Timothy Hallinan: Everything but the Squeal

It had never occurred to me to wonder why the Mountain had hit the streets. Now I knew.

“With all due respect to your loss,” I said, “you're an asshole.”

He called something hoarse and obscene after me as I turned away from them and caught up with Tommy. Jessica, Morris, and Hammond followed.

“I've got some money,” I said to Tommy. Aimee's mother had sent me a bonus of five thousand dollars. I'd cashed the check, deposited half, and had the other half in my pocket.

“So?” Tommy said, wheeling on me. He was ashamed that we'd seen him crying.

“So here's twenty-five hundred bucks,” I said, pressing the roll of bills into his hand. “Use it to hire someone who does what the Mountain did.”

Tommy curled his hand around the wad of hundreds and then opened it again. He pressed the bills back into my hand.

“Already did,” he said. “Whassa matter, you don't think I know what's important or something?” He sounded indignant.

“I don't mean to clear tables. I mean to send the kids home.”

He glared at me as though I were subhuman. “So do I,” he said. Then he turned his back to me and stalked off toward a waiting car.

In front of me, Donnie and his mother were heading toward their car. She was hanging back, complaining that she didn't know why she'd been brought all this way to attend the funeral of someone she'd never met. Donnie kept darting ahead of her. He was restraining his impulse to run. The next time he really ran, I was wondering, who would catch him?

“For Chrissakes, hold on,” Hammond grumbled behind me, and I realized that I'd increased my pace, limping on my bad knee to keep up with Donnie. Hammond was following, pissed off and shamefaced and sucking on a new cigar. Behind him were Jessica and Morris.

They had their backs to the grave and they were holding hands.