Free The staked Goat by Jeremiah Healy Page A

the cold clear night.
    When we arrived at Logan Airport, Nancy gave me a quick kiss. I said thanks and entered the terminal just as a cop was waving for her to move along. I checked my bag at the passenger ticket counter and asked directions to the cargo area.
    It took a little explaining, but I used George’s name, and the Delta cargo employee expressed his sympathies and escorted me to the loading platform. His first name was Dario. He was middle-aged and compact. He also looked strong as a bull.
    As we approached the platform, there was a young guy uncertainly maneuvering a forklift and pallet toward a canvas-wrapped, coffin-sized container.
    ”Pat, yo—Pat,” said Dario.
    The forklift operator stopped and turned around.
    ”Pat, let me take that one for the gentleman here.”
    Pat gratefully hopped off, and Dario replaced him. He coaxed and sidled the lift perfectly. Even without the canvas as a buffer, I doubt the casket would have been marred.
    Dario carefully, even solemnly, drove the lift across to a weighing machine. After weighing, he completed a multicarbon form and tore off one copy. He gave me the tearsheet.
    ”I don’t think you’ll need this in Pittsburgh, but, just in case.”
    ”Thanks, thanks a lot,” I said, folding and pocketing the sheet. ”What happens now?”
    ”We put the coffin into a covered, locked cargo cart and get it on the plane before the other baggage.”
    I glanced down at my watch.
    ”Not to worry,” said Dario. ”It’ll make the flight. My personal guarantee.”
    I thanked him, and we shook hands. I went back out and up to the gate for boarding.
    There was no one in the aisle or middle seat in my row on the right side of the plane. The stewardess leaned over and asked me if I wanted a drink. After having had dinner, I thought a fourth screwdriver wouldn’t depress me. I was wrong. I began thinking of happy things I’d be doing the next day, like calling J. T. and watching Martha try to sit shivah.
    We arrived in Pittsburgh at 8:45. I decided to pick up my suitcase later and asked directions to the cargo area. When I got there, a guy in a green worker uniform was standing over Al’s canvas-draped coffin on a heavy-duty conveyor belt. In front of the coffin was a three-foot square box stenciled ”U.S. Steel.” Behind it was a wildly shaped package that looked home-wrapped.
    I walked up to the man in uniform. He was fortyish with brown hair and a dead cigar in his mouth. He was just pulling off a pair of work gloves.
    ”Help ya?” he said through the cigar.
    ”I hope so. I’m with the coffin. I want to see it safely on the hearse.”
    The man shook his head as he removed the second glove and stuffed them in a back pocket. He pulled out the cigar. ”You know which home?”
    ”You mean funeral home?”
    ”Yeah.”
    ”Cribbs and Son.”
    He smiled and replaced the cigar. ”You’re lucky. Jake Cribbs is the only guy who’ll come out, day or night. Matter of pride to ‘im.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief. ”Do you have his number?”
    ”I can call him for ya. No charge.” He dropped his smile and nodded toward Al. ”Family?”
    I shook my head. ”Friend. From the army.”
    He put the dead cigar in his shirt pocket and wiped his hand. He extended it to shake. ”Good a’ you to see him through.” We shook and exchanged names. His was Stasky.
    ”I was navy. Just before Vietnam. You there?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”Him too?”
    ”Uh-huh.”
    Stasky pointed to a chair and table with a coffee urn and some mugs in a corner.
    ”Make yourself comfortable and have some. I’ll call Cribbs.”
    I abstained from the coffee. Stasky returned shortly. ”Old man Cribbs’ll be here in twenny minutes. He’ll give you a lift into town if you need it.”
    ”Thanks, but someone’s meeting me.”
    He left me at the table while he tended to the freight.
    Half an hour later, Stasky helped me and Cribbs, a wiry older man in a black stadium coat and commissar’s hat, to maneuver the