Two months later, the phone rang. It was Doug, desperate for a systems programmer. He didn’t need to ask twice. Most people wouldn’t look forward to a five-thousand-mile drive all by themselves, but it didn’t bother me one bit. I’d spent most of the year practicing being alone and had gotten good at it. Besides, it was easier for me to drive across the country for a week than to spend another night alone in LA.
In a way, I came to enjoy those long days in the Bronco. My first choice would have been to have Terri in the front seat next to me, anytime and anywhere, but out on the open road I had our music and our memories to keep me company. The truth was, I still had her. Every now and then, even cold sober, I heard her speak to me. Not always in so many words, but I understood what she was telling me. And I would get those looks. She was up there in the clouds looking out for me, as she did down in Mexico. She was worried about me, not that I could blame her. If I had a brain in my head, I’d be worried about me too. I understood what she was saying. It was the same thing she said to me that last night in the hospital before she died. She wanted me to get out of LA, she wanted me to make a new life, and she wanted me to find someone I could be with, for my sake as much as for hers. If I didn’t, she told me she would haunt me forever, and we both knew what a single-minded pain-in-the-ass Terri could be when she wanted to.
It was shortly after 9:30 PM when I finished the stuff for Julie and switched off my computer monitor. The old Chinese janitor who was vacuuming the aisle glanced up at me as I walked by. He was probably wondering why the Barbarian was working this late. My back and legs wondered too. I was bleary-eyed and in a computer-induced fog as I grabbed my empty thermos and headed for the door.
Outside, I looked up at the night sky, as had become my habit in the past year. Just checking in again, I told her as I took a few deep breaths. After a long day in air conditioning, the warm, damp evening air felt good. I guess there were a couple of dozen other cars scattered about the parking lot, not that I paid them any attention as I trudged toward my dirty red Ford Bronco sitting in the middle. It was a grizzled veteran of the commuter battles on the LA expressways. Our friends jokingly referred to it as the “OJ Simpson” model. It didn’t get good mileage, but it had a big gas tank and the cops could chase you all day in it.
I pulled out my remote key and pressed “unlock.” Totally brain dead, I heard the doors pop open and got inside. I tossed the thermos in the back seat, pulled the door closed and fastened my seat belt. I stuck the key in the ignition and was about to crank the engine when the passenger door opened and very large guy slipped in next to me. His slick, jet-black hair was pulled back into a stubby ponytail and he had a weightlifter’s body that stretched the seams of his sharkskin sports coat. He wore a dark-red silk shirt open at the throat and a half-dozen gold chains around his neck. More importantly, he held a chrome-plated .45 caliber automatic pointed at my chest. Having spent two years in the Army, I knew what a .45 could do to on the pistol range. I didn’t want to know what it could in the front seat of my Bronco.
“You Peter Talbott?” he asked, glaring at me.
“You want the Bronco? It’s yours.”
“No, I don’t want the freakin’ Bronco.”
“It’s yours, really,” I told him as I reached for the door handle.
“Look, Ace, this ain’t no carjack, and if it were, I’d pick something better than an old piece of shit like this,” he said as he raised the .45 a few inches higher and I stopped moving. “Now, you Talbott or not?”
“Yes, yes, I’m Talbott.”
“Peter Emerson Talbott? 33 years old?” I nodded, ready to agree to anything. “From California? Went to freakin’ UCLA? UCLA?” His eyes narrowed as he repeated the name of the school. “You know, I lost two large on those dumb bastards in the NCAA tournament last year. I oughta…”
“Yeah.” I kept nodding. “They’re real dumb bastards, really dumb.”
“But you weren’t there then, were you? Says you graduated back in ’98.” More nods, wondering where this was heading. “I guess I can’t blame you then, can I?”
“Uh, no, I wouldn’t.”
“Shut up! You were in the Army and then you went to work for something called Netdyne out in LA. Right?”
