The Undertaker

by William F. Brown

  Hardin must have figured that the statement did not bode well for his future. Slowly, his hand reached out for Tinkerton’s Glock, which was lying on the grass next to the dead lawyer.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, Senator,” Parini warned as he waved his .45 in Hardin’s general direction, then motioned for him to move back. “Looks to me like you're the one keepin’ the questionable company here.”

  “Uh, look, Parini... Gino — may I call you Gino? Great!” Hardin turned on his famous, if now somewhat battered, TV smile.

  Parini chuckled. “That smooth-guy shit don’t work so well when you’re missing a couple of teeth, Senator. And all that blood? You’re gonna need some serious fixin’ up.”

  “Never mind that, Parini,” Hardin tried to focus. “You see that briefcase over there?” He pointed at the alligator leather case lying in the grass next to Tinkerton. “There's seven-and-a-half million dollars inside. Take it. It's all yours.”

  “Seven and a half? And all mine?” Parini feigned surprise. “Gee, thanks, Senator, but for what?”

  “For cleaning up this little mess for me.”

  “Cleaning up? This little… mess?” Gino looked confused.

  “Yeah, get rid of him.” He pointed at Tinkerton's body. “And get rid of those two, too. Do that for me and the briefcase is yours, okay?”

  Parini limped painfully over to where Tinkerton lay, picked up the briefcase, and set it next to his foot. “Get rid of ‘em? Didn't I hear you and this crud Tinkerton talking about that very same thing just a few minutes ago?” Parini bent down, reached into Tinkerton’s jacket pocket, and pulled out the three flash drives. “All because of these things, huh?”

  Hardin looked at the disks and began to panic. “Look!” He bristled. “Do you want the damned money or don't you?”

  “Me? You know, I think I'll pass. You see, I'm FBI, Senator, undercover. Remember those guys you never called? The FBI really does indeed have an Organized Crime Strike Force, and I’m on it. That means you’re busted.”

  “The FBI? You?” Hardin blinked. “What about all those men you killed?”

  Parini laughed as his wise-guy Jersey accent began to fade. “Reputations can be funny things. Sometimes they're deserved, and sometimes they're not.”

  Hardin looked up at Parini and the realization slowly sank in. “You can't touch me.” He smiled all too knowingly and shook his head. “You can't prove I did a damned thing.”

  “Want to bet?” Parini smiled. “I have Panozzo's accounting records, the ones that show all the payoffs, including yours. I have a briefcase full of cash and diamonds with your fingerprints all over it. And as the fait accompli, I have this whole conversation on tape,” he said, patting his jacket pocket. “But none of that matters. When Rico finds out how badly you screwed this thing up, you’ll be the one begging for Witness Protection, if you don’t want to end up in that cement mix over in Paramus.”

  Parini bounced the flash drives up and down in his hand, taunting Hardin.

  “Personally, Senator, I'm glad this operation is finally over. It’s taken four years, and if I never see Italian food again, it’ll be too soon. However, we did put Jimmy ‘The Stump’ in Marion, we shut down Tinkerton's security operation. And with Panozzo’s accounting files, they’ll need a whole new wing at Marion. I can just see you in a cell right in the middle of all the boys. You ever played ‘drop the soap’, Senator? Well, you’re gonna be taking some real interesting showers for the next ten-to-twenty.”

  Hardin saw his world crashing down around him and he panicked. His eyes darted back and forth between Parini, the flash drives, and the briefcase looking for some way out, but there was none. Suddenly he lunged for Tinkerton's pistol. As Hardin’s fingers found the grip of the Glock, Parini shot him twice in the face. The bullets snapped Hardin's head back and his lifeless body crumpled on the grass next to Tinkerton.

  I stood and looked at Hardin, then at Parini. “You wanted him to go for the Glock, didn't you, Gino? That’s why you left it lying there and why you kept taunting him.”

  “It was his play and that was fine with me. If Hardin had been a more competent lawyer than he was a crook, he’d know that a briefcase full of cash doesn't mean squat. Truth is, we'd have had a hell of a time proving anything against him. Now we don't have to.”

