The Undertaker

by William Brown

  “You did knock my train off the tracks,” she kissed me on the chest, softly and gently. “And I don't want to create an ego problem, but it's never been like that.”

  “You are amazing,” I told her.

  “Yeah, I am, aren't I? And I'll bet if we give it another try, I can even be more amazing.”

  She was and we were.

  Later, we lay there in the bunk wrapped tightly around each other, as if we couldn't get enough. The window shade was up and the bright, early morning sunlight fell across us. The sky was a clear, high blue, with white clouds blowing past. I couldn't see Terri's face, but I knew she was there, watching, happy for me, happy for us, happy for all of us.

  “She's your biggest fan,” I told Sandy as I looked out the window.

  Sandy raised her head, looked at me, then followed my eyes out the window and thought it over. “Terri?” she asked in a small voice. I nodded. Slowly, Sandy looked back out the window again and pulled the sheet up over her. “You kept saying her name in your sleep last night.”

  “It's not like that.”

  “It's not huh?” She turned back and looked at me, our faces only inches apart. “Because you really creeped me out there for a second.”

  “All I know, is that all the guilts are gone now. In the hospital in LA, when she was dying, she told me I had to find someone else after she was gone. She knew I'm a one-girl-kinda-guy and how hard this would be hard for me. That's why I know she's happy now.”

  “Good,” she said as she kissed me again. “But next time we do this, would you mind if I pull the shade down? I can get as kinky as the next girl, but this bunk is only so big and even I have my limits.”

  We both laughed, but I swore I heard Terri laughing along with us. “Like I said, Peter,” I heard her say to me. “She's smart and she's funny, and you need her. Now, goodbye Peter, goodbye. You don't need me anymore.”

  At 7:15, we slipped the menu under the door and took a break.

  “This love stuff burns a lot of calories and I'm starved,” Sandy said as we ordered most of the items on the menu. When Phillip came back at 7:45, I opened the door far enough to take the big tray from him.

  “You can relax, sir,” he said. “Ain't nobody been askin’ ‘bout nobody or nothin’.”

  “Great, Phillip.” I handed him cash for the breakfasts and a big tip. “We have a long stop in Albany, don't we?”

  “Yes, sir, just before noon, usually forty-five minutes. Ya'll can get off and stretch a bit if you like, while they switch the other cars to the New York train.”

  I locked the door and turned around with the tray. Sandy had grabbed two towels from the shower. She had tied one around her waist and the other hung around her neck so the ends covered her chest. “Sorry.” she shrugged as she pulled out the small fold-down table and sat on the end of the lower bunk. “I'm too hungry to get dressed.”

  We sat opposite each other eating, but as the minutes passed, she grew strangely quiet. “What's wrong?” I asked her.

  “There are some things I need to tell you.” Her eyes never left her plate.

  “No you don't.”

  “Yes, I do. At my aunt's, back in Chicago, I really wanted to make love to you.”

  “I know that, but it would have been sex, not love.”

  “I know that too. This isn't easy for me to say, so please let me get it all out. The last couple of years have been bad. Nothing was working for me. I was lonely. I was desperate for a little warmth, a little affection. I had started drinking again, drinking a lot, and I knew I couldn't get much lower. So, if a one-night stand with a nice guy like you was the best I could get, I wasn't going to turn it down.” She raised her head and looked at me, tears running down her cheeks. “But I have never done anything like that before, Peter, I swear it,” she said, trembling. “Never.”

  “Sandy, don't blame yourself. God knows, I wanted to, but if I had…”

  “I know. But when you rejected me, I was crushed. I was angry, lonely, and very depressed.” Tears were running down her cheeks, and she looked like a small, very scared little girl. I reached over with my napkin and wiped the tears away. “On the El, when I told you there was nothing for me to go back to in Chicago, I really meant it. I hate to use the “S” word, but if you had dumped me downtown yesterday or over on State, I probably would have killed myself.” She kissed my hand and gave me a pained smile. “I'm over all that now. I am, really. So, if I'm still here, driving you crazy today, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “We really are a pair, aren't we?” I said. “I talk to ghosts and you're suicidal.”

