William Brown - The Undertaker

I pulled out the gunman's badge case, flipped it open, and saw a brass badge with a blue and red crest and an ID card in the name of Michael Alvarez, Special Investigator, U. S. Justice Department. “This says the Justice Department, Gino, the goddamned Justice Department.”

“Don't believe everything you read, Ace,” he said as he pocketed that too.

“Well, it looked real enough to me,” Sandy answered.

“It's supposed to, you ditz. That's why they make 'em. And that Beretta he had was real nice. Top of the line, very expensive. Only a pro, a good contract killer or some serious in-house shooter would have one of those.”

“How do we know it wasn't you he was after, Gino?” she asked.

“Because he didn't recognize me. He didn't know who I was.”

“How do you know that?” she asked again.

Parini shook his head. “Look, I don't want to brag, but I come with a lot of reputation, and a lot of baggage. I'm what you might call a “consultant” for certain tri-state area business” interests.”

“Yeah, well, now you're a consultant with a bullet hole in his leg,” Sandy grunted.

“If Tinkerton had put a hit out on me, I'd find out, and he knows his people ain't good enough to pull it off. I'd kill them and then I'd kill him, and he knows it. So, no, it was you two the guy was after, not me. But that was a nice whack you gave him, Sweet Pea.” Parini tried to smile through the pain. “You nailed him pretty good. I owe ya.”

“Hey! I'm the one who went dancing down the stairs with him.” I reminded him.

She glared at both of us. “And if my Pentax is broken, both of you are going to be dancing, because somebody's going to have Hell to pay.”

We kept moving until we reached the next street. Parini was limping painfully, struggling to stay on his feet. He looked quickly to the left and right, but there were no government cars to be seen. “Looks like we lucked out, he said. “They must still be short-handed, but Tinkerton won't make that mistake again.”

“Speaking of mistakes,” Sandy groaned as she took a firmer grip on the seat of his sagging pants. “You need to knock off the pasta or get shot with somebody else next time.”

“She always this disrespectful?” he asked. When I chose not answer, he added, “That's what I figured. You're either nuts or in love, sport. Either way, you're a freakin’ dead man walking.”

“Mind your own business,” she said as she gave him a small pinch on the handle. When he didn't smack her, that was when I knew Gino must really be hurting and we needed to get him to a hospital.

We hurried over one more street. At the far corner, I saw his white Lincoln Town Car parked by the curb. He reached into his pocket and handed Sandy the keys. “Here, you drive.” he told her. “Talbott, get me inside.”

I opened the rear door and Parini fell heavily onto the rear seat while Sandy ran around to the driver's side. It took both of us to push and pull him and his bloody leg inside. By the time I got him propped up in back, the rear door closed, and got myself in the passenger seat in front, Sandy was still settling in behind the wheel, adjusting the seat and the rear-view mirrors.

“Godamnit!” Parini roared. “If you reach for your freakin’ lipstick, I'm gonna pop you right here. Now get us out of here.”

“Hey,” Sandy jumped. “Don't blame me if my legs are short.” She turned the key in the ignition. She must have found the right pedals because the Lincoln's engine roared and we sped away down the narrow street.

With two, you get egg rolls…

“ Turn left,” Parini snapped. “No, your other left.”

“I drive a little Toyota, not a damn battleship like this thing, and I've got short legs. You want to do this?” She sounded flustered as she spun the wheel to the left, narrowly missing two parked cars. “Then shut up and let me drive.”

“Okay, okay,” Parini answered. “But slow down, for Chris' sake. We've got enough people chasing us without you adding more.”

“Oh, now you want slow,” she snapped at him as she hit the brakes. “Make up your damned mind.”

“You two need a time out?” I turned in the seat and looked back through the rear window, but no one was chasing us. Parini told her to make a few more turns. As we drove farther and farther away from her apartment, I began to relax.

“Gino, you need a doctor.” I looked down at him.

“No shit, Ace. Hand me that phone up there.” Parini groaned as he lay back on the rear seat in pain. I looked around and saw that the Lincoln had a telephone built into the front console. “Punch Memory, then #3, then gimme the damned thing,” he said.

I did as ordered and watched his face as he waited for the other party to answer. “Joey,” he finally said. “It's me, Gino… No, in Chicago… Never mind that. Look, I need a doctor and I need one quick… No, for me, you asshole, I got clipped in the leg… Yeah, me! Stop laughin’ and tell me where. Yeah… Yeah… I got it… No, no, I'll find it. You just call and make damned sure they'll be there.”

He handed the phone back to me. His face was pale now, and he was in a lot of pain. “Sweet Pea,” he called to her. “See that console on the dash, above the radio? It's GPS. Push ‘Power’ and key in 832 West 23rd Street, Chicago, Illinois. No, on second thought, you do it, Ace.”

“Hey, I can do it,” she said, reaching for the buttons.

“You got enough to do drivin’ this thing. Let the brain trust do it.”

In seconds, a brightly colored map popped up on the screen with a red dot in the center. “That's in Chinatown,” Sandy said.

“Think you can you get us there?”

“Chinatown?” she asked. “Sure, why?”

“’Cause I've got a sudden craving for won-ton. Can you freakin’ get us there?”

“Yeah, I can freakin’ get you there! Sheesh, you're ornery. You want some aspirin or Tylenol for the pain? I know I got Midol and some codeine cough medicine in my purse. Maybe a joint to help take the edge off?

“She's a goddamned pharmacy,” he mumbled. “Tylenol, then.”

She pulled the big bag over and dug her arm down to the bottom, fishing around inside until it came back out with a bottle. She opened it with her teeth and handed the bottle back to him. Parini dropped a half-dozen pills into his hand, popped them into his mouth, and lay back chewing them. “Thanks, kid,” he said. “And I take back every ugly thing I said about you.”

“The name's Sandy.”

We drove west to Halsted Street and south through the city. It was mid-morning and big CTA commuter buses, semi-trailer trucks, and delivery vans clogged the streets and slowed us to a crawl. I turned around in the seat and looked back at him. He had lost a lot of blood and I was getting worried. “You okay, Gino?” I asked.

“I've been shot a lot worse than this.”

“Then you need to find a new line of work,” she commented.

Parini's eyes were closed, but I saw a thin smile. “Yeah, a new line of work. I'll write that down, so I don't forget.” We crossed the Chicago River and continued south through a series of ever more dilapidated commercial areas. “Okay, Talbott, who you really workin' for? Justice? Some rinky-dink local outfit? The Santorini people never heard of you. Who then? Rico Patillo?”

“I work for Symbiotic Software in Waltham, Massachusetts, Gino, or I did until you dragged me into this thing.”

“Yeah, and I'm the freakin’ Easter Bunny. You expect me to believe you figured all that stuff out by yourself?”

“I'm a rocket scientist, remember.” I smiled innocently at him.

“Yeah, right,” Parini opened his eyes and looked at me. “Back in Columbus, I saw you at the funeral home and then I saw you at that bogus accounting office down on Sickles. I didn't know what to make of those, but when you walked inside Tinkerton's office building dressed up like a delivery boy, the only thing I could figure was you were one of them and you were reporting in. Later, when you went strollin’ into Varner's fruit clinic and all the rest of them showed up, I had no idea what you were up to.”