there's no way they can trace you here through your aunt?”

  “No. She's one of my mother's half-sisters. If you think the Kasmareks are fun, they won't get squat out of the Chickarellis or the DePieros.”

  “Okay, you can turn back around now,” I told her as I slipped on the jacket.

  “No need, I've been watching you in the reflection on the sliding glass door,” she laughed as she turned around and looked me up and down proudly. “Voila! One of my finest creations, the new Peter Talbott.”

  I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. “You did good, you really did.”

  She stepped closer, smiling happily for the first time that day. “It was fun buying things for someone who at least half-way appreciates it,” she said as she looked up at me. I could tell from her nervous energy that she wanted to touch me or hug me or kiss me if I gave her even the slightest opening, and I couldn't let that happen.

  “I appreciate it, really.” I turned away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room.

  “Great,” she said awkwardly. “Look, I have another idea.” I turned and looked back at her, questioning. “Every now and then, I do get one, you know.”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “You don't have to. I know you think I'm a ditz.” I started to argue, but she waved me off. “I'm a sucker for nice guys with puppy-dog eyes, so don't ruin this for me,” she warned. “Remember that hearing on TV earlier? Senator Hardin's? Why don't we send him some of the spreadsheets with a note about the funeral home and the bodies in that cemetery back in Columbus. I'll bet “Tough Tim” will know what to do with them. Then we can give him a call and get some real help.”

  I stopped and looked at her in a new light. “Hardin?” I thought it over. “You know, that's not a bad idea. In fact, it's a very good idea.”

  She seemed to glow. “I thought so too. There's a Fed Ex service center over on Wabash. If we get it over there first thing, he can have it the next day. Now let's eat before the dumplings and pork get cold and the beer gets warm.”

  We went into the tiny kitchen and started opening the food containers. “I guess we should spend the night here,” she ventured, her eyes on the food.

  “That would be great, because I'm exhausted and I really need some sleep. You take your aunt's room and I'll crash out there on the couch.”

  “She has a king-sized bed,” she said quietly. She looked up at me. Our eyes met. She looked scared, but she knew exactly what she was saying.

  “I don't think that's a good idea, Sandy,” I answered.

  “I only meant to sleep, Talbott,” she said angrily. “It wasn't an invitation.”

  “It's still not a good idea.”

  “When it's an invitation, you'll know it. But Jeez, you really did live under a rock, out there, didn't you?” She picked up the six-pack, stormed into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

  We were up early and out the door before 9:00. I was wearing a pair of the new slacks, one of the shirts she bought, and the blazer. Sandy came out in another of her aunt's outfits – designer jeans with a deep green top, her aunt's white beret covering most of her black hair, a pair of clean, white Reeboks, and a bad hangover. She shuffled over to the medicine cabinet, looking half-dead, and swallowed a handful of aspirin. She continued to stare into the mirror, waiting for them to work, while I went around the rooms throwing out trash and straightening things up.

  “How many of those beers did you have?”

  “Not enough,” I heard her mumble.

  Obviously, something was bothering her more than just the hangover, but this wasn't the time for me to find out what it was. She stuffed the blond wig in her shoulder bag, laid the camera in on top of it, and headed for the door. “Let's go,” she said. “The sooner we get this done, the happier I'll be.”

  There was an Irish pub on the corner with an all-you-can-eat egg and corned beef hash breakfast buffet. I had all the above and she had two beers and half of a dry English muffin. By the time we finished, it looked like she might live.

  “Your usual breakfast?” I asked. I knew I had to say something. I couldn't leave things like this. “You're pissed at me, aren't you?” I asked.

  She looked away and I could see she
was close to tears. “Look, this past year hasn't been a lot of fun for me, Talbott, and I did something really stupid last night, something I've never done before. I'm not some bimbo or tramp, and I'm not a one-night stand, but you were there. You seem like a nice guy and I figured I'd never see you again, so I made a big mistake. I reached out for a little warmth and affection…”

  “I'm really sorry, Sandy.

  “Do you know how much you hurt me last night? How humiliated I felt?

  “I didn't want to get you in this thing any deeper.”

  “It was only sex, Peter.”

  “It's never only sex, Sandy. You might be over Eddie, and maybe that was what you needed last night, but I haven't even begun to be over Terri. It has nothing to do with you. I swear. It's about me. God knows I'd love to. You're beautiful, and smart, and a lot of fun to be with, but I can't.”