  “Not anymore.” She touched my hand. “So you can keep all your memories of Terri, and you can talk to her any time you want… as long as I can pull the shade down every now and then.”

  I set the tray outside in the corridor and we lay in the lower bunk wrapped around each other for the rest of the morning. It had been a long, painful time since I felt this close to anyone, to someone who I knew needed me as much as I need her.

  “You don't suppose this whole thing is just a big adrenalin rush after the Dan Ryan, do you,” I asked as I drew lazy circles on her back with my finger.

  “I don't care what it is. I'm not moving… well, except maybe to do that.”

  “It's almost 11:00. That stop in Albany is coming up and we need to call Hardin.”

  “You'd rather do that than lay here with me like this, stark naked?”

  “No, but we can come back and you can have me for the whole afternoon.”

  “That's what all the boys say.”

  The train rolled on through the beautiful, wooded and hilly upper New York countryside as we got dressed. Sandy gave her head a violent shake and scratched her head wildly with both hands for a few seconds, sending her hair scattering in every direction. She gave it two or three pats to push down the worst parts. “There!” she said. “I'm ready.”

  The Albany station was in the lower part of downtown. We looked through the windows but didn't see any cops, strange sedans, or guys in suits and sunglasses, so we got off train and found two pay phones inside the station. I dropped in a couple of quarter and called Senator Hardin's office. As they connected us, I handed Sandy the phone. “You're good at this, get him on the line,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said in a bubbly voice into the phone. “Is the Senator in?... I'm sure he is. Tell him Sandy Kasmarek, the cute little butt in the blue silk dress who worked for him in Chicago, is on the phone, and she's pregnant.” She looked up at me and winked. “You still won't interrupt him? Okay, okay, then tell him Peter Talbott is standing next to me… Ah! That name he does know. Yeah, honey, I'll wait… and I was just kidding about the pregnant part... Yeah, I know you knew.” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered to me, “When ya gets 'em down, ya pounds lumps on 'em,”

  “Who told you that? Bobby McNally?”

  “No, Father Tony.” She turned back to the phone. “Hi, Tim, you too... Well, we've been kinda busy. There aren't too many phones out here in the woods.” She rolled her eyes back and forth, mocking him. “The stories in the newspapers? I didn't know we were such celebrities... And you got the overnight package? Good… Yeah, he's standing right here… No, no problem, here he is,” she said as she handed me the phone.

  “Senator, good to talk to you,” I said. “Did you look those papers over?”

  “I sure did, Pete — may I call you Pete? -– and I interviewed that fat creep Panozzo long enough to know that stuff you sent me is real.”

  “Good, because I've got two more drives full of that stuff. One must have a hundred other syndicate-front businesses on it. The other has all the payoffs to cops and politicians, the overseas investments, foreign bank accounts, all of that stuff.”

  Hardin went silent for a moment. “Two more drives of that stuff, huh? And all the payoffs. Well, that's dynamite, Pete, absolute dynamite. But those notes of yours about Ralph Tinkerton and those people in Ohio…”

  �
��I can prove it, Senator. Every word.”

  “You can, huh? Where are you? We need to get you off the street.”

  “Tennessee at the moment, but we're headed your way.”

  “Look, Pete, you're in real danger. I can have some people…”

  “You have enough to do with what I already sent you. Check out those names, the death certificates, and the graves in Columbus. I'll call you in a day or two, when we get to Washington. Ciao.” I hung up on him. Hardin? The left half of my brain trusted him, because he was a U. S. Senator and because we didn't have very many other options. But, the right half told me I'd be a fool to bet my life on any Washington politician.

  I saw Philip again as we got back on the train and had him bring us some lunch, then we locked ourselves in the compartment. Like Sandy said earlier, all that lovin’ stuff burns a lot of calories. That it did. After we ate, I folded the upper bunk up into the wall and lay down on the lower with my clothes on.

