The Undertaker (38 page)

“Senator, good to talk to you,” I said. “Did you look those papers over?”

“I sure did, Pete — may I call you Pete? -– and I interviewed that fat creep Panozzo long enough to know that stuff you sent me is real.”

“Good, because I've got two more drives full of that stuff. One must have a hundred other syndicate-front businesses on it. The other has all the payoffs to cops and politicians, the overseas investments, foreign bank accounts, all of that stuff.”

Hardin went silent for a moment. “Two more drives of that stuff, huh? And all the payoffs. Well, that's dynamite, Pete, absolute dynamite. But those notes of yours about Ralph Tinkerton and those people in Ohio…”

“I can prove it, Senator. Every word.”

“You can, huh? Where are you? We need to get you off the street.”

“Tennessee at the moment, but we're headed your way.”

“Look, Pete, you're in real danger. I can have some people…”

“You have enough to do with what I already sent you. Check out those names, the death certificates, and the graves in Columbus. I'll call you in a day or two, when we get to Washington. Ciao.” I hung up on him. Hardin? The left half of my brain trusted him, because he was a U. S. Senator and because we didn't have very many other options. But, the right half told me I'd be a fool to bet my life on any Washington politician.

I saw Philip again as we got back on the train and had him bring us some lunch, then we locked ourselves in the compartment. Like Sandy said earlier, all that lovin’ stuff burns a lot of calories. That it did. After we ate, I folded the upper bunk up into the wall and lay down on the lower with my clothes on.

Sandy stripped down to her underwear again and looked down at me. “You don't want a bunch of ugly wrinkles in those new clothes now, do you?” she scrunched up her nose and slowly slipped out of the underwear too. I shook my head and started to get undressed, but she pushed my hands away. “No,” she said. “It's my turn.” She slipped out of her bra and panties and with tantalizing slowness, undressed me. Then she pushed me down on the bunk and we made love again. Afterward, she rolled over, put her head on my chest, and we both fell into a deep sleep.

It was 3:00 when Sandy yawned and stretched, supple and sensuous like a big cat unwinding from a long nap. “How long until we get to Boston?” she asked.

“Two, maybe three hours.”

“You're kidding. I must have dozed off.”

“Dozed? Yeah, that was what it was. I'll take the first shower,” I said as I started to roll over her and get up.

“Wait a minute.” She pushed me back down and put a finger on my lips. “Don't say a word. This should not come as a big surprise to you, but I am utterly in love with you, Peter Talbott. I know you can't use the “L” word yet, and I'm okay with that. But every now and then, give me a little squeeze or a kiss or something so I know you still like me, okay? But not a word. Please. Or you'll break the spell. I'm going to slip into the shower now, and then we'll do your hair.”

Actually, we discovered that even a tiny Amtrak shower could hold two people and a lot of fun. Afterward, she came back in with the bottle of blonde hair dye and wrapped a towel around my shoulders. “We could go for the sun-drenched, poofy-blonde surfer look,” she said. “Or the tousled, freaked-out, white-haired, Rod Stewart look. Or, I could really screw it up, turn your hair green, and watch it fall out in big clumps.”

“How about the former beautician with the black eye look?”

It took her about a half hour, but after I toweled it dry and combed it, I looked at myself in the mirror. The hair and eyebrows were now a nice, natural blonde and the face looking back at me didn't look anything like mine.

“Not bad for a bimbo beauty school graduate, is it?” she asked.

“Well, you never told me you graduated. You going to do yours, too?”

“The black is so… me. But, yeah, I thought I'd try a light brown.”

“Good choice. While you do that, I'll order us an early dinner. The train gets into South Station in Boston at 6:30, but I thought we'd off at Framingham at 5:50 and catch a local into the city. That'll get us closer to Doug's house and we can avoid any unfriendly eyes waiting for us downtown.”

Framingham was in the far western suburbs. We stepped down on the platform and I said goodbye to Phillip, expecting the SWAT team to jump out of the bushes any minute with bullhorns and riot guns, but nothing happened. The streets around the small station were filled with dozens and dozens of luxury cars and SUVs waiting for the commuter trains from the city. We walked into the waiting room. It had four ticket windows, only one of which was open, and a newsstand that sold a little bit of everything from cigarettes to newspapers, candy, and maps. I went over and picked up a Rand McNally map of Boston that showed the railroad and subway routes on one side and a street map on the other.

“You live here,” Sandy said. “What do you need a map for?”

“I only moved here two months ago. Other than driving to the office in Waltham from my “suck-ass” little apartment in Lexington, as Gino called it, and maybe the Red Sox game Doug dragged me to, you probably know Boston better than I do.”

I looked at the map while she went to the window and bought two commuter train tickets When she came back, we walked outside to the tracks and went around to the other side of a billboard that screened us from the station and the street.

“Another billboard, another train station. Wanna neck?” She pressed against me and moved gently back and forth. “Hmmm. Something tells me you don't mind anymore.”

I leaned my chin on the top of her head. “How much time do we have?”

“About ten minutes. Not enough, is it? So you owe me one.”

“Are you keeping count?”

“You better believe it. An opportunity lost is an opportunity lost… Sister Eugenia.”

The commuter train was on time, but it was a local milk run that stopped at every little station, which was exactly what I wanted. It dropped underground and we finally reached the Back Bay station at 7:00. We walked through the station and took the long flight of stairs up to the street, but nothing looked out of place.

“We're getting pretty good at this sneaky stuff, aren't we?” Sandy asked as we hurried off up Exeter Street. The shadows were getting long and it would be dark soon. A line of storms had swept through while we were on the train, leaving the streets wet and the early evening air warm and damp. I looked up. The sky was clearing. The stars were coming out and it would be a good night for walking.

“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.

