William Brown - The Undertaker

“I don't believe you. Fifty bucks? You're nuts.”

“Hush,” I told her. “Put your aunt's wig on.” She did and I put the Cubs hat on over it, pulling it down low, so it rode on top of her ears. “Now go to the ticket window at the other end and buy two South Shore tickets on the first train for Indiana.” I took her shoulder bag from her and the rose. “It won't take Tinkerton's people long to check all the stations and talk to the ticket agents. When they lay our photographs in front of baldy back there, he'll remember us and he'll remember the two tickets I bought for Kankakee. With the Cubs hat and the blond hair, the other guy won't. Now go.”

“Talbott.” She looked up at me with a new hint of respect. “Underneath that slightly dim-witted dweeb exterior, you can be one sneaky son-of-bitch. I have hopes for you.”

She walked away toward the ticket booth as I took a seat on the bench. I had her big shoulder bag. It was like a cookie jar on the kitchen counter. I could grab the papers and be out the door before she knew I was gone. It was a thought, a good one, and probably even the right one, but I couldn't do that to her.

She came running back, took my hand, and pulled me along. “Let's go, we gotta hurry. Our train's leaving on Track Four in three minutes.”

“South Bend?”

“No. I bought tickets on a local. There's an express leaving in thirty minutes that goes as far as Michigan City, but we don't want to sit here that long. The local connects with it at 59th Street. We can get off, wait there, and buy tickets on the express.”

“Very smart. And very sneaky, too.”

“See, Talbott?” She grinned happily. “What ever would you do without me?”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

“Then move your ass, because the three minutes we had is now two.”

She grabbed her shoulder bag and the rose and we ran down the tunnel. “By the way,” she asked. “How come you didn't grab the papers and take off without me?”

I looked shocked. “You know, that never even occurred to me.”

“Bullshit! You thought about it all right, but I've got eyes like a hawk and you aren't half fast enough to get away with it.”

“You know, that must have been it,” I answered as we jumped on board the nearly empty commuter train and plopped side-by-side in one of the rear seats on the far side of the car. The South Shore Line had gaudy orange cars with diamond-shaped accordion contraptions on top that connected to overhead electrical wires. Not that I cared. The train could burn cow chips as long as it got us the hell out of Chicago.

She put the rose to her nose and took a big sniff. “Presents are nice,” she said as she gave me a hug. “So we're off to Boston?”

“I have friends there. Maybe we can get some help.”

“That works for me. I locked the store. I've got my camera and a tooth brush,” she said as she patted her bag. “I've even got a rose and a new baseball hat, and I've got you. What more could a girl possibly want?”

“Sandy…”

“Relax, Talbot. I'm just joking with you again. Really. I don't go where I'm not wanted, so you're safe.”

Wasn't this going to be fun, I thought. This trip with her is going to be a ball of laughs, if it doesn't get us both killed first. Fun? Laughs? She was pressed up against me, holding tightly onto my arm. Despite her promises, I could tell she wasn't joking at all.

Praise the Lord for Catholic girls schools…

The South Shore tracks were in a deep cut well below street level and the train finally found sunshine a couple of blocks south of the station. A staccato of black shadows flashed across the windows as we passed under a succession of trestles, overhead wiring, and bridges. As we went under one of the wider ones, a line of Chicago police cars raced by above us, sirens wailing and their blue strobe lights flashing, headed for Michigan Avenue.

“Right direction.” Sandy pointed a finger at them like a pistol and pulled the trigger. “But a tad too late.”

The train began to slow as we approached the first station. The car's doors opened, but the platform outside was nearly empty — no cops, no dark suits, no sunglasses, and no Disciple 35th Nation homies waiting on this platform. I saw nothing more sinister than a handful of housewives with shopping bags. Still, I could not completely relax until the doors closed and the train headed south again. As it picked up speed, I leaned my head back on the seat and realized how bone tired I was. The physical pounding and emotional stress of the past three days had all taken their toll.

Twenty-five minutes and eight stations later, we finally reached 59th Street and got off. We found ourselves on a high, wind swept platform a half-mile west of the lakefront. The tracks and the station were up at the second story level, giving us a three-hundred-and-sixty degree panorama of a run-down southeast side neighborhood. We slipped around the corner of a billboard and tried to blend into the graffiti. I looked at my watch. We had ten minutes before the express train to Indiana caught up with us. Sandy looked at the panorama and pulled out her camera.

“Get me in the foreground and you can get top dollar from The Enquirer,” I said.

“That is so unfunny. The Enquirer? I'm an artiste, you dolt.” Clearly, I had hit “ ze hot button.” I made the mistake of grinning and she saw me. Her eyes narrowed. “You were pulling my chain, weren't you? Teasing me, about my work? About my camera? Do you have a death wish, Talbott?” She walked slowly toward me with her lethal fingers out. “You like pain?”

“No, no, I love photography. Black and white. Never color.”

“Why do you think I work at that art gallery? You think I like that old fart Fantozzi chasing me around the storeroom. The kids pictures? The Polish weddings?” I've been taking classes at the Art Institute, working on my own show,” she said, still coming at me. “Le Magnifique and all that other crap pays my tuition.”

“I was only teasing,” I said, backing up until she had me trapped against the billboard.

She broke up giggling. “That was way too easy,” she said as she pressed in against me. “Gino was right, you really are a wuss.”

“There's a reason why men hate women, you know.”

“It isn't fair, is it?” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “And now I've got you right where I want you.” She put her arms around me, her small, hard breasts pressing into my stomach. One could argue that it was just “one of those things” — two bodies at the same place at the same time. Most guys wouldn't complain or even comment, but this wasn't “one of those things.” She knew exactly what she was doing and I didn't dare say a word. That would only make things worse. I could have turned or pulled away, but she had me backed up to the billboard, so I couldn't do that either. I didn't want to. And I couldn't kid myself that I didn't like it, because I did.

Her head only came up to my chest. I looked down and saw those jet black eyes locked on mine. Neither of us said anything, but almost imperceptibly she shifted her body and her breasts moved ever so lightly across me. I closed my eyes. That was one of the most incredibly erotic feelings I had ever experienced.

“Please don't.” I leaned forward and whispered into the top of her head. I could tell she was about to say something, so I laid a gentle finger across her lips. “Please don't,” I repeated, thinking how wonderful her hair smelled. “And don't say anything. Please.”

She could tell from my expression that I wasn't playing anymore, so she backed away. She started to say something, but she stopped and looked confused and deeply embarrassed. I could see she was about to cry. “It's your wife again, Terri, isn't it?” she whispered as she pressed her face into my chest and began to blubber. “Peter, I didn't mean anything. No, that's a big lie. I did mean something. I meant a lot! But I was only being playful, flirting, trying to make you feel good. Now I feel so horrible, because the last thing in the world I want is to hurt you.” She buried her face in my chest and started to sob. “I can do that Peter, make you feel good and help you, if you'll let me.”