A short ride to forever…
If you've never been knocked cold by a sharp blow to the head, it is a little hard to describe. I remember back in sixth grade when Howie Schmidt and I were playing in his basement and I ran headlong into one of the steel posts holding up the first floor. It took three weeks to get the “Bong” out of my ears. Later, there was the JV football team in high school. At 168 pounds, I was the third-string guard on a three-string team, until we ran a sweep around left end and I met Willie Sanders coming the other way, helmet-to-helmet. I woke up five minutes later and ten yards back. That was when the coaches suggested I switch to track, or to swimming, or to debate.
The hit Dannmeyer gave me was somewhere in the middle. Most of the time I wasn't completely under. Sometimes I heard things and sometimes I understood them, but I couldn't manage to do both at the same time. There were voices, but they were far off and hollow, like the echo at the other end of a long pipe, and they didn't make any sense.
“You talk too damned much, Doc,” I heard a gruff voice say.
“I told him nothing. Nothing.”
“No? Keep it up and you'll find yourself up in Oak Hill with the rest of them.”
“Don't you threaten me, Dannmeyer.”
“No, I'll let the captain do that.”
“I should never have…”
“You got that right. You never had the balls for it. Neither does your collection of fruits in the beds back there, but you like playing around with them anyway, don't you, “Doctor? And to keep doing that, you need the money.”
“Dannmeyer, you bastard!”
“You knew the rules. You never shoulda let this guy inside, you never shoulda talked to him, and you never shoulda opened your big yap about what we're doing.”
“Dannmeyer, I swear…”
“Stow it. The captain's gonna have your ass when he gets here. He set this place up for you. Without him and all the Federal money he got you from HEW, you and your bunch of fruits and nuts would still be running around the back alleys of Guadalajara.”
“You are a pig.”
“Yeah, I am. And don't forget, Larry Greene's always got room for one more. But don't worry. When you're gone, I'll clean up all the little “lose ends” around. Won't that be fun?”
I heard Dannmeyer's obscene laugh fade away down that long tunnel and everything went silent again.
I came out of it slowly, like a deep-sea diver coming up from the bottom, reaching out for the twinkling, silver surface high above, until my eyes finally popped open and the bright lights blinded me. I was flat on my back on the hard linoleum floor of Varner's office, squinting, blinking, and staring up at the ceiling. Everything in the room floated around in circles. As my vision cleared, I became aware of two faces high above me leaning into my field of vision. One was Dannmeyer, dressed in his brown sheriff's suit, and one was Ralph Tinkerton in his suit coat and tie. I tried to focus on each of them, but the back of my head throbbed with a dull, aching pain.
“I bet that really hurts, don't it,” Dannmeyer chuxcckled. “Nice to see I haven't lost my touch, but that wasn't nuthin', Podner. See, I got ways of hurtin' people they ain't given names to yet.”
I closed my eyes again and lay there until my head stopped throbbing. Slowly the pain faded enough for me to feel my tongue, my toes, and my fingers, and I took roll call. Hands? They were pinned beneath me and I couldn't make them move. Handcuffs? Probably Dannmeyer's, I realized. I slowly opened my eyes again, knowing there was no sense putting it off. This time, I focused on Tinkerton's face. He stared down at me, his cold-gray eyes as dull and emotionless as a cruising shark.
“Well, if it isn't our tourist friend from California, or Boston, or wherever you say you are from, and my very favorite jokester.” Tinkerton gave me a cold, thin, smile. “The paper bag with the drink you left in the lobby? Sheer genius, Peter. However, you're developing a nasty habit of intruding into places where you don't belong, dangerous places, and making a pest of yourself. Not that I didn't warn you, but now it's too late.”
I looked from Tinkerton to Dannmeyer, then back again. “Is he your muscle, Ralph?” I asked.
“My “muscle?” Tinkerton seemed amused at the thought. “Oh, come now, Peter. That term is so pathetically out of date. Today all it takes is a telephone call, maybe a fax or an e-mail to www.hitman.com, for all I know. With my contacts, a quick glance in the right quarters is all I'd need to eliminate a clown like you.”
I fixed Tinkerton with a hard stare. “I'm a Special Investigator with the State Attorney General's Office. If you come downtown with me right now, I'll forget the assaulting a police officer charge and see what I can do to help you negotiate a plea on all the rest. It's not much, but it's the last chance we're going to give you.”
Tinkerton stared down at me, speechless, and then broke out in a gut-wrenching belly laugh. “My God, but you do have nerve! I love it, I love it!”
Dannmeyer frowned. He didn't look nearly as happy or as confident. “You don't think it could be true then?”
“Not a word of it, Virgil,” Tinkerton answered.
“You're positive about that?” I asked him.
“Yes, I'm afraid I am, “Tinkerton answered. “If anything like that was going on downtown — and I mean anything — I would have known about it weeks ago.”
