Free The Girl with the Phony Name by Charles Mathes Page A

door. Wing ran after her, grabbing her arm.
    â€œNo worry! No worry! She already dead. Just ashes, no sweat. Come, come, come.”
    He ran back to his machine. Lucy stood frozen at the door. She wanted out of here, out of Weehawken, out of the state. She also wanted to be reimbursed for her cab fare. Resignedly she walked back to Wing, who was fooling with levers. The noise was deafening. Suddenly he pressed a red button and the racket stopped, the engine ground to a halt, the pistons hissed and died.

    â€œCome, I show you,” said Wing merrily and led her around the machine. There was a small chamber at the back, directly in line with the larger chamber, which had now stopped turning. This he opened and took out a polished gray cylinder a little longer than a flashlight battery, a little shorter than a stick of dynamite. He handed it to her.
    Lucy examined the artifact cautiously. It was heavier than it looked, some kind of stone, almost like the granite or limestone facing on an office building.
    â€œMrs. Hernandez,” announced Tak Wing with obvious pride. “Final version.”
    Lucy dropped the cylinder in shock. Mrs. Hernandez didn’t break.
    â€œCompression is key,” Tak Wing said, picking up the cylinder. “Plus a little epoxy. No more messy ashes to spill on living-room rug. Beloved relative now rest peacefully on desk or coffee table.”
    â€œSeems a little callous,” Lucy sputtered, “turning your family into paperweights.”
    â€œBetter turning them into flower beds?” Wing shrugged and walked to the other side of the room. He deposited the cylinder in a small lathe-like device, then tapped on a nearby computer keyboard. “Now for icing on cake.”
    â€œThere’s icing?”
    Wing grinned. The contraption spun for a barely a minute. When it stopped, Wing opened the hatch and took out the gray cylinder. There was now an inscription lettered on its side in gold:

    Mrs . Maria Hernandez
    Rest in Peace

    â€œNeat and tidy, you see?”
    â€œI see,” said Lucy.
    â€œSo you want assistant to entrepreneur job?”

    â€œWell, this …” said Lucy, nodding at the machinery, “ … this isn’t exactly what I look for in an entrepreneur.”
    â€œNot waste you here. Job upstairs with me.”
    â€œWhat exactly is this job?” she asked suspiciously.
    â€œThirty thousand dollars, plus good benefits. Medical plan with dental. Room and board. Growth opportunity.”
    â€œI really don’t think—”
    â€œOkay, thirty-one thousand dollars. You very persuasive. Harvard do good job.”
    â€œReally, Mr. Wing …”
    â€œCome, come. You see room now.”
    Wing popped Mrs. Hernandez in his pocket and bowed.
    â€œYour predecessor,” he said absentmindedly, patting his pocket and walking out the door. Lucy followed at a run.

NINE
    L ucy sat next to Neal Bell, Tak Wing’s driver, in the front seat of the white Cadillac limousine—white being the funeral color in Japan. Neal was an older black man with a pencil-thin moustache and a voice like a pipe organ.
    Lucy looked at her watch. It was 12:30. At least they were out of that horrible tunnel. It had seemed like all New Jersey was trying to get into Manhattan for lunch.
    â€œIt’s not much farther,” said Neal.
    â€œThat’s good.”
    He had been talking the whole trip, pointing out landmarks, editorializing about the good old days. Lucy didn’t feel too much like talking.
    â€œYou’ll like Weehawken. It’s a real nice place.”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œYou know I worked for Miss Marvelle for ten years. That
was the lady that owned the place before Taki. That’s what we call Mr. Wing. Taki. I used to drive the families to the cemeteries. No call for that anymore. Now we just send the ashes. COD.”
    Lucy grunted, totally confused about what to do. At least Wing had given her a