“Boston was our spring trip my senior year of high school. Half the class lost their virginity that weekend.”

“What happened to the other half?”

“They became nuns.”

“So, that's the part you remember most? The churches?”

She grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Actually, about all I do remember is a bunch of kids running through the subway cars singing about getting poor Charlie and the MTA.” She pointed back to the round sign with the blue “T” over the subway entrance. “But they called it the “T” by then and that ruined the whole thing. Don't worry, though. I know Boston like the back of my hand; I've read all the Spenser books.”

She wrapped herself around my arm. “Are you still okay with this?’

“Are you going to keep asking?”

“About every five minutes, so you better get used to it.”

Being a man of few words, I lifted her off the ground and gave her a big kiss.

Back Bay had been the old Charles River marshes that land speculators had filled in the nineteenth century, so it was the only part of the old city with a sensible grid pattern. It had five boulevards — Beacon, Marlborough, Commonwealth, Newberry, and Boylston Streets — plus some short side streets. Commonwealth ran down the middle, with a wide, park-like strip of trees, grass, formal gardens, and flowerbeds called the Mall in its median. Back Bay was nice, with big trees overhanging the sidewalks and streets. From there it was an easy walk to Harvard, Fenway Park, the Band Shell, Filene's, the Markets downtown, and the financial district. That made a Back Bay townhouse one of the most fashionable and expensive addresses in Boston. Obviously, Doug's lifestyle had improved since his nine-hundred square foot apartment in Glendale.

The sun was setting. I had my arm around Sandy's shoulder and she had her arm around my waist as we walked, looking to all the world like lovers out for a stroll. As darkness set in, we made circled Doug's block, turning west one street short of Marlborough and walked up Commonwealth a few streets, turning north again and crossing Marlborough, then walking east on Beacon back to Exeter. The streetlights came on, the pavement glistened beneath our feet as we walked, and it was surprisingly quiet. Perhaps the lush canopy of dripping oaks screened out the big city noise. Whatever, my docksiders sounded like Clydesdale hoofs on the cobblestones. I checked the parked cars even more closely. Still, I saw nothing. Were they that good? Was I that stupid? Or, had no one been there to begin with?

Boston: the Flying Wallendas meet Stephen King…

A
t
night, nothing looks more sinister than an old 19
^th
century brownstone, with the lights out and the shades drawn. They'd make great locations for a Stephen King movie, and Doug's townhouse on Marlborough Street was no exception. We walked by on the other side of the street where we had a full view of his place and all the cars on the street, continuing down to the corner. His was a narrow, three-story townhouse, the fifth one from the far corner. It couldn't have been more than forty feet wide. As with most of the other homes on the street, the first floor and front door were a half- storey above ground level. Ten wide, but badly worn granite steps led to a to a raised stoop and a massive, hand-carved Victorian front door. There were carved, limestone balustrades on each side and cut glass sidelights and a stained-glass transom around the door. All in all, very distinguished.

“You gonna try the door?” Sandy whispered.

“That thing? Not without the key or dynamite,” I told her as I continued checking each parked car, doorway, and rooftop we passed. “Let's look around back.”

We crossed the street at the corner and continued south to the alley.

“There's no way they know we're here.”

“No? All I did was mention Eddie's name to Tinkerton, and they were all over you before I even got to Chicago. The other names in the obituaries were from Phoenix, Portland, and Atlanta, and I'll bet Tinkerton sent a bunch of his men to those cities too.”

“But the odds...”

“There are no odds. That term doesn't apply to Tinkerton.”

We entered the alley and walked quietly along the rear side of the houses. It was like being in a dark, narrow canyon, with an unbroken line of tall, board fences, garage doors, and trashcans on each side, lit by an occasional security light mounted high on a telephone pole. The small circles of light they cast shimmered off the puddles in the alley's ruts and potholes, leaving a hundred dark places for someone to hide.

From the rear, Doug's house looked much like his neighbors, except none of his lights were on. He had a stout brick garage with an overhead door, and a tall board fence that spanned the gap to the garage next door. The fence had a thick wooden gate. Along the fence ran a line of dented metal garbage cans, but there was nothing that offered a hand or even a toehold to scale the fence. Even if you did manage to climb it, Doug had added a looping double spool of razor wire along the top.

Sandy stood in the alley and looked up at the tall barrier. “Jeez, and I thought you were paranoid,” she said glumly.

“Good fences make good neighbors.“

“Who said that? Carl Sandburg or O. J. Simpson?” she asked, pushing on the fence and the gate, sizing them up. “Your surfer boy built himself a good one.” She stepped over to one of the garbage cans. Rummaging inside, she pulled out several sections of newspaper. “I think it's time the “Fuckin’ Wallendas” made an encore,” she said.

“You can't get over that thing,” I tried to tell her.

“We lived in a second floor apartment and my old man never let us out on school nights. I learned the fine art of escape and evasion from my older sister Louise. Piece of cake, Talbott, let's go.”

She draped her camera and the big shoulder bag around my neck and pushed me back against the wooden fence with my hands knit together. As light as she was, I barely felt her weight as she stepped from my hands to my shoulder and draped the newspaper across the razor wire. “Good thing I changed into the shorts,” she said as she looked down at me. “I wouldn't want some pervert looking up my skirt.” She dropped back down, “Okay, one, two…” She rocked backward, and “three!” I tossed her upward and she soared effortlessly over the razor wire, clearing it by at least a foot. She dropped out of sight on the other side, but I heard no screams or snapping of bones, only a soft “Thump.”

Moments later, the bolt on the gate rattled and she pulled it open, dusting off her hands with a flourish as she welcomed me inside the dark rear yard. “Warning: performed by professional acrobat. Do not try this at home,” she said with a big grin on her face.