F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

“You finally finished with your reading?” he said. Snarled was more like it. “You up to date on all the local news now?” She’d sent him out for all the local papers the Washington Times, the Post, the Banner, everything available in the 7-Eleven. And then she’d begun combing them.

“Yeah, I’m finished,” she said.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like an Appleton. She’d found the solution to all their problems. Okay, maybe not all, but at least the major one that was dogging them right now. She was so damn proud of herself she wanted to dance. But first she wanted to have some fun with Paulie. He’d been no help at all, so he totally had it coming.

“Good,” he Said. “Now maybe you can think of some thing I can tell Mac when he calls. And he’s gonna call any minute, you can bet your sweet dimpled ass on that.”

“Oh, I’ve got no doubt at all he’ll call.”

“So what do I tell him? ‘Sorry, Mac. No persuader on this one. Poppy won’t let me.’ Right. Next thing you know he’ll be busting down that door.”

“You just tell him everything’s under control and the persuader’s ready for delivery.”

He made that sour face he did every time he thought he heard something stupid. “Oh, right. And when it’s not delivered? What then?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll deliver it. Right on schedule.”

He sat and stared at her a second or two, eyes bugged, jaw dropped. Oh, this was good. It was all she could do to keep from busting out laughing. Then he jumped to his feet, arms spread.

“How, Poppy? For Chrissake, have you gone crazy? Where am I gonna get a little girl’s toe?” Okay. Enough was enough. She shoved the paper toward him.

“Here.” As he grabbed it and stared at it, she said, “I circled what you want.” He read some, then looked up at her. “But this is… I’ll have to…”

She shrugged. “Who’s the best B-and-E guy around if it ain’t you, Paulie?” He didn’t seem to want to argue about that, so he kept on reading. Finally he looked up at her and the half angry, half-worried look he’d worn all day had changed.

He actually smiled—just a little.

“You know something. Poppy. I think this might work.”

“I know it will.”

He was grinning at her now—staring, nodding, and grinning. “You’re pretty smart for a girl.” She punched him on the arm.

“Smart? I’m totally brilliant!”

He hugged her and they laughed. He seemed proud of her, and to tell the truth, she was pretty damn proud herself. When was the last time she’d felt this way?

Then he pushed her to arm’s length, suddenly serious.

“But Mac can never know. Even after this is all over, we can never let Mac even suspect what we did.”

“After this is all over, we’re never gonna see Mac again. Right?”

“Right. When he calls, we ain’t home.” Poppy hugged him. She felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She put her lips against his ear.

“Better get going.”

11

It took Paulie longer than he’d figured to find the place. After all, he didn’t know diddly about Arlington, Virginia, but people were pretty helpful when he asked for directions, and he only got lost twice. He passed a Home Depot along the way and picked up a sturdy pair of pruning shears. The sweet young thing at the check-out counter set him on the right course for the final leg of his journey to the Lynch-MacDougal Funeral Home.

Two wakes were in progress. Paulie figured he was pretty much dressed for mourning, being all in black. He wandered in, looking appropriately somber, and checked out the place’s security system—or, like they said in the movies, “cased da joint.” He felt very much at home looking for electric eyes, motion detectors, window magnets. Breaking and entering used to be his bread and butter before he started baby-sitting for Mac.

Still came in handy when the till ran low between gigs. Clean work. You get in when the place is empty, boost whatever’s lying around, and get the hell out. In and out. No fuss, no muss. You go in empty, you come out with some cash and jewelry.

This time he’d be coming out with a toe. Weird, man.

He found the control panel near the back door and it looked like a single-zone setup. The whole security system was pretty basic: windows, doors, and that was about it. Nothing that would keep him out if he’d had his tool kit—but that was back in Brooklyn. He needed an edge here.

He checked the name in the newspaper Poppy had given him. Edward Hadley, age seven. According to the obit, little Eddie was here “as a result of injuries sustained in a motor vehicle accident.” Sorry about that, kid. Let’s just hope they didn’t run over your feet.

He saw the Hadley sign so he stepped inside for a quick look-see. A bad scene. Lots of weepy parents and confused-looking grade-school kids. He did a fly-by on the coffin. Little Eddie—at least the front of his top half that was visible—looked pretty good.

He moved to one of the windows and checked it out. Just wired at the sill. Christ, all he needed was a glass cutter and a suction cut and he’d be in. He glanced through at the parking lot. Nah. Too many lights and too many buildings around. He’d be exposed for too long. And besides, he wanted to get in and out with no one being the wiser.

He slipped back out the door into the hallway where he saw this suit with a big red Irish face directing mourner traffic. That gave Paulie an idea. He stepped up to the guy and saw the name tag on his lapel: MICHAEL L. MACDOUGAL. One of the owners. He should be able to answer Paulie’s question.

“Wonderful job you’re doing,” Paulie said.

“Thank you. We try. We try. But it’s so difficult when they’re so young.”

“I can imagine. Say, where’s—?”

“So many dying so young these days.” Michael L. MacDougal was shaking his head. “We just received a new beloved only hours ago. Barely out of her teens. They’re all so young. What’s happening?”

“I wish I knew.” And I wish you’d let me get a word in. “Where’s the men’s room, by the way?”

MacDougal pointed past the Hadley sign. “Make your first left and it’s right at the bottom of the steps.”

“Downstairs?” Paulie said, moving off. Outstanding!

On his way, Paulie passed a horse-faced woman in a tweed suit and a frilly blouse. Her name tag said EILEEN LYNCH. The other owner. Husband and wife? he wondered. Or maybe a brother-and-sister act. Like, who’d want to be married to that?

He hurried down the stairs and found a small paneled room with a couple of worn couches. Half a dozen people were sitting around, puffing on cigarettes. A fan in the ceiling sucked off the smoke.

A smoking lounge. How thoughtful.

Ahead were two rest room doors and a third marked private. He stepped inside the men’s room and found he had it all to himself. Over the toilet in the stall was a small casement window with no sign that it was connected to the security system. Beyond it, the rear parking lot stretched away at eye level.

How very thoughtful.

He undid the latch and yanked on the handle. It gave a little, then stuck. Hadn’t been opened in years, but he couldn’t see anything blocking it. All it needed was a little muscle from the other side and it would swing all the way up.

He stuck a piece of toilet tissue in the latch, left it in the open position, and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. He smiled at himself in the mirror.

Piece of cake.

And then he frowned, remembering Poppy alone at the house with that kid. He hoped to hell Mac didn’t decide to pop in for a personal visit to check out the persuader. That could be big trouble.