“Yeah, software and aeronautical engineering computer stuff.” I kept nodding as the feeling of stark terror was beginning to wear off. After all, he hadn’t shot me yet.
“You moved here to Boston two months ago and you’re living in that little suck-ass apartment over in Lexington? So where’s your wife?”
“Where’s my wife?” Now it was my turn to get pissed. I sat up and glared. “She’s dead. She died a year ago back in LA.”
“Yeah? You freakin’ sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m freakin’ sure about it!” The .45 or not, I’d had enough.
“Okay, Ace, then how do you explain this?”
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a bad Xerox copy of an old newspaper story, and dropped it in my lap. One glance and I knew exactly what it was:
TALBOTT, PETER EMERSON, age 33, died last Tuesday in a tragic automobile accident in Baja California. A 1998 graduate of UCLA and former lieutenant in the US Army Transportation Corps, he was a software engineer with Netdyne Systems in Long Beach and the husband of Theresa June Talbott who preceded him in death here last month following a lengthy illness. A memorial service will be held at the Montane chapel in Long Beach at 2:00 PM on Thursday.
“Oh, not this again.” I laughed and shook my head, recognizing the old obituary from the LA Times.
“You see something funny, smart guy?”
“That obituary, it was all a big mistake.”
“A mistake?” He raised the .45. “I’m all freakin’ ears.”
I tried to explain to him about the trip to Tijuana, the 350-Z, the semi, the dead Mexican kid, and the memorial service in Long Beach.
The guy sat and listened; as he said, he was all ears. When I finally finished, he sat there for a minute as if he was studying me. “Okay, then how do you explain Columbus?”
“Columbus?”
“Yeah, Columbus. In Ohio. You never heard of it?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of it.”
“So what were you doing there? Having more funerals for the hell of it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I‘ve never been there.”
“Never?” he glared, looking deep into my eyes. “What about that dip-shit accounting office of yours down on Sickles?”
“Accounting office? I’m a software engineer, a computer programmer; I don’t know anything about accounting. Look, whoever you’re looking for, I’m not him.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it, how do you explain these?” he said as he dropped two other slips of torn newsprint in my lap.
They were two more obituaries. I picked the first one up and read:
TALBOTT, PETER EMERSON, age 33, of Columbus, died Sunday at Varner Clinic following a tragic automobile accident. President of Center Financial Advisors. Formerly of Los Angeles. A 1998 graduate of UCLA and a lieutenant, US Army Transportation Corps. By authority of Ralph Tinkerton, Executor. (See also TALBOTT, THERESA JUNE, wife, accompanying). Funeral services for both at 2:00 PM tomorrow, Greene Funeral Home, 255 E. Larkin Road, Peterborough, Ohio. Internment, Oak Hill Cemetery, following.
“You making a fuckin’ hobby out of these?” he asked, but all I could do was stare at it. Coincidence? How many 1998 graduates of UCLA were there? How many were thirty-three years old and from Los Angeles? How many of those were alumni of the “Fighting” Transportation Corps, “an officer and a gentleman by Act of Congress” named Peter Emerson Talbott? Only one that I could think of. I had never heard of a company named Center Financial Advisors, much less owned one, and I had never heard of the Varner Clinic or a man named Ralph Tinkerton, either.
Worse still, I looked at the other one. It was the companion piece for Terri:
TAL
BOTT, THERESA JUNE, age 33, of Columbus, died Sunday at Varner Clinic following a tragic automobile accident. Loving wife of Peter. (See also TALBOTT, PETER EMERSON, Husband, accompanying). Formerly of Los Angeles and a 1999 graduate of Berkeley. By authority, Ralph Tinkerton, Executor. Funeral services for both at 2:00 PM tomorrow, Greene Funeral Home, 255 E. Larkin Road, Peterborough, Ohio. Internment, Oak Hill Cemetery, following.
