The Undertaker

“Stow it. The captain's gonna have your ass when he gets here. He set this place up for you. Without him and all the Federal money he got you from HEW, you and your bunch of fruits and nuts would still be running around the back alleys of Guadalajara.”

“You are a pig.”

“Yeah, I am. And don't forget, Larry Greene's always got room for one more. But don't worry. When you're gone, I'll clean up all the little “lose ends” around . Won't that be fun?”

I heard Dannmeyer's obscene laugh fade away down that long tunnel and everything went silent again.

I came out of it slowly, like a deep-sea diver coming up from the bottom, reaching out for the twinkling, silver surface high above, until my eyes finally popped open and the bright lights blinded me. I was flat on my back on the hard linoleum floor of Varner's office, squinting, blinking, and staring up at the ceiling. Everything in the room floated around in circles. As my vision cleared, I became aware of two faces high above me leaning into my field of vision. One was Dannmeyer, dressed in his brown sheriff's suit, and one was Ralph Tinkerton in his suit coat and tie. I tried to focus on each of them, but the back of my head throbbed with a dull, aching pain.

“I bet that really hurts, don't it,” Dannmeyer chuxcckled. “Nice to see I haven't lost my touch, but that wasn't nuthin', Podner. See, I got ways of hurtin' people they ain't given names to yet.”

I closed my eyes again and lay there until my head stopped throbbing. Slowly the pain faded enough for me to feel my tongue, my toes, and my fingers, and I took roll call. Hands? They were pinned beneath me and I couldn't make them move. Handcuffs? Probably Dannmeyer's, I realized. I slowly opened my eyes again, knowing there was no sense putting it off. This time, I focused on Tinkerton's face. He stared down at me, his cold-gray eyes as dull and emotionless as a cruising shark.

“Well, if it isn't our tourist friend from California, or Boston, or wherever you say you are from, and my very favorite jokester.” Tinkerton gave me a cold, thin, smile. “The paper bag with the drink you left in the lobby? Sheer genius, Peter. However, you're developing a nasty habit of intruding into places where you don't belong, dangerous places, and making a pest of yourself. Not that I didn't warn you, but now it's too late.”

I looked from Tinkerton to Dannmeyer, then back again. “Is he your muscle, Ralph?” I asked.

“My “muscle?” Tinkerton seemed amused at the thought. “Oh, come now, Peter. That term is so pathetically out of date. Today all it takes is a telephone call, maybe a fax or an e-mail to www.hitman.com, for all I know. With my contacts, a quick glance in the right quarters is all I'd need to eliminate a clown like you.”

I fixed Tinkerton with a hard stare. “I'm a Special Investigator with the State Attorney General's Office. If you come downtown with me right now, I'll forget the assaulting a police officer charge and see what I can do to help you negotiate a plea on all the rest. It's not much, but it's the last chance we're going to give you.”

Tinkerton stared down at me, speechless, and then broke out in a gut-wrenching belly laugh. “My God, but you do have nerve! I love it, I love it!”

Dannmeyer frowned. He didn't look nearly as happy or as confident. “You don't think it could be true then?”

“Not a word of it, Virgil,” Tinkerton answered.

“You're positive about that?” I asked him.

“Yes, I'm afraid I am, “Tinkerton answered. “If anything like that was going on downtown — and I mean anything – I would have known about it weeks ago.”

“So, who is he then? Just some crazy drifter?” Dannmeyer asked hopefully.

Tinkerton studied me for a moment. “No, that would be far too simple. He is no drifter and I know he is not crazy.”

“Then who the fuck is he?” Dannmeyer suddenly raged.

“Ah, that is the question, isn't it.”

“I'm Peter Talbott,” I said. “Like I told you.”

“I don't think so,” Tinkerton shook his head confidently. “The real Peter Talbott died in a car wreck in Baja a year ago, right after his wife. I have a copy of the death certificate and a photograph of the grave in L. A.”

“That was some dumb Mexican kid who stole my car. The grave is empty now and the Mexicans rescinded the death certificate. Check it out.”

Varner shifted uncomfortably. “Ralph, you don't suppose ...”

“Shut up, Doctor,” Tinkerton snapped. “You talk too much.”

“But the computers? Aren't they supposed to check all that stuff out?”

Tinkerton looked down, studying me. “The ”wizards” warned us the system isn't perfect, that something like this could happen. They said it was “statistically inevitable”, but controllable. When you need a husband and a wife, both of whom are dead, with the right timing, age, and background from as far away as we can find them, the choices are somewhat limited. There is always a minor but manageable chance that someone could notice.”

“You think it's that simple?” Dannmeyer asked.