  Sandy stripped down to her underwear again and looked down at me. “You don't want a bunch of ugly wrinkles in those new clothes now, do you?” she scrunched up her nose and slowly slipped out of the underwear too. I shook my head and started to get undressed, but she pushed my hands away. “No,” she said. “It's my turn.” She slipped out of her bra and panties and with tantalizing slowness, undressed me. Then she pushed me down on the bunk and we made love again. Afterward, she rolled over, put her head on my chest, and we both fell into a deep sleep.

  It was 3:00 when Sandy yawned and stretched, supple and sensuous like a big cat unwinding from a long nap. “How long until we get to Boston?” she asked.

  “Two, maybe three hours.”

  “You're kidding. I must have dozed off.”

  “Dozed? Yeah, that was what it was. I'll take the first shower,” I said as I started to roll over her and get up.

  “Wait a minute.” She pushed me back down and put a finger on my lips. “Don't say a word. This should not come as a big surprise to you, but I am utterly in love with you, Peter Talbott. I know you can't use the “L” word yet, and I'm okay with that. But every now and then, give me a little squeeze or a kiss or something so I know you still like me, okay? But not a word. Please. Or you'll break the spell. I'm going to slip into the shower now, and then we'll do your hair.”

  Actually, we discovered that even a tiny Amtrak shower could hold two people and a lot of fun. Afterward, she came back in with the bottle of blonde hair dye and wrapped a towel around my shoulders. “We could go for the sun-drenched, poofy-blonde surfer look,” she said. “Or the tousled, freaked-out, white-haired, Rod Stewart look. Or, I could really screw it up, turn your hair green, and watch it fall out in big clumps.”

  “How about the former beautician with the black eye look?”

  It took her about a half hour, but after I toweled it dry and combed it, I looked at myself in the mirror. The hair and eyebrows were now a nice, natural blonde and the face looking back at me didn't look anything like mine.

  “Not bad for a bimbo beauty school graduate, is it?” she asked.

  “Well, you never told me you graduated. You going to do yours, too?”

  “The black is so… me. But, yeah, I thought I'd try a light brown.”

  “Good choice. While you do that, I'll order us an early dinner. The train gets into South Station in Boston at 6:30, but I thought we'd off at Framingham at 5:50 and catch a local into the city. That'll get us closer to Doug's house and we can avoid any unfriendly eyes waiting for us downtown.”

  Framingham was in the far western suburbs. We stepped down on the platform and I said goodbye to Phillip, expecting the SWAT team to jump out of the bushes any minute with bullhorns and riot guns, but nothing happened. The streets around the small station were filled with dozens and dozens of luxury cars and SUVs waiting for the commuter trains from the city. We walked into the waiting room. It had four ticket windows, only one of which was open, and a newsstand that sold a little bit of everything from cigarettes to newspapers, candy, and maps. I went over and picked up a Rand McNally map of Boston that showed the railroad and subway routes on one side and a street map on the other.

  “You live here,” Sandy said. “What do you need a map for?”

  “I only moved here two months ago. Other than driving to the office in Waltham from my “suck-ass” little apartment in Lexington, as Gino called it, and maybe the Red Sox game Doug dragged me to, you probably know Boston better than I do.”

  I looked at the map while she went to the window and bought two commuter train tickets When she came back, we walked outside to the tracks and went around to the other side of a billboard that screened us from the station and the street.

  “Another billboard, another train station. Wanna neck?” She pressed against me and moved gently back and forth. “Hmmm. Something tells me you don't mind anymore.”

  I leaned my chin on the top of her head. “How much time do we have?”

  “About ten minutes. Not enough, is it? So you owe me one.”

  “Are you keeping count?”

  “You better believe it. An opportunity lost is an opportunity lost… Sister Eugenia.”

  The commuter train was on time, but it was a local milk run that stopped at every little station, which was exactly what I wanted. It dropped underground and we finally reached the Back Bay station at 7:00. We walked through the station and took the long flight of stairs up to the street, but nothing looked out of place.

  “We're getting pretty good at this sneaky stuff, aren't we?” Sandy asked as we hurried off up Exeter Street. The shadows were getting long and it would be dark soon. A line of storms had swept through while we were on the train, leaving the streets wet and the early evening air warm and damp. I looked up. The sky was clearing. The stars were coming out and it would be a good night for walking.