  She glared at me for a moment, then burst into tears. “Damn you, Peter Talbott! Now look what you've done. I can't even get mad at you.”

  I put both of my hand on hers. ”I'm sorry. I'm really sorry,” I told her.

  “Just when I'm convinced you're the biggest jerk I ever met and I'm ready to throw you out the door, you have to go say something like that. Let's get out of here before I really do kill you.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the street.

  We were in and out of the FedEx service center by 10:00. It took thirty-eight dollars from the Sheriff's coffee fund to buy a padded mailer and send a sample of printouts and a letter to Washington, DC for delivery the next morning, but it was worth it.

  “I have another idea.” Sandy pointed to a payphone inside the door and said, “Let's give Hardin's office a call and tell him it's on the way.” She looked at me, again. “It's not like I have a daily quota, you know.”

  I called Washington DC information and they connected me to the Senate Office Building's main number. I asked for Hardin's office and then handed the phone to Sandy as they connected us. “Your idea. Go for it.”

  “Hi,” she started in on the receptionist with a warm, bubbly voice. “I know the Senator's probably not in, but I'm calling for Peter Talbott, and… No, the Senator doesn't know him... Could you tell him that Peter Talbott overnighted a FedEx package to him... Yes, Peter Talbott. It's some spreadsheets on the Santorini mob in New Jersey… Yes, Santorini. They are Louie Panozzo's books... Yeah, I'm sure he will. Look, tell him to be looking for that package and we'll call him tomorrow.”

  Sandy hung up and we went outside and quickly walked away from the FedEx office. “By the way, did I tell you I worked in Hardin's campaign?” she said. I looked at her, knowing a story was coming. “Well, not really “worked.” I stuffed envelopes for two weekends in his office downtown. He has a cute smile and a nice set of buns, but without a nametag, he wouldn't know me from the water cooler. They threw a pretty good party every Saturday night for the volunteers, so I thought it might be fun. He showed up the second weekend. Things got a little drunk and he gave me a ride home.”

  “The water cooler wasn't available?”

  “Nothing happened. It was a month after Eddie walked out on me, and I wouldn't have minded a little hot, sweaty groping to get even. But not from him. He's married and at heart I'm really not a bimbo.”

  “Not at heart?”

  “Thanks!” She glared up at me. “You know, this isn't a particularly good morning for you to give me shit, Talbott. I don't have to be here.”

  “You're right, I'm sorry, it's none of my business, but you're always joking…”

  “Oh, never mind.” She walked on, fuming.

  “So, you blew off a U. S. senator and nothing happened,” I asked as I caught up.

  “Not exactly. I think I threw up on his shoes in the foyer of my building.”

  “He wouldn't have gotten that from the water cooler.”

  “Hey, after all this time, he won't remember me. And even if he is a complete letch, he was the one who organized all those hearings on the Mafia in Washington, so he's not a complete waste. And neither am I.”

  As we walked away, I could see she was hurting, and from more than just the hangover. Suddenly I felt a cold shiver. I hardly knew this girl. How long had it been? Twenty-four hours? I was beginning to enjoy her company. She was fun and interesting and I knew if I had given her half an opening the night before she would have been a lot more. A huge rush of guilt washed over me like an ice cold shower and I knew my problem wasn't her. It was me — too much baggage, too much pain. And if I wasn't careful, I could get her killed.

  I looked up at the sky. I saw some soft, lazy clouds drifting by, but I couldn't find Terri's face up there anywhere. I got panicky. Where was she? She was always up there scolding and disapproving when I was doing something wrong, so where was she when I needed her help? The buildings were tall and blocking out about half of the sky, so I stepped over to the curb where I could see the sky better. Still, nothing, I couldn't find her.

  “Talbott, you okay?” Sandy frowned, sounding concerned.

  “I'm fine,” I forced a reply and a smile. “It's nothing.”

  “No, well, you look like you saw a ghost.”

  “No, the problem is, I didn't… Oh, never mind, it's just a joke,” I quickly recovered and tried to smile.

  “Where are we going now? Back to my aunt's? Because if you still want that stuff on Eddie that's in my closet over on Clark, I have another idea.”

  “Another one?” I asked, still searching the clouds.

