The Undertaker

“I resent that. We provide a necessary and valuable public service, Mr. Talbott. Some people may find the mortuary business unpleasant or even discomforting. That is why we try to be as discreet and private as we can, which is what our clients expect of us. As for your suggestions that I'm involved in some conspiracy to knowingly bury another person under your name, I think you've been watching too many movies.”

“Not after what I saw and heard today.”

“You are right of course.” Greene broke into a sarcastic smile. “Why, just last week Lee Harvey Oswald stuck his head in to say “Hello.” We handled his funeral too, you know. And Adolph Hitler's and Howard Hughes’ as well, as I recall. Out front? That was Elvis Presley trimming the front hedges around the front door as you came in. Now good day to you, sir!”

Having dazzled Greene with my footwork, intellect, and style, I turned and left peacefully. Of course, he was lying, but tossing his place wouldn't have added very much to what I didn't already know. Besides, the guy could be right. Other than the name and that newspaper obituary, I didn't have a damned thing to go on except my feeling that this thing was all wrong.

I got in my Bronco and headed back south on Cedarville Road toward Columbus. As I neared the beltway, I could see the sign for the entrance ramp that read “I-270 East, Wheeling.” That was the route back to Boston. I knew I should take it and say to Hell with Ohio, to Lawrence Greene, to Sheriff Dannmeyer, and to those obituaries, but I wasn't ready to do that. Not yet. There was something about this whole business and the arrogant send-off I got from Greene and his buddy Dannmeyer that told me I was right and I needed to know more. So I drove on past the exit ramp. Going to the funeral in Columbus was probably my first mistake and driving past the exit ramp that would have taken me back to Boston was undoubtedly the second, but I was going to make a whole lot more before this day was over.

Farther down the street, I saw a cluster of economy motels. My dwindling funds being what they were, I opted for the Motel 6. I told the young, blond college girl with the bright blue eyes behind the desk that Dave sent me and asked if they really did leave the light on, but she just stared at me. I'd like to think she'd heard that one before, but maybe she just didn't get it.

After dinner, I made another call to Boston, to Doug Chesterton. “Is this him or his machine?” I asked.

“It's his machine.”

“When he comes back, tell him Pete Talbott got delayed a bit longer in Ohio.”

“Twice in one day? It's gotta be something you met in a bar. Heather? Bambi? Or was it George?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Well, just don't catch anything, Peter.”

“I'll be careful, coach.”

“Good. And get your ass back here as soon as you can. Those sub-routines were great and they got us back on track with the contract, but I can't crank on the next phase without you.”

“A couple of things came up that I gotta look into tomorrow morning, then I'll be back on the road. Honest.”

“Fine. But be here by Friday or I'm road kill, okay?”

“Gotcha, boss, Friday it is.”

I knew I should have taken Dave's room keys back to the desk and piled my stuff back in the Bronco right then and there. I could have made it into West Virginia or Pennsylvania that night, slept there, and cruised into Boston the next day, but I was exhausted from being up for two days straight. That was what I told myself, but I just couldn't make myself leave. As I sat there in the motel room and stared at the telephone, I realized this business with the obituaries, the funeral, and with Greene and Dannmeyer had lit some fires deep inside me that hadn't burned for a long, long time. I was no longer a stick-man walking. I felt alive, and I liked it.

The loss of the job and Terri had left me a cold, burned-out shell. For the first time in many months, I was hot about something. Love, hate, or whatever, I felt something and I knew I mattered again. Something terribly wrong was going on here and I had to find out what it was. If I cut and ran, and that would have been so easy for me to do, I'd be safe in my little shell, but they would have gotten away with it.

So I decided to stay in Columbus, for one night anyway.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pete, we hardly knew ya…

I needed sleep, but I was too wound up to try. One good thing about a Motel 6, the top drawer of the nightstand always contains a Gideon Bible and the drawer below it always has a phone book. Old Dave is nothing if not clean and predictable. The phone book was new. I let my fingers do the walking, flipping back through the white pages to the T’s. There were about four inches of Talbotts in Columbus, some with one T, some with two Ts, and a couple of Peters. Sure enough, towards the bottom, I saw: “Talbott, Peter E., 625 Sedgwick Ave, Worthington, 895-2612”.