William Brown - The Undertaker

“Apology accepted,” Sandy said as she looked across at Parini and stuck out her tongue. “And the big Dago's right, you are a wuss.” She dashed down the hall to her bedroom and came back out, jamming a large handful of papers into her shoulder bag as she ran past me. She was coming with. Half of me was glad she was and half knew Parini was right. It was a mistake. Being stupid and risking my own life was one thing, but now I was risking hers too.

Parini opened the back door and looked out. “Shut up and stay behind me,” he said as he stepped onto the rear porch and motioned for us to follow. We moved quickly and quietly down the twisting flights of stairs with Gino in front, Sandy in the middle, and me taking up the rear. When we reached the bottom, Parini stopped and we stopped behind him. The staircase continued down to the right into dark shadows, where it ended at the basement door a half-floor below, but we weren't going that far. As Gino stepped forward into the yard, I saw a black automatic pistol rise from the shadows in the dark stairwell below and it was pointed at his back, less than five feet away. The arm was in a dark suit coat, with a white shirt, French cuffs, and gold cuff links. Before I could react, Sandy swung her heavy shoulder bag over the handrail. With a ferocious grunt that would have made Anna Kournikova proud, she slammed the bag into the gunman's face and arm, spoiling his aim and knocking him backward down the stairs as he pulled the trigger.

In the narrow confines of the concrete stairwell, the pistol went off with an, echoing, ear-splitting “Blang!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Parini grab his leg and go down hard. I had no doubt the gunman's plan was to take Parini out with the first shot and then turn the automatic on Sandy and me. The only reason he failed was Sandy's purse.

The gunman had fallen down the stairs, but he didn't stay down long. He came charging back up with his gun out, swearing angrily. I didn't get a good look at him, but when I saw the French cuff and the flash of gold, I knew this was the head goon in the sunglasses that Sandy threw into the wall. His pistol was already tracking around toward her, when something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I let loose a blood-curdling scream and dove over the railing onto him. In that instant, he came to personalize all of my frustrations going back to LA, Terri's death, losing my job, Columbus, the Bronco, the embalming table in the basement of Greene's Funeral Home, and all the rest of it. The scream distracted him just long enough. After that, the poor bastard could have been Freddie Krueger with his steel fingernails and a chain saw, and he wouldn't have stood a chance.

I landed next to him with feet, elbows, knees, and fists flying. He tried to bring the gun around and take me out, but my right fist found his face first, with everything I could put behind it. The automatic went off a second time and a loud, echoing “Blang! Blang!” before my fingers found his wrist. I knocked the gun aside and raked his knuckles down the rough brick wall. He grunted and the automatic fell on the bare concrete floor below.

That was a nice start, but even without the pistol, he had a lot more experience at this kind of thing than I did. I was tottering back and forth on the edge of the stair above him, losing my balance, as he attacked. He grabbed me by the throat. Hand bleeding, nose swollen, he swung me around and slammed me against the rough concrete wall. His fingers felt like vise-grips as they dug into my throat and closed around my Adam's apple. I tucked my chin into my chest and twisted away, but he was way ahead of me. He squeezed harder and the pain paralyzed me. Somehow, I fought through the haze. I pushed off the wall and drove my shoulder into him. His heels slipped off the stair and he lost his balance. His grip on my throat relaxed just enough for me to get one deep breath and plant a fist in his ribs.

Arms flailing, he toppled over backward and fell down the stairs. As he did, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me down with him, which was a mistake. When we hit the dark concrete landing below, he was upside down, his body under mine. I heard a short, sharp “Snap,” like a dry tree branch cracking in a strong wind. The air went out of him and he went limp beneath me. Gasping, I rolled over and looked down at him, expecting to have to hit him again, but he wasn't moving. His neck bent at an odd angle. His eyes were wide open and he looked like a dead trout on a bed of ice in a fish market. Even in the dim light, I knew he was dead. That was when the shakes began. I had never killed anyone before. I leaned against the wall and puked up that morning's breakfast in the corner of the stairwell.

Eventually I heard a voice calling me, “Talbott… Talbott!” It was Parini. “If you're done playing with that guy, get your ass up here. I need help.”

I stumbled up the stairs into the bright light of the back yard where Gino lay on the grass holding his bleeding leg. Sandy knelt next to him. I could see he'd been shot in the thigh and his white pants leg was leaking a lot of very unfashionable dark-red blood. “They aren't gonna let you in the yacht club looking like that,” I warned.

“You and your fuckin' jokes,” he said, obviously in a lot of pain. He unbuckled his belt, pulled it out, and tried to wrap it around his leg, “Godamnit, help me with this thing.”

I was still in a daze, but Sandy wasn't. She quickly threaded the belt back through the buckle and drew it tighter around his leg. “More,” he growled. “Tighter!”

She gave him an unsympathetic shrug and pulled back with everything she had.

“Good,” Parini groaned painfully as he held out his hand to me. “Now help me up.”

Gino was more than twice her size and way too heavy for her to handle alone. I got under his other arm. Together, we got him to his feet and headed for the back gate when I remembered something. “Wait a minute,” I said as I left him leaning on Sandy.

“Hey,” he shouted angrily, but I ignored him and ran back down the stairs. I found the goon's automatic lying next to him. I stuck it in my waistband and pawed through his pockets, pulling out a wallet and a badge case. It was too dark to read what they said, but the mere fact he had one made the hair stand on the back of my neck. I ran back upstairs. When I got there, the two of them were already limping across the yard toward the rear gate and I heard Sandy mumbling, “I can't believe I'm doing this; I can't believe I'm doing this…” I got under Gino's other arm and we made it through the gate and into the alley.

“That was the FBI guy with the gold cuff links, wasn't it?” Sandy asked. I nodded. “If I hadn't decked him with my purse, he was going to shoot you, wasn't he?”

“He did shoot me,” Parini grimaced.

“No, I mean Talbott,” she said. “He was supposed to kill Talbott, wasn't he?”

“He was supposed to kill all of us, Sweet Pea, but the smart play was to take me out first. That's how I'd have done it. Then I'd a popped the two of you.”

“Just like that, huh?” she said, laboring under his bulk.

“Just like that. Tinkerton would kill his grandmother if he thought he could put this genie back in the bottle, believe me.”

“Tinkerton?” she questioned. “That guy was FBI. I saw his ID card and badge.”

“You saw what they wanted you to see,” Parini answered.

I pulled out the gunman's automatic and looked at it in the light. “It's a Beretta, Gino.” I held it up and showed him. “Are the Feds using Italian handguns now?”

“He wasn't no Fed,” Parini said as his big paw swallowed the automatic and he slipped it into his pocket. “And you don't want this on you, Ace. It's goin’ in the freakin’ river.”