William Brown - The Undertaker

I came out of it slowly, like a deep-sea diver coming up from the bottom, reaching out for the twinkling, silver surface high above, until my eyes finally popped open and the bright lights blinded me. I was flat on my back on the hard linoleum floor of Varner's office, squinting, blinking, and staring up at the ceiling. Everything in the room floated around in circles. As my vision cleared, I became aware of two faces high above me leaning into my field of vision. One was Dannmeyer, dressed in his brown sheriff's suit, and one was Ralph Tinkerton in his suit coat and tie. I tried to focus on each of them, but the back of my head throbbed with a dull, aching pain.

“I bet that really hurts, don't it,” Dannmeyer chuxcckled. “Nice to see I haven't lost my touch, but that wasn't nuthin', Podner. See, I got ways of hurtin' people they ain't given names to yet.”

I closed my eyes again and lay there until my head stopped throbbing. Slowly the pain faded enough for me to feel my tongue, my toes, and my fingers, and I took roll call. Hands? They were pinned beneath me and I couldn't make them move. Handcuffs? Probably Dannmeyer's, I realized. I slowly opened my eyes again, knowing there was no sense putting it off. This time, I focused on Tinkerton's face. He stared down at me, his cold-gray eyes as dull and emotionless as a cruising shark.

“Well, if it isn't our tourist friend from California, or Boston, or wherever you say you are from, and my very favorite jokester.” Tinkerton gave me a cold, thin, smile. “The paper bag with the drink you left in the lobby? Sheer genius, Peter. However, you're developing a nasty habit of intruding into places where you don't belong, dangerous places, and making a pest of yourself. Not that I didn't warn you, but now it's too late.”

I looked from Tinkerton to Dannmeyer, then back again. “Is he your muscle, Ralph?” I asked.

“My “muscle?” Tinkerton seemed amused at the thought. “Oh, come now, Peter. That term is so pathetically out of date. Today all it takes is a telephone call, maybe a fax or an e-mail to www.hitman.com, for all I know. With my contacts, a quick glance in the right quarters is all I'd need to eliminate a clown like you.”

I fixed Tinkerton with a hard stare. “I'm a Special Investigator with the State Attorney General's Office. If you come downtown with me right now, I'll forget the assaulting a police officer charge and see what I can do to help you negotiate a plea on all the rest. It's not much, but it's the last chance we're going to give you.”

Tinkerton stared down at me, speechless, and then broke out in a gut-wrenching belly laugh. “My God, but you do have nerve! I love it, I love it!”

Dannmeyer frowned. He didn't look nearly as happy or as confident. “You don't think it could be true then?”

“Not a word of it, Virgil,” Tinkerton answered.

“You're positive about that?” I asked him.

“Yes, I'm afraid I am, “Tinkerton answered. “If anything like that was going on downtown — and I mean anything — I would have known about it weeks ago.”

“So, who is he then? Just some crazy drifter?” Dannmeyer asked hopefully.

Tinkerton studied me for a moment. “No, that would be far too simple. He is no drifter and I know he is not crazy.”

“Then who the fuck is he?” Dannmeyer suddenly raged.

“Ah, that is the question, isn't it.”

“I'm Peter Talbott,” I said. “Like I told you.”

“I don't think so,” Tinkerton shook his head confidently. “The real Peter Talbott died in a car wreck in Baja a year ago, right after his wife. I have a copy of the death certificate and a photograph of the grave in L. A.”

“That was some dumb Mexican kid who stole my car. The grave is empty now and the Mexicans rescinded the death certificate. Check it out.”

Varner shifted uncomfortably. “Ralph, you don't suppose…”

“Shut up, Doctor,” Tinkerton snapped. “You talk too much.”

“But the computers? Aren't they supposed to check all that stuff out?”

Tinkerton looked down, studying me. “The ”wizards” warned us the system isn't perfect, that something like this could happen. They said it was “statistically inevitable”, but controllable. When you need a husband and a wife, both of whom are dead, with the right timing, age, and background from as far away as we can find them, the choices are somewhat limited. There is always a minor but manageable chance that someone could notice.”

“You think it's that simple?” Dannmeyer asked.

“That, or he is lying again.” Tinkerton cocked his head and looked down at me with a sadistic smile. “That is the question, isn't it? How much does our new friend “Peter” really know and how much of it is pure crap.”

“He's wrong, Virgil. You don't really think I'd come walking in here alone, do you?” I said confidently. “You're the one who's going to end up holding the bag.”

“I don't think so,” Tinkerton sighed. “But you are right about one thing. Virgil and I can't take any chances, can we? We've got to make sure,” Tinkerton's eyes flashed, “because there is one little question that I've got to have an answer to, one you are going to give me, if it takes all night.”

“Boxers or briefs?” I asked.

“No,” he laughed along with me. “Back in my office, you dropped the magic name of Jimmy Santorini on me. Perhaps you thought you were being cute, or perhaps you threw it in blind, not really knowing about the Pandora's Box you were opening up, but that move cost you your amateur standing. You can save yourself a whole lot of pain if you tell me what you really do know about him.”

“Santorini? He ran a little wine bar up in Carmel. Or was that Santoucci?”

“Did Jimmy hire you?”

“Hire me? I can't cook pasta and I'd drink up all his cabernet. It'd never work.”

“Was it that bastard Rico Patillo or someone else in New Jersey? Or some little staff toad over in Justice.”

“Washington? DC? Never even visited the place.”

“Good! That's what I expected,” Tinkerton smiled. “More jokes. I'm glad you didn't loose that fabulous sense of humor of yours. If you had opened up and started talking, I still wouldn't have believed a word you said, but it might have confused things. I wouldn't have known what was true, what was a lie, and what was just a bit of creative stretching. This way, we'll assume that everything you say is a lie until the very, very end.”

“The ”very, very” end?” I asked. “That sounds a bit melodramatic even for you, Ralph.”

“Very melodramatic, but in the end you'll tell me the truth and you won't find it one bit funny.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Sergeant Dannmeyer and I have done this before, “Peter”, in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Iraq, in Saudi Arabia after the first war, and in a half dozen hellholes in between,” Tinkerton's smile slowly faded. “So, I will know when you're telling me the truth. I assure you, I will know.”

He turned toward Dannmeyer. “Run another NCI record check on him, just to be sure. If you come up with anything new, anything at all, let me know immediately.”

“What if he shows clean again?”

“It doesn't matter,” Tinkerton shrugged. “He's going to disappear all the same.”

Dannmeyer looked down at me with a sly grin. “What about that truck of his?”

“Drive it down to the east side and dump it near the Interstate.”

“The east side?” Dannmeyer sounded pained. “Oh, come on, captain. A nice Bronco like that? Jeez, they'll have it picked clean by midnight.”

“Sometimes you can be an idiot, Virgil. That's the whole point.” Tinkerton snapped. “Now see to it!” He looked up and turned his attention to Varner who was cowering in the corner, giving him an equally hard look as he motioned toward me. “Doctor, if you please.”