Free Unknown Remains by Peter Leonard Page B

he’s dead.”
    â€œYou seen his body, know that for a fact?”
    â€œWe went to his funeral.”
    â€œWhat does that prove?” Frank could be a real asshole.
    â€œThere’s a death certificate.”
    â€œYou know how easy it is to get one of those?”
    â€œWe’ve been hanging around the house; he’s not there.”
    â€œI could’ve told you that.”
    â€œWe had a nice talk with the girlfriend,” Cobb said.
    â€œLet me guess, she don’t know where he’s at, either.”
    â€œShe hasn’t heard from him, is convinced he went down with the tower.”
    â€œUh-huh. Why’s this my problem?” Frank ate the fillet first, taking tiny bird bites and wiping his mouth. Then the peas, one thing at a time, still nothing touching, and then the potatoes and gravy. Cobb had grown up on scrapple: pork scraps and trimmings his mother would pour white gravy over, and he’d dip bread into. That was eating.
    â€œJust telling you,” Ruben said, “what we know.”
    â€œJust telling me,” Frank said, mimicking Ruben. “You ain’t opened your mouth, but you just tellin’ me, uh?”
    â€œI checked his phone bill,” Cobb said. “Last call Jack McCann made was at nine twenty-three the morning of nine-eleven.”
    â€œSo he got a new phone,” Frank said. “That ever cross your mind?”
    Frank dabbed his mouth with the napkin, picked up his wineglass, took a sip, and wiped the rim with his index finger where there was a little smudge of food.
    â€œOwes me seven-fifty. The man’s dead I’m gonna have to collect it from someone else.” Frank pointed his fork at Cobb like he might stab him with it. “How ’bout you, Duane? You gonna give it to me?” Now he aimed the fork at Ruben. “Or how ’bout you?” Frank drank some wine. “Or get it from the wife. That occur to either of you?”
    Cobb said, “How do you suggest we do that?”
    â€œSend Ruben in, scare the shit out of her.”
    Ruben looked at him with a blank face.
    â€œOne of you knows more than he’s saying is what I think.”
    Cobb said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Frank took a sip of wine and looked at him. “I know how this works. You tell me he’s dead, keep the seven hundred and fifty grand. I’d probably think that way too I was in your situation.”
    â€œThere’s only one problem,” Cobb said. “McCann is dead. I think you’re gonna have to write this one off.”
    Cobb wondered why Frank was squeezing lemon on his hands and drying them with the napkin. Now Frank bent his fingers and turned his big hairy hands, so he could look at his manicured nails, which had a semi-gloss finish.
    â€œYou got a week. You don’t get the money, I’ll be going to your funeral. Both of yous.”
    Cobb nodded at Ruben, and they got up and walked out of the restaurant, Cobb asking himself why he thought Frank would just take his word for it, accept the fact that Jack McCann was dead. Cobb didn’t believe it himself, and Frank didn’t have to.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Ruben said when they were driving back to Connecticut. “Why’s this our problem?”
    â€œâ€™Cause Frank made it our problem.”
    â€œYou believe what he says?”
    â€œWhat exactly are you talking about?”
    â€œHe’s gonna come after us we don’t get the money.”
    â€œOh, I believe that. Frank thinks what he wants to think, and reality’s nowhere in sight.”
    â€œSomebody come after me, I’m gonna put the motherfucker down.”
    â€œYou think they’re gonna challenge you to a fight, ‘Hey Ruben, let’s get in the ring’? They’re gonna hit you when you least expect it. They’re gonna shoot you or run you over and dump your body in a landfill or a construction site. They’ll