  Parini slipped the pistol back inside his jacket and looked down at the two bodies. “Will you look at this!” he made a dramatic gesture toward the two bodies. “A US Senator and a former ‘High Ranking Justice Department Official,’ cut down in the prime of their lives. Another ‘senseless act of urban violence’, a tragedy, that's what I’d call it, a real tragedy.”

  “Like the tragedy in the basement of the funeral home in Columbus?” I asked him. “You waited back there in the bushes to see how things would shake out before you made your move?”

  “They shook out fine,” he answered with cold, dead eyes.

  “Well it's a damn good thing you didn't wait any longer,” Sandy barked at him.

  “Don’t worry, Sweet Pea, I wouldn’t have let them touch a hair on your pretty little head,” he said, reverting to the old Newark accent. “Hell, if I wasn’t married with four kids, I’d run off with you myself and start makin’ a buncha little Italian babies. But him?” he looked over at me with disdain. “Him, I’d have let them have.”

  “We’re a ‘we’ now,” she told him as she scampered over and threw her arms around my waist.

  “So I see.” Parini scowled. “But if this dumb mope ever causes you any grief, you let me know and I’ll break his freakin’ legs. You hear me, Ace!” His face broke into a big smile as he slipped the flash drives into his jacket pocket and handed me Hardin's briefcase.

  “I don't want this,” I told him.

  “Oh, yes you do,” Parini quickly answered. “He said there’s seven-and-a-half million in there that belongs to no one. It can get the two of you out of here and buy you a fresh start someplace else. In a couple of years, maybe three or four, this whole business should finally be over. Jimmy Santorini will realize he isn't getting out of Marion, Rico Patillo should be sitting in the cell next to him, and no one will remember the two of you,” he said as his eyes locked on mine. “Do you understand me?”

  From the expression on his face, I understood exactly what he was trying to tell me and I knew he was right. So I took the briefcase.

  “I’ll get the manhunt for you called off in a couple of hours, but remember, Hardin and Tinkerton aren’t the only rotten apples in this town, not by a long shot. There are a lot more that need to be thrown out before it’s safe for you two to come back. So you disappear.”

  “But where?”

  “I don't know and I don't want to know,” came his quick reply. “Like I told you in Chicago, for a couple of bumbling amateurs, you haven't done too bad figuring it out by yourselves. We would never have gotten Tinkerton without you and we would never have gotten Hardin, either.” Parini pointed north at Union Station, sitting flood-lit at the far end of the park. “Take the first train headed out of town and keep going. Hell, you even have some luggage now. And if I know the two of you, you'll do just fine. Now go!”

  I took Sandy's hand and we began to walk away as Parini said, “When the time’s right, when it really is safe back here, I'll run a classified ad in the New York Times on the first Sunday of the month, in the Personals. It’ll say, ‘Ace: You and Sweet Pea can come on home now, signed Gino.’ You got that?”

  We looked at each other and nodded, and then we took off running away down the sidewalk. That was the last we ever saw of Gino Parini.

  EPILOGUE

  Under the scorching Baja sun…

  The sun had finally risen above the row of palm trees on the other side of the courtyard wall. There wasn’t a cloud in the high, blue sky, and to the east, the sun sparkled off the iridescent blue-green water in the bay. The cool morning breeze we had enjoyed was now wilting and the air inside the courtyard would soon beco
me hot and languid. In another hour or two, it would chase us inside the thick, cool, adobe-walled house, but not yet. For the moment, the courtyard was still very pleasant.

  The mornings down here were my favorite time of the day. I could lie back in my old canvas beach chair, sip a cup of strong black coffee, and read. The patio was alive with the sweet smell of bougainvillea, the rich cooking smells from the kitchen, and the sharp, salty tang of the sea. Of the entire week, it was Wednesday mornings I liked best. The Tuesday afternoon mail plane usually delivered some new books for me, some photography magazines and country music CDs for Sandy, and the Sunday edition of the New York Times. It was as thick as an oak log and I could spend all day Wednesday reading it from front to back at my leisure. Sometimes that would take me well into Thursday or even Friday, since time was a commodity we had in abundance now.

