The Undertaker

Tinkerton was a good fifteen feet away from me now. If I could get to him, at least as far as his legs, I might have a chance before he turned the gun on us. If I could grab a leg and maybe knock him off balance, I could pull him down to the ground with me. It was a desperate thing to try, but I didn't see any choice. Sandy must have had the same idea. From her knees, she swung around and tossed her heavy shoulder bag at him as if she was doing the hammer throw. I shoved her aside and went for Tinkerton, scrambling across the grass on all fours as fast as I could move. He saw the big leather bag flying at him, but he raised his arm and managed to block it. The heavy bag did knock him off balance, but that wasn't enough. Before I got halfway to him, he had his gun arm pointed at Sandy and me again. And from his angry expression, I knew he was going to shoot.

As the Glock lined up on my head, I heard a “Phutt! Phutt! Phutt!” as the soft, coughing sound of a silenced pistol cut through the night air of the park.

My heart stopped. First, I figured I was dead, but I was still kneeling on the grass, no worse for wear. My eyes then went to Hardin, expecting to see him crumpled on the ground with his brains all over the grass, but he was still kneeling, terrified, but apparently he was okay, too. Then I thought of Sandy. I turned my head, terrified that Tinkerton had carried out his threat and shot her first. No, she was still sitting on the grass, also unharmed. Finally, I looked up at Tinkerton. The big lawyer's jaw mouth hung open and his expression of total victory melted into shock and confusion. His hand went to his chest and he looked down at three neat red holes that formed a nearly perfect triangle in the center. Blood ran thick and dark over his fingers. The Glock slipped from his fingers and fell on the grass at his feet. He wobbled back and forth. His knees buckled. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he toppled forward on the grass like a big felled oak, landing on his face only inches from where Hardin was kneeling.

Hardin, Sandy, and I found ourselves staring at each other, then down at Tinkerton's body without the slightest clue as to what had happened to him. The big lawyer had been shot, but by whom? That was when we saw a dark, hulking figure slowly emerge from the bushes and walk toward us, backlit by the distant glow of the city. Whoever he was, his left hand leaned heavily on a cane and his right hand held a long-barreled chrome pistol that also had a silencer screwed to the end of its barrel.

“You know, Ace,” the man finally said. “You can get yourself in some of the damnedest fixes.”

“Oh, my God! It's Gino!” Sandy jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist and hugging him.

“Hey!” he growled affectionately at her. “Easy with the freakin’ leg, you ditz!”

“Who are you?” Hardin demanded to know.

“You okay, Sweat Pea?” Parini completely ignored the Senator as he held Sandy out at arm's length and looked her up and down. “You ain't hurt or nuthin’?” He went on, ignoring Hardin and ignoring me too, but I expected that. Finally, Parini looked down at Hardin. “The name's Parini, Senator. Gino Parini.”

“Parini?” Hardin puffed, taking some newly found confidence from the fact he was still alive. “You're Jimmy Santorini's hit man.”

Parini glanced down at Tinkerton's body, then over at Hardin. “Given the general situation here, I'd be careful with the name-calling, if I was you.”

Hardin must have figured that the statement did not bode well for his future. Slowly, his hand reached out for Tinkerton's Glock, which was lying on the grass next to the dead lawyer.

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Senator,” Parini warned as he waved his .45 in Hardin's general direction, then motioned for him to move back. “Looks to me like you're the one keepin’ the questionable company here.”

“Uh, look, Parini... Gino -– may I call you Gino? Great!” Hardin turned on his famous, if now somewhat battered, TV smile.

Parini chuckled. “That smooth-guy shit don't work so well when you're missing a couple of teeth, Senator. And all that blood? You're gonna need some serious fixin’ up.”

“Never mind that, Parini,” Hardin tried to focus. “You see that briefcase over there?” He pointed at the alligator leather case lying in the grass next to Tinkerton. “There's seven-and-a-half million dollars inside. Take it. It's all yours.”

“Seven and a half? All mine?” Parini feigned surprise. “Gee, thanks, for what?”

“For cleaning up this little mess for me.”

“Cleaning up? This… mess?” Gino looked confused.

“Yeah, get rid of him.” He pointed at Tinkerton's body. “And get rid of these two, too. Do that for me and the briefcase is yours, okay?”