William Brown - The Undertaker

It was almost 11:00 when we heard the horn beep. Five minutes later, we felt the truck slow and stop moving. The driver's side door opened and slammed shut, and we heard footsteps coming around to the rear. When Dominick rolled the truck's rear door up, we were sitting innocently on the moving pad.

“How did my veggies do back here?” he asked.

“We didn't crush a single grape,” Sandy said. “But the avocadoes blushed.”

“Ain't love wonderful? Then I'll cut you some slack on the veggie abuse, but I don't have to send those moving pads to the cleaners, do I?” he chortled.

“Heavens no,” Sandy answered demurely. “I'm a Brown girl.”

“Yeah, my ass!” Dominick laughed as we dropped to the ground and he rolled the rear door down. “Well, Brown girl, there's the front gate, as promised.” He pointed to two brick columns a short distance up the street.

“You're a life saver, Dominick,” I told him as I handed him a hundred dollar bill.

“The deal was only for seventy-five,” he said.

“Yeah, but the lady's embarrassed and we were hoping the extra twenty-five might help you forget all about us being in the back of your truck tonight.”

“I already did,” he said as he pocketed the money and helped us down. He got in the truck and drove off, while we walked down to a taxi stand that was outside the campus gate. We hopped in the first cab in line.

“What's the nicest hotel downtown?” Sandy leaned forward and asked the driver.

“That would be the Marriott. It ain't far.”

“Is the train station near there?”

“Yep, just down the street.”

“Great!” She sat back and pulled my arm around her. “When it's late at night and you need a room in a strange town, with no reservation and no luggage, money talks. And the more you pay and the bigger the tip you leave, the less the desk clerks will remember… Sister Josephine, and don't ask.”

The room cost us another $380 of the goon's money, but Sandy was right, discretion comes at a price. The room was on an upper floor. I was exhausted and collapsed in the middle of the King-sized bed on my back while she headed for the Jacuzzi in the equally large bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes in her wake. By the time she reached the bathroom door, she had nothing on and looked back at me over her shoulder, “All I want is a long, hot bath to get the mud from that alley and the smell of vegetables off me, followed by a good night's sleep.”

“Sounds great,” I answered as she closed the door. I got up long enough to get undressed and pull the bedspread and blankets down. I heard the water running in the bathroom and I guess I heard the Jacuzzi motor start, and then I was out like a light. The next thing I remember was warm, moist skin settling down gently on top of me. She put her arms around my neck and I could smell her and feel her engulfing me.

“Remember the part about me only wanting a hot bath and a good night's sleep?” she whispered in my ear. “Well, I lied.”

New York: a rolling stones is harder to hit…

I didn't sleep long, but I did sleep well. This was the first time we had slept together in something that wasn't narrow, moving, or bouncing down the road smelling of lettuce and avocados. You would think that moving from a narrow bunk no more than four feet wide to a huge king-sized bed might gain a tiny bit of separation. No. Even when Sandy was sound asleep, if I moved, she moved with me, up, down, across, and right up to the edge of the bed, never losing contact. The girl was like Crazy Glue. Obviously, she would take some getting used to.

The sun was up when I woke the first time. I was lying at the left edge of the bed and she was laying half on top of me, sound asleep. Our room was on an upper floor and we hadn't bothered to close the drapes on the bay window at the foot of the bed. They were wide open and the morning sun streamed in across the bed and across us. Lying there, I was able to look up and out the window to the high blue sky. Instinctively I looked for Terri, and that was the instant I knew she was gone, and she would not be coming back. Surprisingly, that sudden realization did not terrify me, fill me with grief, or rip my heart out, because I understood this was what Terri had always wanted.

At 9:30, I woke again to find Sandy standing next to the bed. She still wore the high-speed, karate-kicking Reeboks, but her light-brown hair had been combed-out and styled soft and full. She wore soft, pastel makeup, and she was wearing a brand new outfit — an attractive, light gray pants suit with a dark blue blouse and pearls. The effect was stunning. The sharp-edged sales clerk I followed up North Michigan Avenue was completely gone now. She had an older, more professional look, like an ad out of Vogue.

“I couldn't sleep, so I took some of the cash from the gumba in Boston and hit a couple of stores down the street.” She tuned slowly around for me to see. “You like?” She asked proudly.

I looked her over, head to toe. “What I see, is the glowing, relaxed look of someone who has been getting laid way too often.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” She grinned from ear to ear. She opened a bag and put my new clothes on the bed for inspection. There was a pair of pleated, light gray, men's dress slacks, a white silk shirt with French cuffs, and a dark-gray striped sports coat. With the blonde hair and clear sunglasses, the new look should work for me, too.

“You want me to try them on?” I asked.

“Actually,” she said as she began unbuttoning her blouse, “I thought I'd take mine off. See, the train doesn't leave for two hours…”

“And we wouldn't want to get them wrinkled… being new and all.”

“It's amazing how fast you catch on now.”

And it was amazing what that girl could do in an hour when she wanted to.

Packing and checking out were very quick, and we walked outside into a delightful New England summer morning. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. The train station was less than a half mile away, so we walked, passing a Starbucks where I stopped for a cup of real coffee and a pay phone.

“You're calling Billingham again?” Sandy asked.

I nodded as I dialed his office number and began dropping in coins. This time I got a real person and asked for his secretary. When I told her my name, she immediately replied, “Oh, yes. Mr. Billingham is expecting your call.”

It was less than a minute before I heard a thick, friendly, baritone voice at the other end of the line. “Mister Talbott, you have been a busy fellow these past few days.”

“A rolling stone gathers no bullets, Mister Billingham.”

“An excellent point. What can I do for you?”

“It's important that we talk, important to both of us.”

“Important, eh? Well, I have this line swept three times a day, so go on.”

“No, face-to-face. I have some information that might interest you.”

“Interest me? I doubt that.”

“I guarantee you won't regret it.” There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. “How about later this afternoon?” I asked. “Not in your office, some place outside, with wide open spaces.”

“Here in Manhattan? My, my, you do roll,” he chuckled. “Assuming you are familiar with the city, perhaps Washington Square, under the arch at say, 5:00 PM?”

“I'll find it, but I thought your office was on Sixth Avenue, in Midtown?”

“Excellent. I appreciate a man who does his homework. My office is indeed up in Midtown, but I have a 3:30 class down at NYU.”

“Really? What are you taking?”

“No, no, Mr. Talbott,” he laughed. “I'm teaching, not taking — Advanced Criminal Procedure, and it usually draws a pretty good crowd, if I do say so myself.”