“So, who is he then? Just some crazy drifter?” Dannmeyer asked hopefully.
Tinkerton studied me for a moment. “No, that would be far too simple. He is no drifter and I know he is not crazy.”
“Then who the fuck is he?” Dannmeyer suddenly raged.
“Ah, that is the question, isn't it.”
“I'm Peter Talbott,” I said. “Like I told you.”
“I don't think so,” Tinkerton shook his head confidently. “The real Peter Talbott died in a car wreck in Baja a year ago, right after his wife. I have a copy of the death certificate and a photograph of the grave in L. A.”
“That was some dumb Mexican kid who stole my car. The grave is empty now and the Mexicans rescinded the death certificate. Check it out.”
Varner shifted uncomfortably. “Ralph, you don't suppose…”
“Shut up, Doctor,” Tinkerton snapped. “You talk too much.”
“But the computers? Aren't they supposed to check all that stuff out?”
Tinkerton looked down, studying me. “The ”wizards” warned us the system isn't perfect, that something like this could happen. They said it was “statistically inevitable”, but controllable. When you need a husband and a wife, both of whom are dead, with the right timing, age, and background from as far away as we can find them, the choices are somewhat limited. There is always a minor but manageable chance that someone could notice.”
“You think it's that simple?” Dannmeyer asked.
“That, or he is lying again.” Tinkerton cocked his head and looked down at me with a sadistic smile. “That is the question, isn't it? How much does our new friend “Peter” really know and how much of it is pure crap.”
“He's wrong, Virgil. You don't really think I'd come walking in here alone, do you?” I said confidently. “You're the one who's going to end up holding the bag.”
“I don't think so,” Tinkerton sighed. “But you are right about one thing. Virgil and I can't take any chances, can we? We've got to make sure,” Tinkerton's eyes flashed, “because there is one little question that I've got to have an answer to, one you are going to give me, if it takes all night.”
“Boxers or briefs?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed along with me. “Back in my office, you dropped the magic name of Jimmy Santorini on me. Perhaps you thought you were being cute, or perhaps you threw it in blind, not really knowing about the Pandora's Box you were opening up, but that move cost you your amateur standing. You can save yourself a whole lot of pain if you tell me what you really do know about him.”
“Santorini? He ran a little wine bar up in Carmel. Or was that Santoucci?”
“Did Jimmy hire you?”
“Hire me? I can't cook pasta and I'd drink up all his cabernet. It'd never work.”
“Was it that bastard Rico Patillo or someone else in New Jersey? Or some little staff toad over in Justice.”
“Washington? DC? Never even visited the place.”
“Good! That's what I expected,” Tinkerton smiled. “More jokes. I'm glad you didn't loose that fabulous sense of humor of yours. If you had opened up and started talking, I still wouldn't have believed a word you said, but it might have confused things. I wouldn't have known what was true, what was a lie, and what was just a bit of creative stretching. This way, we'll assume that everything you say is a lie until the very, very end.”
“The ”very, very” end?” I asked. “That sounds a bit melodramatic even for you, Ralph.”
“Very melodramatic, but in the end you'll tell me the truth and you won't find it one bit funny.”
“You're sure about that?”
“Sergeant Dannmeyer and I have done this before, “Peter”, in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Iraq, in Saudi Arabia after the first war, and in a half dozen hellholes in between,” Tinkerton's smile slowly faded. “So, I will know when you're telling me the truth. I assure you, I will know.”
He turned toward Dannmeyer. “Run another NCI record check on him, just to be sure. If you come up with anything new, anything at all, let me know immediately.”
“What if he shows clean again?”
“It doesn't matter,” Tinkerton shrugged. “He's going to disappear all the same.”
Dannmeyer looked down at me with a sly grin. “What about that truck of his?”
“Drive it down to the east side and dump it near the Interstate.”
“The east side?” Dannmeyer sounded pained. “Oh, come on, captain. A nice Bronco like that? Jeez, they'll have it picked clean by midnight.”
“Sometimes you can be an idiot, Virgil. That's the whole point.” Tinkerton snapped. “Now see to it!” He looked up and turned his attention to Varner who was cowering in the corner, giving him an equally hard look as he motioned toward me. “Doctor, if you please.”
Above me, I saw Varner's worried face come into view. He held a hypodermic needle in his fingers. Carefully, he swabbed my arm with a cotton ball and alcohol before he stuck the needle in.
Dannmeyer laughed. “Alcohol? You gotta be kiddin’, Doc. The guy's going to be dead by midnight and you're worried about him getting some germs?”
Varner looked flustered. “Don't tell me that! I don't want to know what you're doing, Dannmeyer. Just get him out of here. I'm sick of this whole business.”
“You? You're sick of this whole business, Doctor?” Tinkerton's voice lashed him. “How unfortunate. We'll have to do something about that, won't we, Sergeant?”
