The Undertaker

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.”

“I saw you on TV a couple of days ago.”

“What a monstrous waste of time. Well, if you watched, you'll know I am fat and jolly, completely bald, and I'm never without a big smile or a couple of large bodyguards. So don't get any peculiar ideas, Mr. Talbott, or try to do anything but talk.”

“Me? I'm a pussy cat, Mister Billingham.”

“That's not what the Boston Globe said about you this morning, or the Chicago Tribune the day before. And I guess the Columbus papers the day before that, but who's counting, eh?”

“None of that stuff is true.”

“Of course not. I'm a defense attorney, remember? That's what all my clients tell me,” he chuckled. “But if you really are part of the innocent, tiny minority, that's all the more reason for you to be careful. 5:00 PM is a long time from now and like most pussy cats, you've already used up most of your nine lives… and “ciao,” Mr. Talbott.”

Two doors down from the Starbucks was a bookstore. We ducked inside and I bought a copy of the Boston Globe, curious about the story Billingham mentioned. I opened it and groaned. This time we had made page one. They had my photo again, with the headline, “Torture Slaying in Back Bay, Midwest Cop Killers Believed in Boston,” and they had enough of the details and the twisted background to convince me it was more of Ralph Tinkerton's handiwork. This time, they had Sandy's photograph too. Mine was the same old California driver's license mug shot they used in Chicago, but Sandy's was even worse. Her black hair looked dirty and uncombed, not stylishly “messy,” her skin was pale and fleshy, and she wore black lip-gloss and eyeliner. With a pair of dull, dead eyes and dark bags underneath, she must have been in her Goth phase. I turned the paper and showed her.

“Which was it?” I asked. “A horrible hangover or Halloween?”

She stared at the picture without saying a word and I could see the tears start to form.

“Hey, I'm sorry,” I said. “I was only kidding.”

“You should keep that,” she pointed at it and managed a whisper. “You can pull it out any time I get moody or piss you off, or you don't think I appreciate you enough. That was me, about a year ago, after I hit bottom. Like I said, you need to keep it.”

“Well, one good thing,” I said, as I gave her a hug. “That sure isn't you anymore.”