  A dark shadow passed over me and I put the paper down. “Peter,” Sandy said as she stood blocking out the sun. “Watch the baby for a minute, will you? I've got to help Rosaria with the salad.”

  “Right,” I replied as I glanced over at the baby playing happily on a blanket in the shade. Sandy smiled and let her hand pass lightly up my chest. She knew the effect that had on me and we both knew why she did it.

  I looked up at her and smiled back. Her raven hair was long and wild now, hanging halfway down her back in a long, single braid. I liked it that way. She had been working-out like a fanatic to get her figure back and I liked that too. If I stayed out in the sun too long, I burned, but she and the baby had tanned to a rich, golden brown. It must be the Italian skin, I thought. But barefoot, in that thin white cotton top and colorful Indian skirt, it was hard to tell her from the natives.

  “Anything in there?” she asked, pointing at the Times.

  “No, of course not,” I answered as I reached out and pulled her close, running my hand across her bare stomach. “Do you want there to be?”

  “Get real,” she laughed as my hand moved higher under the white cotton top and lightly caressed her breast.

  She closed her eyes and let my hand linger there. She didn't push it away. “Hold that thought,” she finally leaned over and whispered.

  “Hold that thought?”

  “Yeah. After lunch.”

  “After lunch?”

  “Yeah,” she said as she pulled my hand out and gave my fingers a light kiss. “I have to help Rosaria with the salad. After we put the baby down, maybe you'll get lucky.” She turned and bounced happily away into the house, humming some new country song she’d been playing.

  After she had gone, I picked up the paper again. It was the Classified Section of the Sunday New York Times, which I had folded open to page four. At the bottom, I re-read the same small, inconspicuous boxed ad that I had been staring at off and on for most of the past hour. “Ace and Sweet Pea, come on home,” and it was signed, “Gino.”

  I refolded the section, stuck it in the middle of the tall stack, and walked over to the bin where we kept the kindling we used to start the fire. I dropped the Times inside, where it joined what was left of the last three issues before it.

  I walked back to the baby, picked him up, and carried him into the middle of the courtyard where we could both look up at the sky. For the most part, it was a clear blue, except for a handful of soft white puffy clouds passing to the east. I stared at them and squinted. The pattern slowly changed and I swore I saw Terri's face up there, but only for an instant. This was the first time in many, many months that I had seen her. She was so far away, but yeah, it was her. It was nice to know she was up there, that she was smiling, and I didn’t need to be a “rocket scientist” to figure out why.

  ###

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WILLIAM F. BROWN

  I now have 9 action-adventure novels available on Kindle. Three are international suspense thrillers set in the Cold War or begun at the end of WW II. The others, including The Undertaker, are contemporary mystery thrillers, the three newest of which are the Bob Burke action thriller series. Burke's Revenge, the third, released in March, now takes its place next to Burke’s War and Burke's Gamble as exciting, fun reads. They are exclusively available on Kindle.

  A native of Chicago, I received a BA from The University of Illinois in History and Russian Area studies, and a Masters in City Planning. I served as a Company Commander in the US Army and later became active in local and regional politics in Virginia. As a Vice President of the real estate subsidiary of a Fortune 500 corporation, I was able to travel widely in the US and now travel extensively abroad, particularly in Europe and the Middle East, locations which have featured prominently in my writing. When not writing, I play bad golf, have become a dogged runner, and paint passable landscapes in oil and acrylic. Now retired, my wife and I live in Florida.

  In addition to the novels, I’ve written four award-winning screenplays. They’ve placed First in the suspense category of Final Draft, were a Finalist in Fade In, First in Screenwriter’s Utopia — Screenwriter’s Showcase Awards, Second in the American Screenwriter’s Association, Second at Breckenridge, and others. One was optioned for film.

