The Undertaker

Arms flailing, he toppled over backward and fell down the stairs. As he did, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me down with him, which was a mistake. When we hit the dark concrete landing below, he was upside down, his body under mine. I heard a short, sharp “Snap,” like a dry tree branch cracking in a strong wind. The air went out of him and he went limp beneath me. Gasping, I rolled over and looked down at him, expecting to have to hit him again, but he wasn't moving. His neck bent at an odd angle. His eyes were wide open and he looked like a dead trout on a bed of ice in a fish market. Even in the dim light, I knew he was dead. That was when the shakes began. I had never killed anyone before. I leaned against the wall and puked up that morning's breakfast in the corner of the stairwell.

Eventually I heard a voice calling me, “Talbott ... Talbott!” It was Parini. “If you're done playing with that guy, get your ass up here. I need help.”

I stumbled up the stairs into the bright light of the back yard where Gino lay on the grass holding his bleeding leg. Sandy knelt next to him. I could see he'd been shot in the thigh and his white pants leg was leaking a lot of very unfashionable dark-red blood. “They aren't gonna let you in the yacht club looking like that,” I warned.

“You and your fuckin' jokes,” he said, obviously in a lot of pain. He unbuckled his belt, pulled it out, and tried to wrap it around his leg, “Godamnit, help me with this thing.”

I was still in a daze, but Sandy wasn't. She quickly threaded the belt back through the buckle and drew it tighter around his leg. “More,” he growled. “Tighter!”

She gave him an unsympathetic shrug and pulled back with everything she had.

“Good,” Parini groaned painfully as he held out his hand to me. “Now help me up.”

Gino was more than twice her size and way too heavy for her to handle alone. I got under his other arm. Together, we got him to his feet and headed for the back gate when I remembered something. “Wait a minute,” I said as I left him leaning on Sandy.

“Hey,” he shouted angrily, but I ignored him and ran back down the stairs. I found the goon's automatic lying next to him. I stuck it in my waistband and pawed through his pockets, pulling out a wallet and a badge case. It was too dark to read what they said, but the mere fact he had one made the hair stand on the back of my neck. I ran back upstairs. When I got there, the two of them were already limping across the yard toward the rear gate and I heard Sandy mumbling, “I can't believe I'm doing this; I can't believe I'm doing this…” I got under Gino's other arm and we made it through the gate and into the alley.

“That was the FBI guy with the gold cuff links, wasn't it?” Sandy asked. I nodded. “If I hadn't decked him with my purse, he was going to shoot you, wasn't he?”

“He did shoot me,” Parini grimaced.

“No, I mean Talbott,” she said. “He was supposed to kill Talbott, wasn't he?”

“He was supposed to kill all of us, Sweet Pea, but the smart play was to take me out first. That's how I'd have done it. Then I'd a popped the two of you.”

“Just like that, huh?” she said, laboring under his bulk.

“Just like that. Tinkerton would kill his grandmother if he thought he could put this genie back in the bottle, believe me.”

“Tinkerton?” she questioned. “That guy was FBI. I saw his ID card and badge.”

“You saw what they wanted you to see,” Parini answered.

I pulled out the gunman's automatic and looked at it in the light. “It's a Beretta, Gino.” I held it up and showed him. “Are the Feds using Italian handguns now?”

“He wasn't no Fed,” Parini said as his big paw swallowed the automatic and he slipped it into his pocket. “And you don't want this on you, Ace. It's goin’ in the freakin’ river.”

I pulled out the gunman's badge case, flipped it open, and saw a brass badge with a blue and red crest and an ID card in the name of Michael Alvarez, Special Investigator, U. S. Justice Department. “This says the Justice Department, Gino, the goddamned Justice Department.”

“Don't believe everything you read, Ace,” he said as he pocketed that too.

“Well, it looked real enough to me,” Sandy answered.

“It's supposed to, you ditz. That's why they make 'em. And that Beretta he had was real nice. Top of the line, very expensive. Only a pro, a good contract killer or some serious in-house shooter would have one of those.”

“How do we know it wasn't you he was after, Gino?” she asked.

“Because he didn't recognize me. He didn't know who I was.”

“How do you know that?” she asked again.

Parini shook his head. “Look, I don't want to brag, but I come with a lot of reputation, and a lot of baggage. I'm what you might call a “consultant” for certain tri-state area business” interests.”

“Yeah, well, now you're a consultant with a bullet hole in his leg,” Sandy grunted.