delivered through a clogged drain. “Every single fuckin’ dime you got, and maybe I let you live. Maybe I don’t leave you dead on one of your own slabs. How fucked-up would that be, undertaker? Your ass found on one of your own slabs?”
“I keep no money down here,” Francesco said in a manner as calm and relaxed as he could muster. “Look around for yourself and see. But, believe me when I tell you, there is no money in this room.”
“You lyin’ bastard,” Pelfrey said, the low gurgle of his words reaching for a harsher tone. “Who you tryin’ to bullshit? You got funerals coming in and out of here all day long, like it was some fuckin’ parade of the dead. I seen it myself, with my own eyes. Even came to one of your fuckin’ funerals a while back, for some cousin of mine got shot up near the Wakefield movie theater. And knowing all that, you got the balls to tell me you got no money?”
“I said I keep no money down here,” Francesco said.
Pelfrey ran a white-coated tongue across a set of parched and chapped lips. The fingers gripping the knife handle were drenched with cold sweat and the veins in the back of his neck were doing a drum solo, the pounding reaching all the way up to his temples. He lifted the knife closer to the undertaker, the sharp blade now mere inches from the man’s chest, and glared at him through drug-infested eyes. “Then give me what you have on you,” Pelfrey said.
Francesco stared back at the young man for several seconds and then slowly shook his head. “I have no money,” he said in a low voice. “Not in the room and not in my pockets. I have nothing to give you.”
Pelfrey’s eyes widened as if they were shocked awake by a cold blast of air. He reached out his left hand and grabbed the back of Francesco’s head, his fingers clutching a thick mound of brown hair. He pushed Francesco closer and managed to curl his lips in what passed for a snarl. “Then I have something to give you,” he said.
The blade of the knife wedged in Francesco’s stomach, the blood flow running in a tight pattern down the front of his starched white shirt and onto the creases of his blue slacks. It formed a puddle over the top of his black loafers and coated the gray concrete floor, looking as still as a lake under the sharp glare of the mortician’s light. A thin line of blood rolled down the right side of Francesco’s mouth, his eyes did a flutter dance, and the color began to drain from his face. His knees buckled and he was held in check by the shaky grip of the addict, who jammed the blade of the knife deeper into his stomach with every fresh wheeze he took. “You spend all your time taking care of the dead,” Pelfrey whispered. “But now, who the fuck will take care of you?”
Pelfrey let go of the knife and took two steps back, watching the undertaker fall to his knees, both hands gripped around the blade jutting from his stomach. The junkie stared with openmouthed amazement as the life slowly seeped out of a good man, the adrenaline rush now doing a mix-and-blend with the heroin, giving Pelfrey the most sustained rush of his wasted days. He winced when Francesco fell facedown to the hard surface, the knife now buried handle-deep inside his body, the thick pool of blood around him taking the shape of a full moon. “Sweet dreams, undertaker,” Pelfrey said, and turned to leave the room.
He stopped when he saw the boy standing in the shadows off to his left, a cocked .38 revolver held in two thin hands. The boy kept his eyes on Pelfrey, his breath coming out in a rush, his calm manner betrayed by eyes that welled with tears. Pelfrey took a quick glance around the room and then looked back at the boy and gave him a slow smile. “You lookin’ to rob the place, too, little man?” he asked in hushed tones. “If so, it’d be nothing more than a time killer. Ain’t nothin’ here but the dead.”
“The man you just killed is my father,” Andy Victorino said, the barrel
“I keep no money down here,” Francesco said in a manner as calm and relaxed as he could muster. “Look around for yourself and see. But, believe me when I tell you, there is no money in this room.”
“You lyin’ bastard,” Pelfrey said, the low gurgle of his words reaching for a harsher tone. “Who you tryin’ to bullshit? You got funerals coming in and out of here all day long, like it was some fuckin’ parade of the dead. I seen it myself, with my own eyes. Even came to one of your fuckin’ funerals a while back, for some cousin of mine got shot up near the Wakefield movie theater. And knowing all that, you got the balls to tell me you got no money?”
“I said I keep no money down here,” Francesco said.
Pelfrey ran a white-coated tongue across a set of parched and chapped lips. The fingers gripping the knife handle were drenched with cold sweat and the veins in the back of his neck were doing a drum solo, the pounding reaching all the way up to his temples. He lifted the knife closer to the undertaker, the sharp blade now mere inches from the man’s chest, and glared at him through drug-infested eyes. “Then give me what you have on you,” Pelfrey said.
Francesco stared back at the young man for several seconds and then slowly shook his head. “I have no money,” he said in a low voice. “Not in the room and not in my pockets. I have nothing to give you.”
Pelfrey’s eyes widened as if they were shocked awake by a cold blast of air. He reached out his left hand and grabbed the back of Francesco’s head, his fingers clutching a thick mound of brown hair. He pushed Francesco closer and managed to curl his lips in what passed for a snarl. “Then I have something to give you,” he said.
The blade of the knife wedged in Francesco’s stomach, the blood flow running in a tight pattern down the front of his starched white shirt and onto the creases of his blue slacks. It formed a puddle over the top of his black loafers and coated the gray concrete floor, looking as still as a lake under the sharp glare of the mortician’s light. A thin line of blood rolled down the right side of Francesco’s mouth, his eyes did a flutter dance, and the color began to drain from his face. His knees buckled and he was held in check by the shaky grip of the addict, who jammed the blade of the knife deeper into his stomach with every fresh wheeze he took. “You spend all your time taking care of the dead,” Pelfrey whispered. “But now, who the fuck will take care of you?”
Pelfrey let go of the knife and took two steps back, watching the undertaker fall to his knees, both hands gripped around the blade jutting from his stomach. The junkie stared with openmouthed amazement as the life slowly seeped out of a good man, the adrenaline rush now doing a mix-and-blend with the heroin, giving Pelfrey the most sustained rush of his wasted days. He winced when Francesco fell facedown to the hard surface, the knife now buried handle-deep inside his body, the thick pool of blood around him taking the shape of a full moon. “Sweet dreams, undertaker,” Pelfrey said, and turned to leave the room.
He stopped when he saw the boy standing in the shadows off to his left, a cocked .38 revolver held in two thin hands. The boy kept his eyes on Pelfrey, his breath coming out in a rush, his calm manner betrayed by eyes that welled with tears. Pelfrey took a quick glance around the room and then looked back at the boy and gave him a slow smile. “You lookin’ to rob the place, too, little man?” he asked in hushed tones. “If so, it’d be nothing more than a time killer. Ain’t nothin’ here but the dead.”
“The man you just killed is my father,” Andy Victorino said, the barrel
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