The Undertaker

On the wall hung a flat-screen TV. She picked up the remote control and turned it on. “The local news should be on. I want to show you something.” She flicked through the stations until she came to what looked like highlights from a congressional hearing in Washington. The hearing room was jammed with reporters and cameras, all focused on the tall, curved, elevated dais and on the witness table in the middle, covered with microphones. “That's the Hardin Commission,” she said. “He's the good-looking guy in the middle and our Senator from Illinois, “Tough Tim” they call him now. Great hair, capped teeth, and a tanning bed. Film at 6:00 — the locals are eating it up.”

“What are they talking about?” I asked.

She gave me that look again. “Organized Crime, you dolt. The mob.”

“I thought that was last year.”

“It was, but Hardin reconvened them last Monday,” she told me. Why bother to read the “book” here, when we can watch the movie.”

“His hearings last year got the ball rolling against the Santorini family in New Jersey. Those are his spreadsheets you're looking at.” He was theatrically aggressive as he leaned forward and wagged an accusing finger at his witness. The object of his attack was a distinguished, bald-headed man in an expensive suit sitting at the witness table. Other than a thin, condescending smile, he appeared completely unfazed by Hardin's ranting.

“Who's that guy?” I asked.

“I think his name's Billingham. He's a mob lawyer from New York.”

“Give him a lollipop; he could pass for Kojak, in the old TV series.”

“Hardin's been after him since last year.”

“Well, we better keep reading the book, because he hasn't laid a glove on him yet.”

She stood up and scratch her head with both hands, violently, shaking it, letting her hair fly around in frustration.

“I was wondering where you had it done,” I dared to quip.

She glared at me. “I'll let that one pass, since it was your first, albeit very lame attempt at humor. And I'm hungry.”

“We can order in. Maybe a pizza?”

“No. I've got to get out of here. There's a little Korean take out place down the street, I need some air. I'll get us some stuff and a couple of six packs, okay?”

“You think that's a good idea?” I asked, concerned.

“The beer? After all you've been through, I thought you might want to relax.”

“No, I mean you going out.”

“Don't worry, I can do enough ‘girl magic’ on myself that my mother wouldn't recognize me. Want to come with?”

“No. Right now, you'd be a lot safer out there without me.”

She disappeared into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, she came out wearing a peach, summer-weight suit, pastel makeup, and a very real looking shoulder-length blond wig that completely covered her short raven hair. She topped it off with a white beret.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My aunt,” she said.

“She's a very attractive woman,” I smiled.

She cocked her head and gave me that pleasantly puzzled expression again.

“Seriously, it looks really good on you, all of it.”

“Thank you, Peter Talbott.” She made a small pirouette and opened the front door, then paused and looked back at me. “You really trust me to go out there by myself? You don't think I'll call the FBI on you?”

“Sandy, I'm not holding you here. I think you'll do whatever you want to do. Besides,” I pointed to her camera lying on the floor. “I have the Pentax as hostage.”

“Sneaky.” She stared at me again, debating. “You know, I do a lot better with jerks and assholes. Them, I can figure out.”

“Be careful out there, okay?”

“You sound like my older brother, and what I don't need right now is another older brother. See ya,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

I shook my head and went back to work on the spreadsheets. I finished looking through the last of them and I had to agree with her. Louie Panozzo might have been a fat slob, but this was a masterpiece of creative accounting. By then, I was brain dead, so I stretched out on my back on the floor. The next thing I knew, the front door was opening and the light from the hallway spilling across the living room floor where I lay. The door quickly closed with a soft “Click” and the room was cast in long, dark shadows again. I snapped wide-awake as someone tiptoed into the room and stepped over me, carrying an armful of bags into the kitchen.

“You shouldn't do that in a skirt.” I told her.

“Pervert. You couldn't see a thing.”

“Black underwear?”

“Liar. We both know it's too dark in here for you to see much of anything. And you forgot I changed clothes... all of them.”

She turned on the lights in the kitchen and I lay there watching her unpack the bags. She reached over and turned on the radio. It was country music.

“What a horrible way to wake up.”

“Say, what?” She glared over at me, hands on hips.

“No, not you. Billy Ray Bob on the radio.”

“You just dodged a nasty bruise,” she said as she opened two beers and brought one over to me without waiting for an answer, taking a long pull on hers.

“What time is it, anyway?” I asked.

“Almost 7:00.”

“Korean took that long?”