This was no mistake. That couple in the newspaper was supposed to be Terri and me, no doubt about it. It was a lie and in that instant I got very angry. They could do what they wanted to me. My name and my reputation meant nothing, certainly not after Baja, but when they dragged Terri into it, something inside me snapped. This was worse than identity theft. It was memory corruption. They were stealing her, stealing my memories of her, wrapping their greasy fingers around them and warping them. Something snapped inside me and I knew that was something I couldn’t let happen. I didn’t care about this Bozo with the Soprano suit and the .45, and I didn’t care about the odds. I was going to stop them. It’s funny how when you have nothing to lose, as I did back then, it’s easy to think stupid thoughts like that.
He stared at me. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“More than you’ll ever know. Where did you get these?”
“This morning’s Columbus Daily Press.”
“Today? I don’t get it.”
“Yeah, neither do we. You ever heard of Jimmy Santorini?”
I shook my head.
“How about Rico Patillo? Bayonne? East Orange?”
“In New Jersey? You’re kidding, right?”
His eyes grew hard. “Do I look like I’m freakin’ kidding? I don’t suppose you ever heard of Ralph Tinkerton either?” He stared at me, trying to read my eyes as I shook my head again. “Ah, shit,” he finally said in disgust, then opened the passenger side door and started to get out. He turned and looked back at me, pointing the .45 at my old blue jeans and the Rolling Stones Voodoo Lounge World Tour T-shirt. “Freakin’ California. Ain’t you a little old for that outfit?”
I looked at his gaudy chain and the sharkskin “lounge-lizard” jacket and replied, “Freakin’ New Jersey. Ain’t you a little young?”
“A smart ass, huh?” he answered with a glint of humor in his eye as he got the rest of the way out. “I like that, but you be real careful, Ace. Keep both hands on the steering wheel, drive straight out of the parking lot, and don’t look back until you reach that ‘suck-ass’ dump you’re renting in Lexington. You got that?”
“But what about…”
“Forget about it. Tinkerton may have made one mistake, but he won’t make a second one, and neither will I. So get out of here. Forget all about everything I told you and forget all about me. You got that? ’Cause if I see so much as a brake light come on, you’ll get a slug through the rear window.”
I did what he said. I drove away and I didn’t stop, not that I thought he really was following me or that he’d shoot that big cannon at me, but there was nothing to be gained by finding out. I drove to Lexington, pulled into a parking space next to my little “suck-ass” dump, and turned off the motor. Too bad I couldn’t turn mine off. It was just getting going. Screw him, I thought as I leaned over and opened the glove compartment. I pulled out my dog-eared Road Atlas. That was when I noticed the three newspaper clippings lying on the floor. The grease-ball had dropped them there. He wanted me to have them. I had to give him credit; he was pushing all the right buttons and there was nothing I could do to stop myself. Not that I really cared what kind of scam they were pulling or what they were using my name for, but they had crossed the line when they began messing with Terri. She was out of bounds.
Columbus, Ohio. I opened the Road Atlas to the mileage table on the back page. My finger ran down the lefthand column until I found the Boston row, then ran it across to the Cs until I found Columbus. It was 783 miles from Boston, about a twelve-hour drive in the Bronco. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 10:17 PM. Plenty of time to run inside, make a fresh thermos of coffee, throw some stuff in an overnight bag, and make it there for my funeral at 2:00 PM tomorrow. After all, I missed the one in LA and I would feel really bad if I missed this one too.
Looking back on it all, if I knew then what I know now, the smartest thing I could have done was exactly what the grease-ball told me to do — forget about it. But if I had listened to him and went home and went to sleep, I would never have made it to Columbus or Chicago, I would have never met Sandy, and my life today would be infinitely poorer.
***
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
POSTSCRIPT
About the Author
Dedication
Preview of THE UNDERTAKER
Copyright Page
Burke’s Gamble
Copyright © 2017 by William F. Brown
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Todd Hebertson.
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