  The best way to follow my work and learn about sales and freebees is through my web site http://billbrownthrillernovels.com, which has Preview Chapters of each of my novels, interviews, book reviews, and other links.

  Burke’s War can be found at http://amzn.to/2muFG9C

  Burke’s Gamble can be found at http://amzn.to/2lORmXJ

  Burke’s Revenge can be found at http://amzn.to/2ob7qnX

  Cold War Trilogy can be found at http://amzn.to/2mmTweV

  The Undertaker can be found at http://amzn.to/2l9Chfg

  Amongst My Enemies can be found at http://amzn.to/2lTovlu

  Thursday at Noon can be found at http://amzn.to/2ljs1SI

  Winner Lose All can be found at http://amzn.to/2lTqRke

  Aim True, My Brothers can be found at http://amzn.to/2lPbj0t

  A Preview Chapter of the author’s Cold War suspense thriller,

  Winner Lose All

  CHAPTER ONE

  Throughout 1944, even after the Normandy landings and the recapture of Paris and western France by the Allies, the American OSS and British SOE continued to insert agents into the Nazi-occupied Low Countries, even into Germany, from their top-secret joint training and operations center near London. Some were trained in sabotage and demolition, some in observing and reporting, and others in liaison and resupply for the Underground in occupied countries. All were important. Initially, they dispatched agents to the continent in small boats and even submarines, but as the Allied armies pushed the Germans farther back from the coast, the majority were airdropped from their base in England. They flew a long, looping route over the North Sea and the Baltic, entering German airspace across its lightly defended northern coast. The distance was greater, but it was decidedly safer than attempting to cross Holland, France, and the Western Front, where the German air defenses and night fighters were always on high alert.

  They used a variety of aircraft, depending upon the mission and the distance to be flown. This time, with the sun finally down, it was an old German Junkers tri-motor cargo plane, a Ju-52, which they pushed out of the hangar at the small, high security airfield outside London to top off its dual tanks. She was a nighthawk, hiding in her nest during the day, only to come out after dark to rise into the evening sky, turn northeast, and head out over the gleaming expanse of the North Sea. Their former owners called the Ju-52 an “Iron Annie.” They were a mainstay of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force since the mid 1930s. This one had been cobbled together from bits and piec
es captured in North Africa two years before, providing a perfect disguise for these surreptitious drops behind enemy lines in Europe. The fuselage was painted a dull dark gray, and its insignias and numbers were sufficiently worn and faded to create the impression of just another old, derelict cargo plane. However, it was not. This Ju-52’s three pre-war BMW rotary motors had been replaced with newer and far more powerful British Merlins. They were not enough to outrun a determined Messerschmitt or Focke-Wulf fighter, but they helped and were far more efficient. With the extra fuel tanks built into the rear cargo hold, they could make long, deep runs inside Nazi Germany.

  Even in the autumn of 1944, masquerading as a German transport plane in the skies over Nazi Germany was considerably safer than trying it in an American DC-3, a British Lancaster, or a B-17, but there was the little matter of getting safely in and out of British airspace to consider. It would be hard to blame a nervous Spitfire or Hurricane pilot who happened upon a “German” airplane and shot it up by mistake, but that would not be much consolation to the men inside. Two hours after they cleared British airspace and were far out to sea, the pilot finally relaxed enough to drink some of the coffee in his thermos. In two more hours, the tension would mount again, as he swung the gray bird southeast and then took her down to the deck. Skimming low over the waves, he would make the quick run to the German coast, crossing the sand flats and dunes west of Bremerhaven. Once inland, he would press on across the open north German plain, praying the unremarkable Junkers remained unnoticed on the long, crooked run around Bremen, Hanover, Braunschweig, and Magdeburg. In three more hours, as he neared the drop zone west of Leipzig, he would take it back up to three thousand feet for the jump and then turn, drop back down, and run toward the North Sea, the English coast, and home. It was that last leg which would be the point of maximum danger, when his stomach turned sour and the sweat on the palms of his hands turned ice cold, one slow, agonizing minute at a time.