The Undertaker

“You're nuts! I can't believe this. You're nuts, all of you —- you, Greene, Dannmeyer, Varner, all of you.”

“Pete, boy, you just don't seem to understand what's at stake here. As I told you back in my office, this involves National Security — top National Security – because we're the good guys. I told you that too. I even asked for your help, but you wouldn't stop nosing around, would you? Nothing personal, but you brought up Jimmy Santorini's name, not me, and you are the one who said you were working for the State AG's office, remember? So you have no one to blame but yourself,” he said as he lowered the scalpel toward my stomach again.

“You bastard!” I screamed, trying to break free with all my might until I heard the loud “Ding” of the freight elevator. It had reached the basement level and its doors opened. Tinkerton heard it too. His head snapped up and he looked toward the far end of the room.

Me? I couldn't take my eyes off that damned scalpel.

CHAPTER TEN

Bert and Ernie, and a brick wall…

“What are you two doing down here?” Tinkerton quickly turned and demanded to know. “I told you to get back to the clinic.”

“Well, uh,” I heard a man's voice and pulled my eyes away from the scalpel long enough to look. It was those two klutzy ambulance attendants, George and Ernie. They stood in the open door of the elevator dressed in their white uniforms. They looked at each other for support as if neither was sure what to do next or had the guts to do it.

“Is Mister Greene around?” George finally asked.

“Get of out of here!” Tinkerton ordered.

“No, don't!” I screamed. “You guys gotta help me. He's nuts; he's gonna kill me.”

There I was, strapped naked to an embalming table, with Tinkerton hovering over me with a bloody scalpel in his hand, and these two clowns couldn't make up their minds. “Come on, guys,” I begged them. “Look at him. You can't leave me down here. He's going to kill me.”

They took a few tentative steps into the room, still not sure, but it was a start. “We don't want no trouble over this, Mister Tinkerton.” Ernie tried his best to placate the lawyer. “But we need to talk to Mr. Greene.”

“No, no trouble.” George repeated as they stepped farther into the room and drew closer to me. Ernie nudged his partner. “Jeez, look at that guy, George. He's bleeding. This ain't right.”

“Out! Get out of here, now, both of you,” Tinkerton bellowed as he crossed around to the other side of the table, positioning himself between them and me.

“What are you doing to him, Mister Tinkerton?” Ernie pointed at the scalpel.

“He's fucking torturing me, you dork!” I screamed at them, my voice trembling. “What do you think he's doing? Now get me out of here.”

The two attendants exchanged quick, knowing glances, as if they were confirming something they had already decided. “If you don't mind, Mister Tinkerton, we're gonna take this guy to the hospital,” George said.

“Yep,” Ernie agreed, puffing out his chest. “That's what we're going to do, so we'd appreciate you stepping aside.”

“Yeah,” George added. “You got some problem with that, Mister Tinkerton, we can sort it out later. But we ain't leaving without that guy, not this time we ain't.”

Tinkerton glowered at them. “This is none of your business. Get out of here,” he said as he swung the blade back and forth and took a few menacing steps toward them.

Neither of the attendants had expected Tinkerton to come at them like that. The lawyer pointed the scalpel at Ernie and backed him against the next embalming table.

“Hey!” Ernie shouted as he stumbled. He raised his hands in defense, but the blade caught him across the palm of his left hand and sliced it open, sending blood flying. Ernie screamed in terror and grabbed his hand. He stared at it, wide-eyed and watched as blood ran down his arm and dripped on the tile floor. George tried to help. He pushed Tinkerton away, but he was off balance himself as Tinkerton lashed out with the scalpel again. In truth, I'm not sure the big lawyer even saw George standing there, but the scalpel didn't care about intent. With his long arms and tall, powerful frame, the backhanded stroke caught George across the throat.

“No!” I screamed, too late. George's eyes went as wide as ping-pong balls. He raised his hands to his neck and tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet gurgle as a raw, six-inch gash opened at the base of his throat and blood pumped down the front of his white uniform. He staggered, wobbling back and forth, and toppled backward onto the floor. Tinkerton stared down at him as he too suddenly realized what he had done.