  “Come with Mama,” she laughed as she hooked her arm in mine and led me away. We went back west and north on the side streets until we found that walkway between the buildings that got us to the alley behind her apartment building. The gray government car was still parked there with a blue-suited goon sitting inside. She pulled out her cell phone and turned it on. “Relax, watch the pro work.” She pulled out an official-looking business card and dialed the number. “I need to talk to Agent Dulaney,” she whispered, as if she was in a panic. “He isn't? Hey, this is Sandy Kasmarek. I'm in a little Greek restaurant at Lincoln and Belmont, and that guy Agent Dulaney is looking for? Talbott? Well, he's standing outside watching me, so you gotta help me.... No, I can't wait. Oh, God, he's coming in. I'm so scared.” Then she snapped the phone's cover closed and grinned.

  It took less than a minute for the car to start and tear off down the alley.

  “Can I hear a big Amen,” she grinned. At the corner, the gray car put a flashing red light on the dash and took a sharp turn west, tires squealing.

  “That should hold them for a while, let's go.”

  “You're pretty good at this, aren't you?”

  “I'm pretty good at a lot of things.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Because the papers say so...

  The rear of Sandy's apartment building had an open wooden staircase that zigzagged up from the small, fenced rear yard to the upper floors. She took the stairs two at a time and I followed close behind, across the landings to the third floor. She had her key out and we were through her rear door into the kitchen in less than a minute. Once over the threshold, she stopped and I plowed into her. My first impressions of her kitchen were empty beer cans, fast-food bags, a half-full bottle of vodka, dirty dishes, and a half-dozen scraggly houseplants on the window ledge. But Sandy wasn't looking at any of that. She was looking at the imposing figure of Gino Parini sitting in one of her kitchen chairs. He had a Chicago Sun Times in front of him open to the sports page and his chrome .45-caliber automatic laying next to it.

  “Close the door,” Parini said as he motioned us to come in the rest of the way. He threw a quick glance around the kitchen and said, “Some housekeeper, your woman,”

  “I'm not his woman,” she shot back.

  He ignored her. “You really are one persistent pain in the ass, Ace. I've been sitting here since last night. Where you been? Shacked up with her?

  “Oh, fuck you!” she shot back.

  “A housekeeper with a foul mouth,
” he snorted. His long black hair hung straight down to his shoulders today and he wore a navy blue, double-breasted blazer with gold buttons, crisp white slacks, and a maroon silk shirt, open at the neck.

  “You off to Newport for the yacht races?” I asked.

  “Cut the crap,” he growled. “You shoulda done what I told you back in Columbus.”

  “You told me to get out of town. I did.”

  “Yeah, but the wrong freakin’ way. You didn't go back to Boston; you came here. Now take a seat. You too, Sweet Pea. There's things we gotta talk about.”

  “You know this grease ball?” Sandy demanded, looking at him and at me.

  “His name's Gino Parini,” I said with an apologetic shrug. “He's a hit man for the New Jersey Mafia.”

  “A hit man? For the Mafia?” She slapped herself on the forehead.

  “Don't worry, he's not after us.”

  “A nice guy, with puppy-dog eyes,” she muttered. “Jeez, how could I be so stupid again? How?”

  “And how do you know who I'm not after?” Parini growled.

  “He's the one who showed me the obituaries back in Boston. And he even came to my funeral in Ohio.”

  “How nice. Did he send flowers?”

  “Shut up and sit down,” Gino glared at her. “Both of you.”

  I sat. Sandy didn't. She looked over at me, then at him, then back at me again. “The FBI. The Mafia. And now a hit man.” She shook her head angrily. “Non ci credo.” I don't believe this, she muttered in Italian.

  “Cosa t'aspetti?” What did you expect? Parini chuckled. “And is that a hint of Palermo I hear underneath that bad Italian?”

  “Her Polish in-laws call her “that little wop girl,” I added, but she had had enough. She turned and smacked me across the side of the head. I barely saw her hand move, but my ear was ringing. “I thought you were on my side, Gino. How come you didn't stop her?”

  “You thought wrong. I ain't on nobody's side and it ain't me she was smackin’,” he said as he stood up and pushed her into her chair with one finger to the center of her chest. “Nuthin’ personal, but like I said, sit down.” With his big arms and barrel chest, he towered over her and her courage shrank into the chair cushion. “Now what do we got here, Ace? A great housekeeper. Speaks Italian. From all the beer cans and bottles, she drinks too damned much. And it says "S. A. Kasmarek" on the mailbox. So who is she?”