The Undertaker (19 page)

We turned right on Sickles and roared south until I saw the sign for Sedgwick. Morrie geared down. “Which way on Sickles?” he asked.

“Right here's fine. You don't have to take me all the way.”

“No sweat, I'll take it slow and we'll only wake up part of the neighborhood.”

“Left, then,” I smiled as Morrie turned the Gold Wing east on Sedgwick.

Two blocks down, we came to the big oak and I was relieved to see the Buick was still parked where it had been. “Right here,” I told him and Morrie swung the big bike into the shadows. “Morrie, that was great,” I said as I climbed off, slightly bowlegged, my back stiff and sore. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along.”

“Hey, like I said, I was looking for any excuse to rumble off, “where no man has gone before,” and you provided me with the perfect one.” He waved farewell and the big bike drove away. As he passed through the glow of the next street light, I'd swear I saw the King's glittery eyes wink at me as he faded into the night.

The Buick was as dusty and leaf strewn as it had been the previous afternoon. I took a quick glance at the nearby houses. Except for the occasional porch light, they were all dark, so I pulled the Jimmy from my pants leg, where I had hidden it, and stepped to the driver's side door. I had no trouble slipping it between the window glass and the weather strip. Funny how breaking and entering, picking locks, slipping the latch on a window, and every other illegal trick and stunt in the book always looked so easy in the movies and so damned hard when you try to do it yourself. I shoved the bar down as far as it would go, but nothing happened. I pulled it halfway out worked it back and forth, trying again and again to find the lock mechanism. That didn't work any better, but I couldn't stand out here with a burglary tool fooling with this door much longer. Eventually a car would come by and I would have a real problem. I pulled the bar up and slid it up and down, starting at the doorframe and working my way forward. There! About twelve inches over, the bar hit something hard. I began working around the spot until I felt something give way. The door lock popped up and I was in.

When I opened the door, the dome light came on, so I slid in as quickly and closed the door behind me. I knew I had to hot-wire the car, but I'd never find the ignition, much less the right wires if I didn't take a couple of deep breaths and calm down. I popped the glove compartment and to my pleasant surprise, I found a flashlight. The batteries were almost dead, but they would do. I spun around in the seat and ducked under the steering column for a better look. Fortunately, this clunker was old school. I found the starter wire and the battery lead, touched them together, and the old Buick turned over. With some gas and a bit of coaxing, it coughed and sputtered, but I got it started. I sat up, dropped it into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb.

Up ahead somewhere, I knew I would find a sign for or the I-270 Beltway. That would take me to I-70 and on to Indianapolis, where I could work my way north to Chicago. Once out of town, I needed desperately to get some food, ditch this Campbell County Kiwanis Club softball shirt, and get some new, clean clothes. After that, I intended to take a leisurely look around the Buick. The gray-haired harpy on Sedgwick said Old Pete called this his “getaway car.” A curious phrase, I thought, making me wonder what he might have hidden inside.

I debated the best way to get out of the city and finally decided to backtrack along the route Morrie had driven, keeping the Buick below the speed limit and being careful to stop at every traffic light and stop sign, staying invisible. An hour and a half later, I passed beneath big white arch at the Ohio border and into the relative safety of Indiana. I wasn't out of the woods, not yet, but I was getting there. When I reached the outskirts of Indianapolis, I took the beltway around to I-65 and Chicago. About ten miles up the road, I saw the sign for a big 24-hour truck stop called Uncle Ike's. It had a truck repair shop, gas, food, and a general store — everything a harried long-haul trucker might need on a lonely road.

I ate two large cheeseburger platters and drank a full pot of coffee, then wandered through the store and picked out a red-and green plaid shirt, a pair of stone-washed blue jeans, a leather belt with a silver Colorado Centennial belt buckle, a small shaving kit, and a baseball hat that advertised Briggs and Stratton power mowers. For a California boy trying to pass as a long-haul truck driver, I figured that was as good as it got.

