Shit, shit, shit.
“Did I give who what map?”
“Don’t be cute with me. Answer the question.”
My heart pounded. “How did you know?”
She sat back, sighed, and reached for her coffee. “The mayor told me.”
“The mayor? How the hell did he—”
“Did you give it to them?”
“First of all, if you know who ‘they’ are, could you let me in on it? We didn’t exchange many pleasantries so introductions were just sort of skipped over, and second, yes, I gave it to them—or, rather, they took it after I told them where it was. And by the way, one of them was choking me at the time, then he gave me a shot to knock me out. And for the record, Counselor, they somehow managed to get in and out of my apartment without breaking any locks or windows, which prompts me to ask: Jee-zus, Barb, what’s going on?”
She opened the menu and began perusing the selections. “I’m not sure.”
I stared. “You never could lie worth a damn.”
She shrugged. “Have it your way.”
I reached over and pulled down the menu she was holding. “Is this what was so important? That stupid map? You could have asked about that in the message and had me call you back.”
“No, this isn’t just about the map—though that’s part of it. Don’t ask me how you managed to do it, Prince Charming, but you’ve gotten some very powerful people upset with you.”
“What powerful people?”
“Powerful enough that the both the mayor and chief of police are scared of them. Beyond that, I honestly don’t know, okay?”
The waitress came to our table and poured coffee, took Barb’s order, then asked what I’d like to have.
“I just have time for coffee,” I said, looking at my watch.
Barb said, “You’ve got time for breakfast.”
“I have to be at the coroner’s office by nine.”
She shook her head. “Not today, you don’t. Today, you have a new community service assignment. Now order some real food. I’m guessing your diet still consists of whatever pre-packaged trans-fatty caloric nightmare you can toss into a microwave. Hopefully some real cooking won’t send your system into cataleptic shock.”
I ordered my breakfast and the waitress left us with a bright smile.
“Why am I here, Barb?”
“The mayor didn’t call just me, he also called the coroner and Judge Banks. I spoke with Banks this morning before I came here.” She produced a thick envelope from her briefcase and tossed it on the table. “This would be for you.”
Inside was a Triple-A TripTik, a sheet of paper with street directions, an address, and a phone number written on it, as well as three hundred dollars in fifties and a cashier’s check made out to me in the sum of one thousand dollars.
“What gives? Is this check for real?”
Barb added some sugar to her coffee. “Yes, it’s for real—in fact, you can waltz your ass over to the Park National Bank right after breakfast and cash it—if you agree to the offer I’ve been authorized to make to you.”
“Which is…?”
“How would you like to have your record wiped clean and fulfill all your required community service time over the next couple of days?”
I almost laughed. “Who do I have to kill?”
She blanched. “That’s not funny.”
“Sorry.”
Barb stared at me for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Guess I’m a little grouchy this morning.”
“Apology accepted. Now, I believe there was something said at the outset about an offer…?”
“It turns out Miss Driscoll does have some family, and they’d like to bury her in the family plot, and they’d like her body to be driven home as soon as possible. So here’s the off—you’re way ahead of me, aren’t you?”
I lifted the envelope. “I drive her body home, and when I get back my record is clean and my community service time is done, right?”
She nodded. “And you’ll be two thousand dollars richer.”
“Two? But the check’s for—”
“I know how much the check is for, thank you, I’m the one who had it drawn up. You’ll be given another one just like it when you get back. If you accept the offer, you’ll have to leave today. The family wants her there by tomorrow afternoon.”
I checked the directions and the TripTik. “This is an 18-hour drive. And that’s if you go at it without having to stop.”
“So you stop for gas and food when you need to, and a motel when you get tired. The cash is to cover your travel expenses.”
“Just pull into my friendly Motel 6 with a stiff in the back of my car? You gotta be kidding! How am I supposed to explain a dead body if I get pulled over by the cops?”
She produced another envelope from her briefcase. “This is what’s called a Federal Remains Transportation Permit. Don’t be surprised if you’ve never heard of it, these aren’t issued very often. It allows whomever is in possession of it to transport readied remains across however many state lines necessary in order to reach its intended place of interment.”
I looked at her, blinked, then said: “In English?”
“It’s a permission slip from the Federal Marshal’s Office saying that it’s okay for you, and Average Joe, to be driving a burial-ready stiff halfway across the country so the family can give it a proper funeral.”
“Oh.”
“There’s usually a hell of a lot more paperwork to deal with when something like this has to be done, but Miss Driscoll’s family evidently has a lot of pull in Washington. Neither the mayor nor the police chief would tell me who called them, or what was said, but to give you some idea of just how important someone has to be in order to rate one of these puppies, out of all the FRTPs issued since 1945, counting the one you’re looking at—and there haven’t been as many issued as you would think—one of them was to Eleanor Roosevelt so she could take FDR’s body home by train.”
