Free The Undertaker by William Brown

and we bring in one of our own.”
    “Why? So you could get a big laugh out of it? Well, I'm not laughing.”
    “Neither was Greene or Dannmeyer.”
    “You've been following me, haven't you?”
    “Yeah, and I bet they crapped their freakin’ pants when you showed up. I'd have love to see Tinkerton's face, because mistakes like you ain't supposed to happen.”
    “What mistake? What are you talking about?”
    “You and your wife – one of you dead and the other one still alive.”
    “What's going on here? Are you going to tell me, or not?”
    “No. And believe me, you don't want to know,” he said as he slipped the automatic inside his jacket. “Besides, I'm not sure I could. It's all smoke and mirrors like a goddamned shell game.” He relaxed and leaned back against the side of the Lincoln. I would have suggested he be careful and not tip it over, but he still had his hand on that big cannon inside his coat.
    “Look, Ace,” he finally said. “I usually don't give free advice and I never give it twice, so you listen up, and listen good. Go back to Boston. I know I kinda lured you here with those two obituaries, but when you showed up they didn't panic or do nuthin’. In fact, they haven't done a damned thing, but blow you off, so that's it. Finito! Go back to Boston, because you're messing in some very serious shit here. Keep poking around and you're gonna end up in a box next to that other Peter Talbott up in Oak Hill. Us or them, you're gonna get your ticket punched.”
    He turned and opened the driver's side door of the Lincoln.
    “Wait a minute,” I called out to him. “Who's we?”
    “You don't want to know,” he sighed.
    “Then who are you?” I dared to ask.
    He paused and thought it over before he answered. “My name's Parini, Gino Parini. Some people say I kill people for a living. I'm sure that's a major exaggeration, but you don't
ever
want me to see your sorry ass again. You got that?” He gave me one last long, hard look, then added, “By the way, it's good you got rid of that Rolling Stones shit. You ain't no freakin’ college kid no more.”
    “You're right, but I needed something more formal for my funeral.”
    “Still the smart ass, huh? Well, you keep doin’ what you've been doin’ and it still could be.” Then he got in the Lincoln, slammed the door, and drove away.
    Me? I stood there, glad I hadn't wet my pants.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    Marion, madam librarian…
     
    I n the morning, after a hot shower, I saw one of those homey, red-sided Bob Evans restaurants at the interstate interchange. Back home in Los Angeles, Terri would have insisted on our usual morning fare of yogurt, granola, bean curd, and green tea. I'd be hungry again an hour later, but it would have been a healthy hungry. Bob's menu had yogurt, granola, and some whole wheat, but I guess Ohio had never heard of bean curd or green tea, because there was none to be found. My baser instincts took over and I forced myself to down four cups of high-test coffee and a really big plate of country biscuits and gravy. Nope, you just can't beat that fine mid-western cuisine. The cholesterol took at least three months off my life, but that Ohio stuff would stick around all day; probably well into the next one, too.
    Over my last cup of coffee, I realized I had a ton of questions, but not very many answers. What about those obituaries? The identical names? The private funerals no one attended? Common graves at the cheap end of a country cemetery? A surly sheriff, a greasy mortician, and a lawyer? The empty house and office? Like any good engineer, the vacuum of an unanswered question, much less a whole flock of them, drove me nuts. If I couldn't compute something, measure it, or put a wrench on it, I couldn't ignore it no matter how hard I tried. Questions? Questions, but no answers. And when you have questions you can't answer, the best person to go see, is your friendly, neighborhood librarian.
    The phone book at Bob's counter