Tod Goldberg - Gangsterland

“Yes,” David said. “One of our technicians has taken care of that. But he isn’t certified for the other work. So if you think you can handle this, I’d be happy for the help. Though I think it might be wise for you take caution here. You’d hate to lose your license.”

“I’ll take supreme caution, Rabbi. Absolutely.”

“Good.” David paused for a moment and thought about everything that had transpired that day and over the last few weeks, tried to figure out just how to say next what he wanted to say, and then decided being simple and direct was probably the route to go. “I’m not sure if you heard, but Mr. Savone was arrested today.”

“Yeah, yeah, tough stuff there,” Jerry said. “Saw him getting perp-walked on the news tonight. Terrible.”

“Yes, horrible. Horrible indeed. We’re hoping to help get him bonded out, of course, so it would be helpful if you could bring cash with you tonight instead of waiting sixty days.”

“Cash? How much are we talking about?”

“Whatever you think is the correct amount.”

“And this is for Bennie?”

“In light of everything,” David said. It was one of those terms he’d heard Rabbi Kales use periodically that seemed to comfort everyone while saying absolutely nothing.

“Right, okay,” Jerry said. “For the temple.”

“Yes, for the temple.”

“No problem, Rabbi,” Jerry said. “I’ll cash a check at the Bellagio, and we’ll be good to go. Everything will be above board. What time should I be there?”

“Ninety minutes,” David said. That would be enough time to get Gray Beard and Marvin back out the door, get the body refrigerated, and make sure there were no bumps in the road. Like another actual body being delivered for non-nefarious purposes. “I’ll have all the paperwork waiting for you, too. Please don’t be late.”

David hung up and leaned back in the chair. Ruben’s office was small and tidy — a desk, a computer, a phone, a Rolodex, a file cabinet, a framed copy of his funeral director’s license, another of his diploma from a mortuary school in Arizona — and smelled like lemon Pledge. There were photos on the desk of a little boy dressed in a Little League uniform, another of Ruben with a woman, presumably his wife, and the same child wearing Hawaiian shirts, the blue waves of the Pacific Ocean crashing behind them, a sunset of orange and pink hovering above the horizon.

What did he know about this asshole? Nothing, really. He worked with him on a daily basis and didn’t even know his last name. He looked at Ruben’s diploma. Ruben Topaz. He sounded like a fucking magician.

In the photo, Ruben’s wife wore a diamond ring that could be seen from Russian satellites (which went well with the diamond-crusted watch Ruben had on in the photo, which must have been his vacation watch, as opposed to the nice gold number he wore to the office each day), a diamond pendant necklace, a diamond tennis bracelet, and diamond studs in her ears. . all of which helped David understand why Ruben was the only other person on the planet Bennie trusted, even a little bit.

Mostly, the photo just made David feel. . sad. Yes, that’s what he was feeling. Sadness. He felt bad for calling Ruben an asshole in his head, that was one thing, but there were other more specific things pinging around in there tonight, too. He’d been gone now almost a year. . and did Jennifer even have photos of him? He wasn’t real big on his image being snapped, for obvious reasons, but now it seemed like a terrible thing. And then: Could he even remember Jennifer’s voice? Would he even recognize William? Would either of them recognize him ?

It was 2:15 a.m. in Chicago. Jennifer would be asleep on her right side, the blankets pulled up to her neck, her sketchbook on the nightstand, the remote control on top of it. William would be asleep on his stomach, his bed filled with army men and Star Wars action figures. Or maybe he’d be into something new. Almost a year.

David picked up the phone.

Fuck it to death .

He punched in the first nine digits of his phone number. All that was left was the number 5. That was it. Just the number 5, and he could hear Jennifer’s voice, tell her he was alive, tell her that he was coming back, eventually, and that she needed to wait for him. Tell her that he was going to take her and William away from Chicago, that they’d go to Hawaii or Barbados or, hell, Green Bay if that’s where she wanted to go. Tell her that he was out of the game just as soon as he finished cleaning out the closet. .

“Oh, excuse me, Rabbi Cohen, I didn’t know you were here.”

David whipped around in his seat, the phone clattering from his hand, and found Miguel, the tech who’d worked on Paul Bruno, standing in the doorway dressed in a suit, holding one of the saws they used to cut open the bodies.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” David said before he could catch himself.

“It’s my night,” Miguel said, but the look on his face said something entirely different. That didn’t explain the fucking giant saw.

“Your night?” David was still rattled, things weren’t computing right, and there was about to be a fucking headless, footless, handless torso delivered to the funeral home in an RV. Not exactly standard practice. When the bodies came in from the other families, it was always Ruben who checked them in. He’d let Miguel or the other techs work on them, but shipping and handling was his area of expertise.

“Super Bowl Sunday,” Miguel said, “can be a busy night. People lose a lot of money.” David just stared at Miguel, trying to figure out what the fuck he was saying. “You know, people have heart attacks, or they jump off something. It’s an emotional night. So we always have someone on that night, in case of emergencies.”

“What are you doing with that saw?”

Miguel looked down at his hands and seemed surprised to find he was still holding the saw. “I thought someone had broken in,” Miguel said.

“And you were going to cut them in two?”

“I guess I didn’t know what I was going to do,” Miguel said. He gave David a sheepish grin.

David smiled back. Just two guys in a mortuary, one with a saw, the other with a gun stuffed in his waistband.

“How long have you been here?”

“Bus dropped me off around ten,” Miguel said. “I might have fallen asleep in the back, so I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No, I mean, how long have you worked here?” Though, actually, he meant both things.

“Oh, three years in June.”

“You like your job?”

“It’s cool,” Miguel said with a shrug. “I like the responsibility.”

“Did you hear my phone conversation?”

Miguel looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

“I was on the phone,” David said. “Did you hear me talking?”

“I heard voices,” Miguel said carefully. “That’s what woke me up.”

David examined Miguel closely. His suit was olive green and cheap — probably bought from one of those places in the Meadows Mall called Suitz or Stylez or Fashionz. His watch had a leather band. No rings on his hands. His shoes were brown and didn’t really match his suit, and he wasn’t wearing a belt. In his whole life, he’d probably never made over fifteen bucks an hour. What did this Miguel know about him? Probably nothing. What did Miguel know about Bennie Savone? Probably an awful lot.

There was a single bead of sweat on Miguel’s upper lip.

David could see Miguel’s pulse beating in his neck.

He kept swallowing.

“So, yes or no,” David said, testing Miguel, because he knew the answer just from looking at him.

“I guess,” he said. “Yes. I guess.”

“You have a wife?”