MASON STOOD OVER the corpse of a young Asian man and puzzled. The body cooled on a ceramic table that was tipped at a slight angle with a drain at the foot end: a human-sized sink. He knew the stiff was an Asian stiff, but couldn’t figure out just how he knew that. A moonscape of waxy craters with crisp edges smudged out the face, so it couldn’t have been from the identification of an epicanthic fold or similar tell-tale feature. It could be the skin-tone, but then again, just about everyone took on a yellowish hue in the early stages of putrefaction. Maybe it was the smell. The stiff had not yet been embalmed, in fact would never be embalmed, so his natural odor still hung in the air over the meat, mingling with the exhalations of the bacteria already cooking him from the inside out. Then again, if someone were to ask him, Mason could not say exactly what an Asian smelled like. It was just a feeling.
Mason grunted.
Sinclair, Mason’s man, looked up from his post by the door. There was nothing to guard against here, but Sinclair always gravitated toward portals. When it came to security you could never have too many barriers, especially human ones who were excellent shots. “You say something, Mr. Mason?”
Mason glanced up from the corpse’s un-face. “Shotgun to the puss.”
Sinclair craned his neck for a look, nodded.
The funeral director, Habib, stepped up, a silent shadow. “Gang violence,” he said, his dark eyes grave. The lightest Lebanese accent spiced his voice. “Sawed-off twelve gauge. I see it all the time.”
Sinclair smiled and shook his head from side to side. Mason’s left eyebrow rose an inch. “Sawed-off?”
“See it all the time,” Habib repeated.
“Bullshit,” Mason said, turning toward the diminutive man. Habib was a loyal member of Mason’s organization, so he was tolerated and rewarded, if not highly regarded. Mason thought of him as a body troll, slinking through the dim places, manipulating dead things. A necessary ghoul. “Guess how I know that, Habib.”
Habib looked at Mason’s nose and waited. You didn’t look this man in the eyes if you were smart. Not because Mason took it as an affront, but because you couldn’t get them out of your head for days after. Other people’s eyes reflected light; Mason’s ate it. “Sir?”
“I know it wasn’t a sawed-off because a sawed-off is only effective at short range.” He flicked the corpse’s skull on the word “range” for emphasis. It thocked like ripe cantaloupe. “And I know that if a sawed-off had been used on this slope at close range,” thock, “his head wouldn’t look like a pizza. He wouldn’t have a head at all.”
Habib nodded. “Ah, of course.”
Mason was right. Mason was almost always right, and when on that rare occasion he was incorrect, no one was foolhardy enough to point it out. He was a brilliant man. This little funerary front was only one manifestation of his intelligence.
It had been Mason’s inspiration a few years ago to set a up formaldehyde smuggling operation. The preservative was good for a great deal more than discouraging decay. It was used in the manufacture of PCP as well as several other illicit drugs. Because it had so many applications, the government kept a tight watch over the distribution of formaldehyde, so what better front than a funeral parlor? They had all the cause in the world to buy up gallons and gallons of the stuff. Of course, it almost never went into any of the bodies that crossed the threshold at Habib and Sons. Due to the violent nature of the cases at Habib’s (Hamburger Habib’s to those in the know), most of their clients ordered closed-casket funerals. Habib’s was conveniently located just down the block from the shock-trauma ward in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. And, with Mr. Mason’s help, Habib’s also enjoyed agreements with orderlies in almost every morgue in the city. If it was hamburger, it went to Habib’s.
Habib and his boys still made sure to drain the corpses, a desiccated body stays fresher longer, then pack them in salt and lime. And while their customers were not much to look at, none of the mourners did much more than drape themselves over the caskets to drip and wail, so there was little risk of discovery. As long as the odor was controlled, the hamburger went into the ground and the formaldehyde went, well, elsewhere. And Hamburger Habib’s always got top marks from the Health Inspector for efficient disposal of chemical waste. There was hardly ever any trace formaldehyde on the premises, even in the embalming room. Habib and Sons was a model of compliance.
Since its inception three years ago, the operation had not only generated enormous revenues from its smuggling activities, it also managed to turn a tidy profit from the funeral clientele alone. It was one of Mason’s favorite businesses. Today he was here for a routine inspection. He’d already been over the books in the office upstairs and finding everything satisfactory, had moved to the embalming room. He liked the embalming room, the green tiled walls and smooth ceramic surfaces mentholated his nerves.
He looked down at the shotgun victim, and flicked the skull again. Thock. “How long’s this one been dead?”
“Less than twelve hours, Mr. Mason.”
“When’s the service?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir.”
Mason’s brow lifted. “You work fast, Habib.”
Habib smiled, revealing a discolored incisor. “We have to, sir.”
“Where’s this week’s outgoing shipment headed?”
Sinclair flinched just the tiniest bit. He reached inside his jacket at the discreet buzz next to his ribs. He pulled out a cell phone, glanced at the screen. He made quick eye contact with Mason, got permission with an almost imperceptible nod, and rolled around the doorjamb into the hall.
Mason wrangled Habib’s attention back to him. “The shipment? Where?”
“Indiana, sir.”
“The new lab?” Mason smiled. “Business must be booming if they need another shipment this soon.”
Habib rocked forward and back on his toes. “Yes, sir. Near an Amish town.”
“God love those Amish. Lots of bored teenagers.” He considered a moment. “Good furniture too.”
Sinclair stepped back in the room. Mason saw it on his face before the man could even open his mouth.
“Jeremy?”
“In the hospital, sir.”
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Sins of the Fathers Page 19