“…holy shit.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t know who Miss Driscoll was, but her family has enough power to bypass every inch of local, state, and federal red tape. You don’t say no to people like that.”
“What if I do?”
“But why would you? Think about it—this is a gravy job! You’ll be on the road maybe a total of two days, and when you get back home, you’re a couple of grand richer plus your record’s clean and your community service time is marked as fulfilled.”
“Who wanted the map, Barb? Who wanted the map bad enough to somehow break into my apartment in the middle of the night without opening a window or a door? They threatened me! One of them had his big-ass hand around my throat! They drugged me, for chrissakes!”
“They’re also paying you two thousand dollars to make the trip.”
“Oh, well, that makes all the difference then, doesn’t it?”
“Keep your voice down.”
I took a breath, held it, and counted to ten. “Since you know about the map, then you must know what else was in her apartment, right?”
“No—and I don’t want to know, got it? I have as of right now told you everything I know about this, okay?”
“Fine.” I stared at the envelopes, thought about the bills I could pay off with two thousand dollars, then slid everything back across the table. “Afraid I’m going to have to pass, but thanks.” I started to get up to leave; her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.
“You’re not leaving me stuck with the check for a meal you didn’t eat. Sit down.”
You would have to have known her since high school to recognize the hint of fear crowding at the edges of her voice. Barbara Greer was nothing if not always in control of herself. She wasn’t telling me to stay and eat; she was scared—scratch that, she was terrified—that I was going to walk out on the offer.
I sat back down. “I guess I should eat what I ordered.”
“That’s almost sensible, coming from you.” The control
was back in her voice, but behind her eyes something was shaking with near panic. She took out a pen and began scribbling something on the back of the first envelope. “I never understood how you managed to stay alive, what with the crap you eat. Do you get any protein besides peanut butter? Don’t answer that—it would probably just depress me.”
She slid the envelope toward me, all the while chatting away about this and that and nothing in particular and blah-blah-blah…
Her note read: You don’t have a choice. I can’t say that out loud. People are listening.
I looked up at her, then gestured for her pen.
You’re serious, aren’t you?
I pushed the envelope back to her. She read it, looked at me, and nodded her head.
“So,” I said a bit too loudly, “this, uh…this deal you’re offering me.”
“The one you just offhandedly turned down? The one that any person in his right mind would have jumped at? That deal?”
“You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?”
“You were a royal horse’s ass. Yes, I’m going to make you grovel.”
“Okay—this is me, groveling. Grovel, grovel, grovel, I am an ungrateful butt-wipe, please forgive me, I am not worthy.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“Grovel, grovel.” I waited a moment, then said: “All done. Have I groveled enough?”
“For now.”
“I’ve reconsidered things.”
“I’ll bet you have.”
“I’ll do it.”
The look of massive relief on her face almost broke my heart. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, not saying a word.
For the second time that morning, I was almost afraid to breathe. I kept seeing those hulking shadowed figures over my bed, one of them whispering, You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into….
* * *
I’d figured on having an hour or so after breakfast to get ready, but that turned out not to be the case.
Barbara and I stepped out into the Cedar Hill sunshine and there, a few yards away on this side of the street, its side-window shades down, the elephant in the living room, sat the meat wagon.
Barbara checked her watch. “They’re prompt, I’ll give them that much.”
I looked from the wagon back to her. “You knew that it would be waiting for me?”
She said nothing; instead, she grabbed the envelopes from my hand and pointed to the one we’d written on: People are listening.
I nodded my understanding.
Barbara handed back the envelopes, then leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You be careful, okay?”
“I’m expected to leave straight from here?”
“Yes.”
“You might have mentioned that earlier.”
“Why, you need to rearrange your social calendar?”
“Very funny.”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting that you are a rock, you are an island.”
“Do me a favor,” I said, taking the cashier’s check from the envelope and handing it to her. “Hang on to this until I get back. No way am I carrying that on me.”
“I’ll keep it safe.” She slipped it into her purse. “Hey, when you get back, there’s a junior partner in my office I’d like to introduce you to. I think you and her would hit it off.”
“What self-respecting lawyer would want to date a janitor?”
She stared at me for a moment, then said: “I did. Once.”
For a second, the ghost of Andy Leonard walked between us, then was gone.
“I’m sorry I made that ‘social calendar’ crack,” she said.
“Forget it.”
“No, no, I won’t.” She took hold of my hand. “I’m serious. You and I have lived here practically our entire lives, and in all that time I think I’ve seen you socially maybe a dozen times since high school, and even then it was by accident—bumping into you at a movie or a play or something. And you’re always alone. I think Kimberly would really like you. Come on, what have you got to lose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on! She’s a redhead. You know you’ve got a thing for redheads. Dianne was a redhead.”
“—a redhead who divorced me, thanks for bringing that up. Why do you even care? I don’t mean that to sound defensive, I really don’t, but why piss away any brain cells worrying about my social life or lack thereof?”
