The Undertaker

“I'm not leaving until I know he's okay,” Sandy said as we looked up at the house. “You coming, Talbott? Or am I going in alone?” She marched up the walkway to the house and I quickly followed. There was a large, double-hung window on each side of the back door. Looking in through the one on the left, I saw a small kitchen, complete with lacy pink curtains, striped wallpaper, flowerpots on the window ledge, a formica breakfast table, a stove, and a modern refrigerator, all Penny's catalogue neat and spotlessly clean.

“Nice,” I whispered. “You ought to ask if they hire out,”

I looked into the window on the other side. It was a kid's bedroom, decked out with Spider-Man curtains, a bed, a dresser, and a bunch of toys scattered around the floor. There was no sign in either room of Parini, the stretcher, or the four Chinese men who carried him inside. Puzzled, we pushed the door open and stepped inside and I could not have been more surprised. The room I stepped into bore no resemblance whatsoever to the kitchen I saw through the outside window. It had plain white walls, a white tile floor, harsh florescent lights, two desks, file cabinets, shelves with towels and linen, and two glass-front medical refrigerators. There were no homey kitchen curtains, no stove, no kitchen table, and no kitchen refrigerator. An optical illusion? I looked back at the window and found myself looking at what appeared to be a set of sophisticated rear screen projectors that threw holographic images on the window. Very clever.

Through the open door on the left, I saw a fully equipped medical clinic. As we watched, a white-garbed medical team gently transferred Parini up to an operating table, where busy, gloved hands set to work on him from all sides, putting in IVs and carefully cutting away his bloody pants leg. One of the attendants lowered an oxygen mask over his face, but Gino saw us watching and pushed it aside. He motioned for us to step closer. The Chinese attendants tried to stop us, but Parini growled and they stepped away.

“What are you two still doing here?” he asked.

“Uh, look, Gino... “

“No “look Ginos.” Take the ditz and get the hell out of here. Now!”

“Go, but where?” I asked as the nurses began to push us out of the room again.

“Anywhere, so long as it ain't here. Just freakin' go.” Parini coughed. “Besides, you ain't listened to me so far, and you ain't been doing too bad on your own. Take the Lincoln. That oughta to square us up. And take her, too.”

“But ...”

“You shouldn't have brought her into this thing, but you did, Ace, and now she's your responsibility. So get out of here, both of you.”

There was no sense arguing with him. Besides, he was right. I grabbed Sandy's hand and we went.

Outside on the sidewalk she said, “Those computer flash drives in your pocket are going to put Santorini even deeper in jail, not get him out. And pals or not, when Gino finds out, he's going to come after us, and he's gonna kill us both.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Bumper cars on the Dan Ryan…

Parini's white Lincoln was sitting in the alley where we left it, with all four doors hanging open. Inside, two elderly, black-clad Chinese gnomes were hunched over in the back seat using rags, spray bottles, and a bucket of water scrubbing away the last traces of blood from the car's leather upholstery. As we approached, they quickly exited, bowing and smiling as they backed away and scurried off through a gate into the next yard. I looked inside. Unbelievably, there wasn't a hint of blood anywhere. The car's interior was showroom clean.

We both went for the driver's side door, but I got there first. “If you don't mind,” I smiled as I edged her aside and slipped behind the wheel. “You had your turn and I'm not sure I could survive another.”

“Laugh it up, but you don't know the Chicago streets like I do.”

“No, but I can read signs. And you're right about Gino,” I finally got up the nerve to say what needed to be said as I drove away. “Between him, Tinkerton, and the Chicago cops, it's not a smart idea for you to stay with me for a whole lot longer.”

“You don't, huh?” Her black eyes turned hard and angry again. “Well, who put you in charge?”

“It's too dangerous, Sandy. For all I know, Gino's going to come after me next.”

“Great! I got a dead hit man lying in my basement, I'm MIA from my job, you've got me riding around the south side in a white pimpmobile, and now you want to dump me.”

“That's not fair. I'm worried about you.”

“Let me worry about me.” She bristled.

“All I wanted was a copy of those papers of yours, that's all. I don't suppose you'd trust me with them for a couple of days?”

“Trust you? I stopped buying that line in the back seat of Ernie DeMarco's Ford in eighth grade.” She clutched her big purse to her chest and turned away, clearly furious at me. “Trust you. That'll be the day. Once you get them, they're gone and so are you. And I heard what Gino told you,” she said. “I'm your responsibility now.”