The Undertaker

The man is identified by Chicago Police as Peter E. Talbott, a drifter from Los Angeles who faked his own death in Mexico last year. He is wanted for questioning regarding the death of a private security guard on the north side earlier this morning, and in Ohio for the murders of a county sheriff and two ambulance attendants.

His unnamed female accomplice has not yet been identified. She is described as a short, punk rocker with black hair and heavy make-up...

That got a rise out of my unnamed female accomplice. “A punk rocker with heavy make-up!” she exploded.

“And short.”

Her eyes became thin dark slits. “Don't let your mouth get your butt in trouble, Talbott, but what's this stuff about us shooting our way through a roadblock?”

“And “the death of a private security guard… major players in an interstate drug trafficking ring… a drifter who faked his own death in Mexico last year”? Tinkerton is losing it. Odd, though, there's no mention of the Feds. No “FBI sources”, only the Chicago cops.”

“Well, he's got you labeled as a cop-killer now. He wants you dead.”

Not just me, I thought but didn't say, and that is what I'm afraid of. “We have almost six hours before the train leaves,” I told her.

“A girl can always shop. Let's go back to the Interstate and find a mall. I need some things and you could use a new look, too. Besides.” She gave me that look again. “The balcony of a dark movie theater is a good place to hide and kill some time.”

“They don't have balconies anymore.”

“Darn!”

We found a mall at an interchange in the suburbs and wandered through a large department store. I picked out a pair of dress jeans, a plum-patterned Polo shirt, and a dark blue casual blazer. Sandy bought a light blue top, a dark-blue skirt-shorts combination, and a jacket. We had the clerk cut off the tags, and we went to the fitting rooms to change. When she came back out, she took me by the arm and pulled me down the concourse. “There's something else I still need to do with you.”

“You've been trying hard enough,” I mumbled.

“Not that!” She smacked my arm and pulled me into a makeup shop. “Your face. Your hair. It would be great if you grew a beard, but there's no time. Besides, they get scratchy in all the wrong places while they're growing in.” I looked at her, but it did no good. “What if you go blond? The hair and the eyebrows?” She started rummaging through the tubes and bottles on the shelf. “Nothing phony or bleachy, just a nice soft natural look.”

“I suppose you know how to use that stuff?”

“Six months in beautician's school, that's like graduate school for us bimbos and ditzes.” She looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes. “I have the blonde wig, but I think I'm going to get a light brown color and maybe something coppery-red. I've done them all.”

“I'll miss the black, is that your natural color?” I asked, not thinking.

“That's for you to find that out, Talbott.” She stuck out her tongue and turned away.

Out in the mall we found a 12-plex theater. There was no balcony, but she was right. It was a great place to hide. The movie was a singles dating comedy staring a bunch of twenty-somethings I had never heard of, but it was her pick and I didn't care. The theater had those big recliner stadium seats and it was mostly empty.

“Can I pretend we're a couple again?” she asked as she snuggled close. It didn't matter, because five minutes later I fell sound asleep.

It was probably an hour later when I woke up with my head buried in her shoulder. “God, I'm sorry, Sandy, that must have killed your arm.”

“Don't be,” she whispered. “I haven't had a guy fall asleep on me for a long, long time, not one I cared about anyway.” I looked at her, but she shook her head. “Don't! It was only a nap, nothing you need to feel guilty about.”

“I don't feel guilty.”

“Oh, yes you do.” She leaned closer and kissed me gently on the cheek. “You feel guilty about a lot of things you have no reason to feel guilty about. That's one of the many subjects you and I need to talk about. Now shut up and watch the end of the movie.”

After the movie, I had her drive back to the train station. That gave me a chance to look over the Amtrak schedule and routes. “Some of the trains have private compartments,” I said. “It would be great if we could get one all the way to Boston.”

“Like Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like It Hot?” But that's in black-and-white, so I doubt you ever saw it.”