“No, no,” Varner quickly shook his head. “That was only talk, Ralph. That's all. I'm scared. You never told me I'd be involved like this. Not like this.”
Tinkerton stared at him for a long moment. “You are absolutely right, Doctor. You weren't supposed to be involved “like this”, but now you are. In for a penny, in for a pound. I hope you understand that, I really do, for your sake. Now send the ambulance around to the service door. I want him run down to Greene's and I want it done now.”
“Yeah, Doc,” Dannmeyer added. “Larry Greene ain't nearly as squeamish about doin’ what he's told. And personally, I like his clientele one hell of a lot better than I like yours.”
Within minutes, I was out like a light. No hollow pipe. No echoing voices, either. I was out and I remembered nothing of the ride. The next thing I knew, and only dimly at that, was when the two ambulance attendants dropped me on my head. They had backed the ambulance to the rear loading dock of Greene's Funeral Home. None of the outside lights were on and I was lying on a stretcher. The two attendants carried it out the back door of the ambulance onto the dock when I heard a husky male voice say, “Oops!”
“Christ, Ernie, I can't believe you did that.” another male voice said.
“Yeah? Well, I can't believe they didn't turn on the goddamned lights out here.”
“You dropped the guy right on his head.”
“My hand slipped, George. So what? It's a stiff. It ain't like he's gonna sue us or anything, is he?”
“Help me get him back on the stretcher,” George fumed. I felt hands lifting me up and turning me over. That was when I groaned.
“Christ, he's still alive!” Ernie jumped back and dropped me again as the service door opened, flooding the loading dock with light.
I opened my eyes and blinked. I was lying on my side on the bare concrete and everything was spinning around in big looping circles. I saw the side of the ambulance, a pair of white pants, some white shoes, white shirts, and white faces, all disjointed, bent over and staring down at me. Then I saw other legs come into view wearing black pants and shiny black leather shoes.
“Hey, Mr. Greene, this guy's still alive,” Ernie said, astonished.
“He groaned and his eyes opened. He's still alive,” George added.
“Yes, we know all about it, George,” I heard a familiar, syrupy voice answer. “Rest assured, we shall take good care of him. You gentlemen may leave now.”
“But Mister Greene,” the white legs closest to me said uncertainly. “Don't you think we oughta run him over to the hospital?”
“Yeah, he don't look so good.”
“As I told you, everything is perfectly fine here.” Greene's measured voice tried to reassure them. “The gentleman is in good hands. We'll see he is well taken care of.”
“Mr. G., no offense, but this is a funeral home.”
“George, do us a favor and do what you're told,” Greene tried to silence him, tried to regain control. “Wasn't it Doctor Varner who told you to bring the fellow over here?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
I heard their feet shuffling and saw the white pants slowly back away. Other hands picked me up and tossed me back on the stretcher, none-too-gently. I tried to focus on them, but I couldn't. I tried to speak, but my lips wouldn't move as they picked up the stretcher and carried it toward the building.
“You two have made some other “special” deliveries here before, haven't you?” Greene asked. “You've transported — how shall I put it — some of Doctor Varner's more “unusual” and “delicate” patients. And you know things are not always what they appear. Some of his patients want very private work done, so that's what we provide, George.”
“Yeah, but…”
The service door opened again. I turned my head and saw the towering hulk of Ralph Tinkerton step between Greene and the two ambulance attendants. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said. “Let us have no more, “Yeah buts”. If the two of you can no longer honor our little requests, then I'm certain Doctor Varner can find some new employees who will be more than willing to do the job.”
“Uh, no, no, Mister Tinkerton, we didn't mean nuthin'.”
“Good, very good.” Tinkerton stepped even closer, intimidating them with his presence. “See you keep it that way, or the next time your ambulance shows up out here, you might be the ones riding in the back. Better still, Doctor Varner might keep you right there at the clinic and try out some of his “personal preference” surgery on the two of you. How does that sound?”
I heard the quick shuffling of feet on concrete as the doors on the ambulance opened and slammed shut. The ambulance's engine started up with a loud roar as I was carried through the doorway on the stretcher. The thick, metal service doors of the mortuary closed behind me and I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. My tongue wouldn't work.
“Take him downstairs,” Tinkerton ordered.
“Uh, look, Ralph,” I heard Greene whisper. “Given all that's happened lately, I was thinking…”
“Larry, you aren't doing that again, are you? Thinking? Like those two moron drivers of Varner's? I thought we agreed you'd leave the thinking to me, because you know what it does to your stomach.”
“But Ralph…”
“Do what you're told, Larry. Take our mouthy “friend” downstairs, then you and your people can go home. I'll handle the rest of it.”
“But Ralph…”
“Go home, Larry.”
I never heard them finish the argument, if they ever did. Tinkerton's voice faded away into the darkness, taking the sound of the ambulance along with it.