The Undertaker

Sandy turned her eyes away, but I continued to watch this horrific show, not knowing what Tinkerton would do next.

Tinkerton lowered the Glock and laughed as he looked down at Hardin's lap. “Why Senator, I do believe you have pissed you pants. Now get that kitty! Get it now, or by God, your precious 6:00 News face will be the last of your worries. I'll turn your brains into a fresco on that wall.”

“No, please,” Hardin cowered, completely broken as he raised his shaking hands to fend off any more gunshots. “Please.”

“Get it!” Tinkerton pointed the Glock at Hardin's other ear.

Trembling, Hardin reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He bent over and opened a side drawer in his desk. There was a steel strong box built inside. His hands were shaking, covered with blood, as he tried to fit a small key into the lock, but he dropped the keys on the carpet.

Tinkerton walked around to the other side of the desk and pressed the silencer against the side of Hardin's head. “No more games, open it.”

Hardin whimpered and shook like a leaf. He picked up the keys and tried again, and then he tried a third time, before he could get the key into the lock and open the door. Tinkerton shoved him aside and reached in, pulling out a large brown alligator skin briefcase. He laid it on the desk and snapped the locks open. He slowly raised the top. I saw the briefcase was packed with stacks of hundred-dollar bills and several fist-sized blue-velvet bags.

Tinkerton picked up one of the stacks of green and fanned it near Hardin's ear with his thumb. “You know, Major, nothing ruins the image of a great man worse than a very ordinary vice.” He dropped the stack of bills in the briefcase and picked up one of the blue-velvet bags. It was heavy and sounded like a bagful of small stones as he tossed it up and caught it lightly in the palm of his hand. “What do we have here, Major? Diamonds?” he asked as he cocked his head, his eyes twinkling. “How much?”

Hardin didn't answer. His eyes were riveted on the brown briefcase as if it were his own life lying open on the desk in front of him.

“How much!” Tinkerton screamed at him. “Three million? Five? Maybe ten?” Tinkerton smiled. “I knew you had something squirreled away, you little weasel. I knew you had a stash hidden away in here, because I can read you like a book. Even in the Marines, you always had a way out, a private little escape hatch, didn't you?”

“I'm a United States Senator,” Hardin whispered, his shirtfront now covered with blood. “You'll never get away with this.”

“I would offer you a little sporting wager on that, but I'm afraid you won't be around for me to collect.” Tinkerton grinned. “Now get up! We are going for a little walk, all of us — you, me, the rocket scientist, Miz Kasmarek, the briefcase — all of us,” he said as he turned toward me. “And no stunts, Pete. Nothing brave or noble. I'll shoot the girl if you so much as blink wrong. And be advised, this is not the Thirty-Fifth Street El station in Chicago. I saw those cute little feet of hers in action and if one of them as much as twitches, I will put a hole in her you can run your fist through. I swear I will. Now get up and get moving, all of you.”

Tinkerton grabbed Hardin by the arm and pushed him toward the door. We went through the dark outer office and into the hall, with Sandy and me in the lead and Tinkerton and Hardin close behind. The Senator turned toward the front of the building, but Tinkerton blocked his way. “No, no, the side door, Major. With Rico's boys gone, there is nothing out there to stop me now.”

“What about the guards?” I asked. “They'll remember us.”

“You really are a tourist, Pete,” Tinkerton laughed as he pointed the Glock at me. “Those rent-a-cops wouldn't recognize Donald Duck if he stepped on their feet. So, ya'll put your arms around each other like two little lovebirds and stay well ahead of me. Walk straight out the door and across the street into the park. And remember, I do know how to use this thing. Now move.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Another ‘senseless act of urban violence’…

It was nearly midnight when Tinkerton forced us out the side door, across Delaware Avenue, and into the dark city park beyond. The walkway meandered deeper and deeper into the trees and featured the same antique, wrought-iron streetlights as in the Common in Boston. They might be quaint, but they did not shed much light. Neither did a sky full of stars or a thin, quarter moon, leaving the dark, sinister expanses between the trees and tall bushes looming like black holes.