I slipped into the restroom to change and got a good look at myself in the mirror. The way I looked, it was a wonder they even served me breakfast. I had nasty black-and-blue rings around my wrists and across my thighs from fighting the straps on the embalming table, and my right side and shoulder got some large purple and green bruises when the ambulance hit the funeral home's front wall. The slice from Tinkerton's scalpel had finally stopped bleeding, but I tucked a half-dozen paper towels under my belt just in case and threw my old clothes into the dumpster on the way out.

Time to search the Buick. I drove it around to the rear side of the lot behind several rows of trucks and parked under a tall light pole. I started with the glove compartment. Inside, I found an old owner's manual, as dirty and abused as the car itself, and a big pile of crumpled MasterCard gas receipts. The name on all the charges was Peter Talbott. He was using the Sedgwick address and a scribbled signature that didn't look anything like mine. In the very back, I found three wrinkled road maps, from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. There was an Ohio DMV registration card for the Buick with the Talbott name and same address. Other than that, all I found was a stick of stale gum, a handful of loose change, and an almost-dead flashlight.

I got out and popped open the trunk. Slim pickings there too: a nearly-flat spare tire, a rusty jack, and a box of road flares that were probably too old and too wet to light. I felt around inside, under the insulation, inside the spare tire, under the carpet, and along the sides. Nothing. But there had to be something in the Buick. There had to be. I went around front, popped the hood, and examined every inch of the engine compartment with the dying flashlight. I unscrewed the air cleaner cover. Nothing inside but a very dirty filter. I felt inside every nook and cranny where something might be hidden. Still, nothing. I closed the hood and felt around inside all the wheel wells. Other than getting my hands filthy, I found nothing there either.

That only left the passenger compartment. I started with the back seat and went through the trash. Carefully, piece by piece, I picked up each section of newspaper, each coke can, and each candy bar wrapper, felt them, looked inside them, tore them apart, and stacked each piece on the ground outside. Nothing. I felt under the front seat. With the flashlight, I rolled over and looked underneath the seats to see if anything was wedged up in the springs or in the seat mechanism. Nope. I sat up, frustrated. I knew I was smarter than this guy. There was no question he hid something inside, but there were only so many places left where he could have put it. Slowly and methodically, I felt my way across the front and rear seat cushions looking at each seam, but there were no bulges, no cuts, and no re-sewing.

Finally, I looked at the padded door panels. Like most cars, they were fastened to the doorframe with plastic clips. I got the flashlight up close and worked my way around the edge of each panel, looking for any scratches or signs it had been pried off. I started with the driver's side front, then went to the passenger's side front, and on to the passenger side rear before I finally saw something. Along the top edge, the painted metal doorframe bore the unmistakable signs of having had been scratched. I didn't care about leaving more marks, so I wedged the Jimmy under the panel and popped it off. Sure enough, I saw what appeared to be a cigar box duct-taped to the inside of the door.

I ripped it loose and leaned back in the seat with a huge grin on my face. The box said White Owl cigars. Figured. That was about as cheap of a brand as you could buy, and I could picture ‘Pete’ with a White Owl in one hand and Racing Forum in the other, leaning back in his desk chair in that dumpy accounting office on Sickles. Inside the box lay a dirty business-size #10 envelope with a rubber band wrapped tightly around it. Inside the box was a New Jersey Driver's License in the name of George Deevers. The photo was of a fat man with thinning hair and round cheeks. DMV photos anywhere were notoriously out of focus, but this guy bore a striking resemblance to one of the photos I saw in the public library yesterday morning. I tried to remember which one, then it suddenly came to me. It was Louie Panozzo, Jimmy Santorini's bean counter who ratted him out and put him in the Federal pen in Marion. That answered a lot of questions. I stuck the driver's license in my pocket. I could say I had lost a hundred pounds working out with Fergie at Weight Watchers. After all, when you have no papers, even a bad ID is better than no ID at all.

In the envelope, I also found a New Jersey insurance certificate in George Deevers’ name, a Visa card, and $2,500 in cash. So you
did
have an escape plan, eh, ‘Pete?’ In the bottom of the box, under the money, I saw three small computer flash drives and knew I had just hit the Power Ball Lottery.