  “Have you ever been here before?” I asked.

  “Boston was our spring trip my senior year of high school. Half the class lost their virginity that weekend.”

  “What happened to the other half?”

  “They became nuns.”

  “So, that's the part you remember most? The churches?”

  She grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Actually, about all I do remember is a bunch of kids running through the subway cars singing about getting poor Charlie and the MTA.” She pointed back to the round sign with the blue “T” over the subway entrance. “But they called it the “T” by then and that ruined the whole thing. Don't worry, though. I know Boston like the back of my hand; I've read all the Spenser books.”

  She wrapped herself around my arm. “Are you still okay with this?’

  “Are you going to keep asking?”

  “About every five minutes, so you better get used to it.”

  Being a man of few words, I lifted her off the ground and gave her a big kiss.

  Back Bay had been the old Charles River marshes that land speculators had filled in the nineteenth century, so it was the only part of the old city with a sensible grid pattern. It had five boulevards — Beacon, Marlborough, Commonwealth, Newberry, and Boylston Streets — plus some short side streets. Commonwealth ran down the middle, with a wide, park-like strip of trees, grass, formal gardens, and flowerbeds called the Mall in its median. Back Bay was nice, with big trees overhanging the sidewalks and streets. From there it was an easy walk to Harvard, Fenway Park, the Band Shell, Filene's, the Markets downtown, and the financial district. That made a Back Bay townhouse one of the most fashionable and expensive addresses in Boston. Obviously, Doug's lifestyle had improved since his nine-hundred square foot apartment in Glendale.

  The sun was setting. I had my arm around Sandy's shoulder and she had her arm around my waist as we walked, looking to all the world like lovers out for a stroll. As darkness set in, we made circled Doug's block, turning west one street short of Marlborough and walked up Commonwealth a few streets, turning north again and crossing Marlborough, then walking east on Beacon back to Exeter. The street
lights came on, the pavement glistened beneath our feet as we walked, and it was surprisingly quiet. Perhaps the lush canopy of dripping oaks screened out the big city noise. Whatever, my docksiders sounded like Clydesdale hoofs on the cobblestones. I checked the parked cars even more closely. Still, I saw nothing. Were they that good? Was I that stupid? Or, had no one been there to begin with?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Boston: the Flying Wallendas meet Stephen King…

  At night, nothing looks more sinister than an old 19th century brownstone, with the lights out and the shades drawn. They'd make great locations for a Stephen King movie, and Doug's townhouse on Marlborough Street was no exception. We walked by on the other side of the street where we had a full view of his place and all the cars on the street, continuing down to the corner. His was a narrow, three-story townhouse, the fifth one from the far corner. It couldn't have been more than forty feet wide. As with most of the other homes on the street, the first floor and front door were a half- storey above ground level. Ten wide, but badly worn granite steps led to a to a raised stoop and a massive, hand-carved Victorian front door. There were carved, limestone balustrades on each side and cut glass sidelights and a stained-glass transom around the door. All in all, very distinguished.

  “You gonna try the door?” Sandy whispered.

  “That thing? Not without the key or dynamite,” I told her as I continued checking each parked car, doorway, and rooftop we passed. “Let's look around back.”

  We crossed the street at the corner and continued south to the alley.

  “There's no way they know we're here.”

  “No? All I did was mention Eddie's name to Tinkerton, and they were all over you before I even got to Chicago. The other names in the obituaries were from Phoenix, Portland, and Atlanta, and I'll bet Tinkerton sent a bunch of his men to those cities too.”

  “But the odds...”

  “There are no odds. That term doesn't apply to Tinkerton.”

  We entered the alley and walked quietly along the rear side of the houses. It was like being in a dark, narrow canyon, with an unbroken line of tall, board fences, garage doors, and trashcans on each side, lit by an occasional security light mounted high on a telephone pole. The small circles of light they cast shimmered off the puddles in the alley's ruts and potholes, leaving a hundred dark places for someone to hide.