Free Dangerous Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page A

weekend.
    McCauley’s Furniture was three stores down from the barbershop. I parked at the curb and peered into the dim store front, but I couldn’t see any activity. The “Drink Sundrop” open-for-business sign taped inside the front door announced Monday—Friday: eight-thirty to five. I guessed Fats would be up by now since the store should open in less than an hour.
    I jiggled the door latch and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. I banged on the window glass, but the anemic rattle did not sound as if it could be heard beyond the love seats and winged-back chairs visible in the morning sunlight.
    I noticed no cars were parked at the curb. Fats’ vehicle must have been kept in the rear alley. I cut through the walkway between McCauley’s Furniture and Larson’s Discount Drugs, dodging the boxes of trash set out by the druggist for Monday pickup. The furniture store had no exit along the side. At the rear, an old silver Buick sat snug against Fats’ loading dock door. On the far side was a service entrance with an electric buzzer to signal a delivery. I had expected that. I didn’t expect the broken windowpane above the doorknob. The sight of the jagged daggers of glass snapped me fully alert like no cup of coffee ever could.
    I carefully reached for the inside latch, and swung the door open with my knee, leaving my good arm free should the intruder be waiting in the shadows. A floorboard creaked as I stepped across the threshold. It was the only sound other than my own breathing. I waited for my eyes to adjust. In the gloom, a packing crate became visible in the corner by the stairway to the second floor. Its lid had been pried off for a preliminary inspection of its contents. A crowbar dangled from the splintered edge where the nails had been ripped from the wood. I grabbed the flat end and balanced the cool iron in my hand. A swift swing would turn it into a lethal weapon, capable of breaking an arm or skull.
    From the rear of the store, I could clearly see the silhouettes of furniture cluttered against the daylight of the front windows. The cash register at the counter appeared undisturbed. Perhaps the burglar, if he had indeed gotten inside, had fled before getting a chance to rifle the cash drawer. I decided to announce my presence in case an alarmed Fats McCauley was upstairs loading a shotgun.
    “Mr. McCauley! Mr. McCauley, it’s Barry Clayton.” I kept the crowbar by my side and climbed the stairs, calling out with every step. I pushed open the door to the apartment and heard the sound of running water. Then I felt the wetness soak through my shoes. I crossed the small living room toward the hallway. My footsteps squished in the puddles that collected in the depressions of the hardwood floor. I found a wall switch and the overhead light illuminated the short corridor. Water flowed under the door at the end of the hall, its pink tinge offering an ominous explanation of why no one answered.
    I slowly pushed the door open. In the dim light, I saw a shapeless mass quivering above the porcelain rim of the tub. I needed a few seconds to comprehend that I was staring at what once had been a human being.
    The remains of Fats’ head lay against the spigot, bobbing in its generated turbulence and floating just above the surface, while the rest of his body filled the tub. His flaccid mass was not round but layered in folds where the fat creased back on itself. The buoyant flesh rippled in macabre vibrations as the water swirled around the corpse and flowed over the tub’s edge onto the floor.
    “Oh, hell,” I muttered. I saw the thick splotches of blood, hair, flesh, and brains splattered against the tile wall from the soap dish to the ceiling. A single discharged shotgun shell lay in the dry wash basin to my right. It was a number one buck Remington twelve gauge, the same kind of shell I saw ricochet off Martha Willard’s casket.

    “Don’t disturb anything,” ordered Tommy Lee. “I’ll be right