A flash drive is smaller than a lipstick tube and the latest in data storage devices: cheap and very easy to use. Even one could hold an unbelievable amount of data – reports, spreadsheets, data files, photos, whatever you might want. The top one had a black “#1” written on it in Magic Marker. The others were similarly labeled “#2” and “#3.” You had to give bean counters high marks originality, but other than the three numbers, there were no other markings or hints as to what they contained. Louie had been a Mafia accountant, and I'd bet the farm these were copies of the financial records of the Santorini crime Family in New Jersey. No doubt, they were what Tinkerton had been trying to pry out of me on the embalming table, and what he had tried to pry out of the other ‘Pete', and that had made my life a whole lot more interesting and a whole lot more dangerous.

Indiana: Get thee behind me, Satan…

U
ncle
Ike's parking lot was the size of several football fields. Seventy or eighty 18-wheelers were parked three-deep, filling the lot, plus twenty more sitting around the perimeter and out on the exit road leading back to the Interstate. Most were big, fully equipped, over the road rigs. Like the pioneers out west who circled their wagons in Indian country, they used these big truck stops to keep an eye out for each other at night. Having them all in one place was a whole lot more efficient for the hookers, fences, bookies, and drug dealers. If there was strength in numbers, there were discounts for volume, too.

I started at the exit, figuring I'd catch the ones leaving early and work my way back. Four big rigs rolled past me, but they didn't stop despite a thumb and my best smile. I walked back up the ramp, but the first three I passed that were parked were dark. Their drivers must be asleep. The next guy was awake, but that guy completely ignored me. The one after that at least leaned out and asked where I was going. When I said Chicago, he said, “Sorry, I'm peeling off on I-80 and going west.”

With the fifth truck, I got a break. The driver of, a big White long-haul rig, motioned me over for a closer look. “We ain't supposed to pick nobody up,” he said.

“I know, but I really need a ride.”

“Yeah, you look like you do,” he said as he eyed me up and down. “Okay, hop in, son,” he pointed at the passenger side door. I didn't wait. I ran around and climbed up before he could change his mind. Even in the dim light from the dashboard, I could see he was a big man, maybe in his late-fifties, with muscular forearms from wrestling with steering wheels for too many years to think about. He wore a plaid, flannel shirt like I did, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Under the shirt, I saw a set of long johns, which I suspected he wore summer, winter, spring, and fall, along with the pointy-toed, snakeskin cowboy boots and the greasy Boston Red Socks baseball cap. With a beer gut that hung out over his belt, he was a classic.

“I'm George, George Deevers,” I told him.

“Marty Sims,” he answered as he dropped the big White into gear and steered it down the long ramp toward the Interstate.

I looked around the cab, surprised at how spacious it was. It even had a built-in sleeping compartment up behind the front seats. “This is nice in here, Marty. You could almost rent out rooms.”

“Yeah, but when you're in here all day long except for meals, for maybe a couple of weeks on-end, it don't seem big at all.” He looked over and studied me for a moment. “Where you goin’, Son?”

“There's a wedding in Chicago I've got to be at.”

“Yeah? Looks like you're travelin’ light. No suitcase? No bag? I had to do that myself a couple of times, travel light and fast, and staying one step ahead of the cops.”

“You were a bad guy, Marty?

“I wouldn't say bad exactly, but I shot a man once.”

I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I didn't try. I sat back in the seat and tried to relax as the truck picked up speed. The cab was plush, with nice seats, all leather, and a laptop computer and a CB radio on brackets fastened to the dashboard.

“A laptop?” I asked. “You've got to be kidding. ”

“A driver's worst problem used to be a bad disk in his back or hemorrhoids. Now it's a bad disk in his computer and viruses in his e-mail. Most truck stops have Wi-Fi now and our “paper work” is all electronic. I have to check in every night to get new pick-up orders, routings, bills of lading, all the rest of that crap.”