William Brown - The Undertaker

The clock radio on the end table said it was almost 6:00 PM. I would have at least an hour or an hour and a half more daylight, so I decided to check out my alter ego for myself. After all, my busy social schedule was clear for the rest of the night, so why not?

With my Marathon gas station road map spread out on the car seat next to me, the house on Sedgwick and the office on Sickles proved easy to find. They were a couple of miles apart further in toward town. The house was in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood on the northwest side, about three miles from the motel. It was an older Dutch Colonial with white clapboard siding, dark green shutters and door, flower boxes below the front windows, and two big oaks in front. I could imagine Beaver Cleaver skipping down the front walk on his way to school as Ward mowed the grass in his white shirt, tie, and cardigan sweater, smoking his pipe. Unfortunately, Ward wasn't taking care of this one. The grass was thin and mostly overtaken with weeds, the wood siding on the house had faded, the flowers in the window boxes hung limp and ratty, and the hedges were in desperate need of trimming.

I circled the block past the Neighborhood Watch sign with the big eyeball and parked in front of 625. After all, I was Peter Talbott, wasn't I? If this was my house, I had nothing to hide. I strolled up the sidewalk to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. Nothing. The drapes were drawn across the front picture window. There were no lights on, but leaning out as far as I could, I peeked around the edge and caught a glimpse inside. The house was empty. No furniture. No carpets. Nothing but bare walls and bare wooden floors. Interesting. The two bodies were barely in the ground, yet someone had already cleaned the place out.

Following a line of concrete stepping-stones, I walked around to the side of the house, whistling softly and acting as casual as I could in case anyone was watching. The path brought me to a gate in a wooden fence that ran around the back yard. I opened it and stepped inside. Again, empty. Not even a lawn chair, a rake, or a garden hose. They had picked the place clean.

“Can I help you, young man?” I heard a sharp-edged, woman's voice call to me.

I turned and smiled, knowing it wasn't a question. It was an accusation. On the other side of the fence stood a tall, craggy, gray-haired woman leaning on a long-handled garden rake, watching me like a sentry with a pike. She wore a man's oversized denim work shirt and she drew a steady bead on me with a pair of small, hawk-like eyes.

“You know, you just might,” I answered her with a big smile. “I've been trying to reach the Talbotts for a couple of days now.” I motioned toward the house. “I rang the bell, but nobody answered. Guess they aren't home.”

“Nope. Won't be coming back, neither. They're dead, both of ‘em, in a car wreck, three days ago.”

“That's awful. A car wreck, huh?”

“When you get to be my age, you don't want to speak ill of the dead, ‘cause you might be next. But the way Pete drove, didn't come as no surprise.”

“You knew them pretty well?”

“'Bout as well as I know you. They moved in maybe six months ago and kept to themselves. Didn't talk much to me or anyone else around here, far as know.”

I had to laugh. “Warm and friendly?”

“New Jersey. Same difference. She had a mouth on her could curdle milk. And him? All I ever heard from that fat slob was a loud belch. No, sir, they never fit in, not in this neighborhood, and that's the way they wanted it.”

She pointed to the rear yard. “Look at the place. Used to be real pretty back when the Battersees lived here, but Pete let everything die. Probably so he'd never have to cut it. He was too damned lazy to do it himself and too cheap to hire it out.” She shook her head sadly. “I don't know. It was as if the two of them weren't expecting to be here very long and they couldn't be bothered. So “screw the lot ‘a you” was about all we ever got out of them, if you'll pardon my French.”

“But the house? It's already empty.”

“Yep. A big Allied moving van showed up this morning and took everything.”

“This morning? Before the funeral?

“Yep, lock, stock, and pasta barrel.”

“Pasta barrel? I didn't think they were Italian.”

“Well, you ask me, they were passin'. Talaberti? Talachetti? Talabuttafucco? Whatever. Maybe Pete changed the name for business, but he wasn't foolin' any of us.”

“No kids? No family?”

“None that I ever heard of. Nobody but lawyers.”

“Lawyers?” I laughed along with her. “There was a time I had a few of them as dependents myself.”

“Nice boys. Short hair. Dark suits. Like those two fellas in “Men in Black”, but both of them were white and nowhere near as good looking as Tommy Lee Jones.”

“Tommy Lee Jones?”

“That's just to show you I don't miss much, young man.”

“Oh, I can see that.”

“They sat out there in that gray sedan all morning. Imagine, two lawyers sitting out there in that car, billing by the hour, watching four rednecks load a moving van. I declare.”

“No idea where they were taking the stuff?”

“Nope, they didn't say and I didn't ask.”

“What about the lawyers?”

“From Hamilton, Keogh, and Hollister, that big firm downtown.” She shook her head. “Imagine what they cost? All that overhead. But they were nice and polite, just like you. They showed me their business cards and their papers, 'cause I said I'd call the cops if they didn't. Same reason you're going to show me yours, aren't you?”

Sharp. Very sharp, I thought. She held out her hand and waited for me to produce mine. “Hey, I'd love too,” I said. “My briefcase and all my stuff's out in the car. I can go get one if you'd like.”

She stared at me with a hint of amusement. “If you say so, but I saw those California plates on that Bronco of yours. I wrote the number down too, 'cause we've had enough of people snooping around here lately and we're beginnin' to know what belongs and what don't.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing? Snooping?”

She looked at me and cocked her head. “I don't know. You don't look like that other one, I'll give you that much.”

“The other one?”

“A cheap sports coat with sunglasses and all those gold chains. He drove a Lincoln, but there were others before him nosin' around, lookin', and none of them belonged in this neighborhood. Neither did those two Talbotts. And neither do you.”

“One look and you can tell, huh?”

“Mister, you asked enough questions for one day. Time for you to move along. I got a. 357 Magnum inside the house and that's an NRA Life Member decal on my front window. Now you git.”

“Whoa! I'm with First Ohio National up in Toledo. They just moved me back here from California and the Talbotts are four months behind in their car payments. My job's to track down deadbeats. That's why I'm here.”

“Which one? His old Buick Electra or the Chevy?”

“Actually both,” I said, taking chance out of the equation.

“Then you're half-way in luck. Pete was driving the Chevy when they said he got broadsided by a cement mixer out on the east side some place.”

“A cement mixer? That sounds messy.”

“Sure does. I hope it wasn't any of that quick setting stuff. As big as Pete was, that would've made it a whole lot worse,” she giggled. “My Lord, but that's an awful thing to think, ain't it? Guess it don't matter much though. Dead's dead.”

“You're right, it probably doesn't. You wouldn't know where he left the Buick, would you? Is it in the garage?”

“Nope. If it was, those lawyers would have sucked it up along with everything else.”

“You got any idea where it is, then?”