“That’s a dumb question and I don’t answer dumb questions. Doesn’t matter, anyway, because I’ve already set it up. You’re going out with her Saturday night.”
“Oh, I am, am I?”
“Yes, you am.” She squeezed my hand, then let go. “Drive Miss Driscoll home, come back safely, and take a chance on my matchmaking talents.”
“Okay, fine.” I gave her a quick hug and started walking toward the wagon, then turned back and said: “Thank you.”
“You be careful, okay?”
“Will do.”
It didn’t occur to me until a few hours later that she had said something about being careful three times during that conversation.
The keys were in the wagon, as was a very expensive Montrachet mahogany coffin containing Miss Driscoll’s body. A note from Dobbs was taped to the steering wheel: Yes, she’s in there, but feel free to check in case you want to see what the inside of an $8,000.00 coffin looks like.
I decided to take his word for it.
I wondered if Dobbs had driven the wagon here, or if it had been one of the bulky shadows from last night, maybe one of their minions…or maybe the damn thing just materialized in the parking space.
You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.
This had gone way past weird.
People are listening.
Whoever was orchestrating all of this seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else. A brighter man would have had the good sense to be paranoid. A brighter man would have realized that Barb had told him three times to be careful. A brighter man would have suspected there was something else she hadn’t told him. A brighter man would have known in the bottom of his gut that he was right smack in the middle of something really truly seriously goddamn scary.
Me, I took it far as “weird” and left it at that.
I started the meat wagon and turned on the radio. Our local radio station was just finishing up its morning news update.
“…died this morning at Riverside Methodist Hospital in Columbus, bringing the total number of deaths from Sunday night’s I-71 multi-car collision to seven.”
That little tidbit of information both registered and didn’t, as is the case with most things that come my way before noon. I scanned around until I found some music, then hit the road.
I have since come to the conclusion that my sole purpose in life is to serve as a warning to others.
6
I don’t like maps. All the lines give me a headache, and half the time I’m so busy trying to interpret the miniscule printing I either miss the exit I’m looking for or almost drive into a guardrail—or sometimes even another car whose driver was so busy trying to read his map that he didn’t see me coming.
Give me landmarks and I’m hell on wheels; give me a map and I turn into Forest Gump in Death Race 2000.
Can you tell that driving is not my favorite thing in the world? Oh, with short distances I’m okay, but the fabled American Road Trip? Inwardly, I shriek in horror. Aside from the monotony, it gives you too long to think about things, and eventually your mind starts either sorting through useless trivia or dusting off memories best left in cold storage. Or, at least, mine does.
I’m good for about four or five hours cooped up inside a car, and then I need open space, food, and a bathroom—and that’s the best case scenario, when I’m traveling with other people who can share the drive and conversation. (The last actual road trip I’d taken with another person was during the summer after high school graduation, when a bunch of us drove to Cleveland to see an Emerson,
Lake & Palmer concert as our big pre-college blowout.)
Now imagine driving alone for well over a thousand miles with a corpse your only companion. A Hope & Crosby On The Road movie this was not.
I’d been traveling for almost 14 hours and it was getting seriously dark. I was tired, I was upset, I was hungry, the coffin and its passenger were creeping me out to the nth degree, I needed to stretch my cramping legs, I’d missed the rest-stop entrance a few miles back (I was busy trying to make out the TripTik printing under the dim glow of the dome light), my bladder was grumpy, and I was pretty sure that I’d gotten onto the wrong stretch of highway at the interchange, so I decided, fuck it, I was going to take the next exit and find an all-night gas station and ask for directions.
That’s right—ask for directions: I am not one these guys who feels genetically obligated to never admit that he’s lost. If I’m going somewhere I just want to get there, preferably not too far behind schedule, in one piece and with my sanity intact; if that means I have to endure some twenty-something kid behind the counter of a Sip & Piss laughing at me under his breath as he shows me the best way to get back to where I need to be, well…there are worse humiliations that can be suffered, even if I sometimes do feel like belting that kid one upside the head. (And I swear it seems like it’s always the same kid behind the counter, regardless of where you stop; personally, I think they’re being manufactured in some top-secret government facility dedicated to creating as many aggravations as possible for American drivers so we don’t notice that the gas prices always start to go up on Wednesday night, right about rush hour.)
According to my TripTik, the next exit—happy-happy-joy-joy—was twenty miles farther down the highway. If I was right and it turned out I should’ve taken the I-70 West ramp, then I was almost 25 miles away from where I should have taken the exit, which meant by the time I got back to where I needed to be I’d be about 50 miles in the hole.
I turned up the radio, which was tuned to a “classic rock” station, and was just in time to hear the DJ introduce The Who’s “Baba O’Riley” with the words: “Can you believe this song is older than I am?”
Cages & Those Who Hold the Keys Page 17