William Brown - The Undertaker

“Hi,” she started in on the receptionist with a warm, bubbly voice. “I know the Senator's probably not in, but I'm calling for Peter Talbott, and… No, the Senator doesn't know him… Could you tell him that Peter Talbott overnighted a FedEx package to him… Yes, Peter Talbott. It's some spreadsheets on the Santorini mob in New Jersey… Yes, Santorini. They are Louie Panozzo's books… Yeah, I'm sure he will. Look, tell him to be looking for that package and we'll call him tomorrow.”

Sandy hung up and we went outside and quickly walked away from the FedEx office. “By the way, did I tell you I worked in Hardin's campaign?” she said. I looked at her, knowing a story was coming. “Well, not really “worked.” I stuffed envelopes for two weekends in his office downtown. He has a cute smile and a nice set of buns, but without a nametag, he wouldn't know me from the water cooler. They threw a pretty good party every Saturday night for the volunteers, so I thought it might be fun. He showed up the second weekend. Things got a little drunk and he gave me a ride home.”

“The water cooler wasn't available?”

“Nothing happened. It was a month after Eddie walked out on me, and I wouldn't have minded a little hot, sweaty groping to get even. But not from him. He's married and at heart I'm really not a bimbo.”

“Not at heart?”

“Thanks!” She glared up at me. “You know, this isn't a particularly good morning for you to give me shit, Talbott. I don't have to be here.”

“You're right, I'm sorry, it's none of my business, but you're always joking…”

“Oh, never mind.” She walked on, fuming.

“So, you blew off a U. S. senator and nothing happened,” I asked as I caught up.

“Not exactly. I think I threw up on his shoes in the foyer of my building.”

“He wouldn't have gotten that from the water cooler.”

“Hey, after all this time, he won't remember me. And even if he is a complete letch, he was the one who organized all those hearings on the Mafia in Washington, so he's not a complete waste. And neither am

As we walked away, I could see she was hurting, and from more than just the hangover. Suddenly I felt a cold shiver. I hardly knew this girl. How long had it been? Twenty-four hours? I was beginning to enjoy her company. She was fun and interesting and I knew if I had given her half an opening the night before she would have been a lot more. A huge rush of guilt washed over me like an ice cold shower and I knew my problem wasn't her. It was me — too much baggage, too much pain. And if I wasn't careful, I could get her killed.

I looked up at the sky. I saw some soft, lazy clouds drifting by, but I couldn't find Terri's face up there anywhere. I got panicky. Where was she? She was always up there scolding and disapproving when I was doing something wrong, so where was she when I needed her help? The buildings were tall and blocking out about half of the sky, so I stepped over to the curb where I could see the sky better. Still, nothing, I couldn't find her.

“Talbott, you okay?” Sandy frowned, sounding concerned.

“I'm fine,” I forced a reply and a smile. “It's nothing.”

“No, well, you look like you saw a ghost.”

“No, the problem is, I didn't… Oh, never mind, it's just a joke,” I quickly recovered and tried to smile.

“Where are we going now? Back to my aunt's? Because if you still want that stuff on Eddie that's in my closet over on Clark, I have another idea.”

“Another one?” I asked, still searching the clouds.

“Come with Mama,” she laughed as she hooked her arm in mine and led me away. We went back west and north on the side streets until we found that walkway between the buildings that got us to the alley behind her apartment building. The gray government car was still parked there with a blue-suited goon sitting inside. She pulled out her cell phone and turned it on. “Relax, watch the pro work.” She pulled out an official-looking business card and dialed the number. “I need to talk to Agent Dulaney,” she whispered, as if she was in a panic. “He isn't? Hey, this is Sandy Kasmarek. I'm in a little Greek restaurant at Lincoln and Belmont, and that guy Agent Dulaney is looking for? Talbott? Well, he's standing outside watching me, so you gotta help me… No, I can't wait. Oh, God, he's coming in. I'm so scared.” Then she snapped the phone's cover closed and grinned.

It took less than a minute for the car to start and tear off down the alley.

“Can I hear a big Amen,” she grinned. At the corner, the gray car put a flashing red light on the dash and took a sharp turn west, tires squealing.

“That should hold them for a while, let's go.”

“You're pretty good at this, aren't you?”

“I'm pretty good at a lot of things.”

Because the papers say so…

The rear of Sandy's apartment building had an open wooden staircase that zigzagged up from the small, fenced rear yard to the upper floors. She took the stairs two at a time and I followed close behind, across the landings to the third floor. She had her key out and we were through her rear door into the kitchen in less than a minute. Once over the threshold, she stopped and I plowed into her. My first impressions of her kitchen were empty beer cans, fast-food bags, a half-full bottle of vodka, dirty dishes, and a half-dozen scraggly houseplants on the window ledge. But Sandy wasn't looking at any of that. She was looking at the imposing figure of Gino Parini sitting in one of her kitchen chairs. He had a Chicago Sun Times in front of him open to the sports page and his chrome. 45-caliber automatic laying next to it.

“Close the door,” Parini said as he motioned us to come in the rest of the way. He threw a quick glance around the kitchen and said, “Some housekeeper, your woman,”

“I'm not his woman,” she shot back.

He ignored her. “You really are one persistent pain in the ass, Ace. I've been sitting here since last night. Where you been? Shacked up with her?

“Oh, fuck you!” she shot back.

“A housekeeper with a foul mouth,” he snorted. His long black hair hung straight down to his shoulders today and he wore a navy blue, double-breasted blazer with gold buttons, crisp white slacks, and a maroon silk shirt, open at the neck.

“You off to Newport for the yacht races?” I asked.

“Cut the crap,” he growled. “You shoulda done what I told you back in Columbus.”

“You told me to get out of town. I did.”

“Yeah, but the wrong freakin’ way. You didn't go back to Boston; you came here. Now take a seat. You too, Sweet Pea. There's things we gotta talk about.”

“You know this grease ball?” Sandy demanded, looking at him and at me.

“His name's Gino Parini,” I said with an apologetic shrug. “He's a hit man for the New Jersey Mafia.”

“A hit man? For the Mafia?” She slapped herself on the forehead.

“Don't worry, he's not after us.”

“A nice guy, with puppy-dog eyes,” she muttered. “Jeez, how could I be so stupid again? How?”

“And how do you know who I'm not after?” Parini growled.

“He's the one who showed me the obituaries back in Boston. And he even came to my funeral in Ohio.”

“How nice. Did he send flowers?”

“Shut up and sit down,” Gino glared at her. “Both of you.”

I sat. Sandy didn't. She looked over at me, then at him, then back at me again. “The FBI. The Mafia. And now a hit man.” She shook her head angrily. “Non ci credo.” I don't believe this, she muttered in Italian.

“Cosa t'aspetti?” What did you expect? Parini chuckled. “And is that a hint of Palermo I hear underneath that bad Italian?”