The Undertaker

The Buick was as dusty and leaf strewn as it had been the previous afternoon. I took a quick glance at the nearby houses. Except for the occasional porch light, they were all dark, so I pulled the Jimmy from my pants leg, where I had hidden it, and stepped to the driver's side door. I had no trouble slipping it between the window glass and the weather strip. Funny how breaking and entering, picking locks, slipping the latch on a window, and every other illegal trick and stunt in the book always looked so easy in the movies and so damned hard when you try to do it yourself. I shoved the bar down as far as it would go, but nothing happened. I pulled it halfway out worked it back and forth, trying again and again to find the lock mechanism. That didn't work any better, but I couldn't stand out here with a burglary tool fooling with this door much longer. Eventually a car would come by and I would have a real problem. I pulled the bar up and slid it up and down, starting at the doorframe and working my way forward. There! About twelve inches over, the bar hit something hard. I began working around the spot until I felt something give way. The door lock popped up and I was in.

When I opened the door, the dome light came on, so I slid in as quickly and closed the door behind me. I knew I had to hot-wire the car, but I'd never find the ignition, much less the right wires if I didn't take a couple of deep breaths and calm down. I popped the glove compartment and to my pleasant surprise, I found a flashlight. The batteries were almost dead, but they would do. I spun around in the seat and ducked under the steering column for a better look. Fortunately, this clunker was old school. I found the starter wire and the battery lead, touched them together, and the old Buick turned over. With some gas and a bit of coaxing, it coughed and sputtered, but I got it started. I sat up, dropped it into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb.

Up ahead somewhere, I knew I would find a sign for or the I-270 Beltway. That would take me to I-70 and on to Indianapolis, where I could work my way north to Chicago. Once out of town, I needed desperately to get some food, ditch this Campbell County Kiwanis Club softball shirt, and get some new, clean clothes. After that, I intended to take a leisurely look around the Buick. The gray-haired harpy on Sedgwick said Old Pete called this his “getaway car.” A curious phrase, I thought, making me wonder what he might have hidden inside.

I debated the best way to get out of the city and finally decided to backtrack along the route Morrie had driven, keeping the Buick below the speed limit and being careful to stop at every traffic light and stop sign, staying invisible. An hour and a half later, I passed beneath big white arch at the Ohio border and into the relative safety of Indiana. I wasn't out of the woods, not yet, but I was getting there. When I reached the outskirts of Indianapolis, I took the beltway around to I-65 and Chicago. About ten miles up the road, I saw the sign for a big 24-hour truck stop called Uncle Ike's. It had a truck repair shop, gas, food, and a general store — everything a harried long-haul trucker might need on a lonely road.

I ate two large cheeseburger platters and drank a full pot of coffee, then wandered through the store and picked out a red-and green plaid shirt, a pair of stone-washed blue jeans, a leather belt with a silver Colorado Centennial belt buckle, a small shaving kit, and a baseball hat that advertised Briggs and Stratton power mowers. For a California boy trying to pass as a long-haul truck driver, I figured that was as good as it got.

I slipped into the restroom to change and got a good look at myself in the mirror. The way I looked, it was a wonder they even served me breakfast. I had nasty black-and-blue rings around my wrists and across my thighs from fighting the straps on the embalming table, and my right side and shoulder got some large purple and green bruises when the ambulance hit the funeral home's front wall. The slice from Tinkerton's scalpel had finally stopped bleeding, but I tucked a half-dozen paper towels under my belt just in case and threw my old clothes into the dumpster on the way out.

Time to search the Buick. I drove it around to the rear side of the lot behind several rows of trucks and parked under a tall light pole. I started with the glove compartment. Inside, I found an old owner's manual, as dirty and abused as the car itself, and a big pile of crumpled MasterCard gas receipts. The name on all the charges was Peter Talbott. He was using the Sedgwick address and a scribbled signature that didn't look anything like mine. In the very back, I found three wrinkled road maps, from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. There was an Ohio DMV registration card for the Buick with the Talbott name and same address. Other than that, all I found was a stick of stale gum, a handful of loose change, and an almost-dead flashlight.