The Undertaker

“Mind the glittery stuff back there, now,” he warned.

I looked down and saw the hand-painted face of Elvis Presley staring at me from the back of the blue denim vest, complete with rhinestones and silver glitter. It was The King all right — the Las Vegas stage shot with the white jumpsuit and the dancing fringe. Elvis was humping the microphone, his right arm thrust upward in mid-wiggle, and his black hair falling in his eyes.

“Got it at Graceland as part of the King's Sixtieth Birthday Commemorative Package,” he announced proudly. “She's a real collector's item now, you know.”

“I'll bet,” I said, de-gripping the vest and shifting my hands to the seat frame.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Sedgwick. It's a residential street east of Sickles, maybe 3000 north.”

Hagar nodded. “We'll find it.”

“You're a real lifesaver, man. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. The name's Morrie, by the way,” he said as he threw a big paw over his right shoulder.

“Mine's Pete,” I answered as we shook hands. “But I thought you bikers always used names like Ax Handle, or Eric the Red, or something like that?”

“Biker? Me? I'm an internal auditor with the State Treasurer's office. My wife hates the bike,” he said as he fondly patted the gas tank of the Honda. “If I don't sneak it out of the garage once or twice a week and blow the carbon out of the pipes — mine and the bike's — I'd go nuts.”

Ah, the sweet taste of freedom, I almost said, but I didn't want to walk. “So, you're just cruising around town?”

“Going everywhere and nowhere,” he grinned, as he roared off down the deserted street and I felt the wind whip my face.

This was great, I thought, but Morrie had asked me a good question. Where was I going? By morning, my face would be plastered across the front page of every newspaper in the state with headlines that screamed out, cop killer, building wrecker, flag burner, child molester, litterer, and anything else Tinkerton could make up. They'd pin my picture to the targets on the police pistol range and take particular delight in punching me full of holes. Boston? LA? From the rear fender of Morrie's Gold Wing, they might as well be on the dark side of the moon. What other choices did I have? Pay a house call on Jimmy Santorini's pals in New Jersey? Catch him on visitor's day over at Marion? Something told me I didn't want to play with them any more than I wanted to keep playing with Ralph Tinkerton or the Campbell County cops.

If I wanted to unravel their little plot, I had to find a loose end or two and start picking and pulling at them with everything I had. A loose end? What about the other obituaries? If there was a problem with mine, maybe there was a problem with some of the others, too. Skeppington was from Atlanta, Pryor from Phoenix, and Brownstein was from Portland, Oregon. Those three might as well be LA, as far away as they were, but Edward J. Kasmarek was from Chicago. He was only thirty-two years old and Chicago was at least reachable for me. The guy must have family, friends, or drinking buddies up there who remembered him. Maybe I could get a copy of his Chicago Death Certificate and a copy of his obituary in the Chicago Tribune. Maybe I could find a photo, a high school or college yearbook, medical or dental records, something that would make his identification irrefutable. Yeah, the more I thought about it, the guy in Chicago was my best shot. Hell, he was probably my only shot.

We turned right on Sickles and roared south until I saw the sign for Sedgwick. Morrie geared down. “Which way on Sickles?” he asked.

“Right here's fine. You don't have to take me all the way.”

“No sweat, I'll take it slow and we'll only wake up part of the neighborhood.”

“Left, then,” I smiled as Morrie turned the Gold Wing east on Sedgwick.

Two blocks down, we came to the big oak and I was relieved to see the Buick was still parked where it had been. “Right here,” I told him and Morrie swung the big bike into the shadows. “Morrie, that was great,” I said as I climbed off, slightly bowlegged, my back stiff and sore. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along.”

“Hey, like I said, I was looking for any excuse to rumble off, “where no man has gone before,” and you provided me with the perfect one.” He waved farewell and the big bike drove away. As he passed through the glow of the next street light, I'd swear I saw the King's glittery eyes wink at me as he faded into the night.