The Undertaker Read Free Page B

scattered about the parking lot, not that I paid them any attention as I trudged toward my dirty red Ford Bronco sitting in the middle. It was a grizzled veteran of the commuter battles on the LA expressways. Our friends jokingly referred to it as the “OJ Simpson” model. It didn't get good mileage, but it had a big gas tank and the cops could chase you all day in it.
    I pulled out my remote key and pressed “unlock.” Totally brain dead, I heard the doors pop open and got inside. I tossed the thermos in the back seat, pulled the door closed and fastened my seat belt. I stuck the key in the ignition and was about to crank the engine when the passenger door opened and very large guy slipped in next to me. His slick, jet-black hair was pulled back into a stubby ponytail and he had a weight lifter's body that stretched the seams of his sharkskin sports coat. He wore a dark-red silk shirt open at the throat and a half-dozen gold chains around his neck. More importantly, he held a chrome-plated .45 caliber automatic pointed at my chest. Having spent two years in the Army, I knew what a .45 could do to on the pistol range. I didn't want to know what it could in the front seat of my Bronco.
    “You Peter Talbott?” he asked, glaring at me.
    “You want the Bronco? It's yours.”
    “No, I don't want the freakin' Bronco.”
    “It's yours, really,” I told him as I reached for the door handle.
    “Look, Ace, this ain't no carjack, and if it were, I'd pick something better than an old piece of shit like this,” he said as he raised the .45 a few inches higher and I stopped moving. “Now, you Talbott, or not?”
    “Yes, yes, I'm Talbott.”
    “Peter Emerson Talbott? 33 years old?” I nodded, ready to agree to anything. “From California? Went to freakin’ UCLA? UCLA?” His eyes narrowed as he repeated the name of the school. “You know, I lost two large on those dumb bastards in the NCAA tournament last year. I oughta ...”
    “Yeah,” I kept nodding. “They're real dumb bastards, really dumb.”
    “But you weren't there then, were you? Says you graduated back in ‘98.” More nods, wondering where this was heading. “I guess I can't blame you then, can I?”
    “Uh, no, I wouldn't.”
    “Shut up! You were in the Army and then you went to work for something called Netdyne out in LA. Right?”
    “Yeah, software and aeronautical engineering computer stuff,” I kept nodding as the feeling of stark terror was beginning to wear off. After all, he hadn't shot me yet.
    “You moved here to Boston two months ago and you're living in that little suck-ass apartment over in Lexington? So where's your wife?”
    “Where's my wife?” Now it was my turn to get pissed. I sat up and glared. “She's dead. She died a year ago back in LA.”
    “Yeah? You freakin’ sure about that?”
    “Yeah, I'm freakin’ sure about it!” The .45 or not, I'd had enough.
    “Okay, Ace, then how do you explain this?”
    He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a bad Xerox copy of an old newspaper story, and dropped it in my lap. One glance and I knew exactly what it was:
TALBOTT, PETER EMERSON, age 33, died last Tuesday in a tragic automobile accident in Baja California. A 1998 graduate of UCLA and former lieutenant in the US Army Transportation Corps, he was a software engineer with Netdyne Systems in Long Beach and the husband of Theresa June Talbott who preceded him in death here last month following a lengthy illness. A memorial service will be held at the Montane chapel in Long Beach at 2:00 PM on Thursday.
     
    “Oh, not this again,” I laughed and shook my head, recognizing the old obituary from the LA Times.
    “You see something funny, smart guy?”
    “That obituary, it was all a big mistake.”
    “A mistake?” He raised the .45. “I'm all freakin’ ears.”
    I tried to explain to him about the trip to Tijuana, the 350-Z, the semi, the dead Mexican kid, and the memorial service in Long Beach.
    The guy sat and listened, as