"Art Montegue - Caleb's Undertaking" - читать интересную книгу автора (Montague Arthur)

"No sense burying something you can sell again," said Caleb sarcastically. I don't think Bradley heard because he'd already turned to help Ralph's family members out of their limos.

Caleb's attitude at the funeral picked at my mind the rest of the day. This man was my oldest and best friend. Not counting sex, he was closer to me than my wife. Worrying some for him, I stopped by that night to tip a few and get the full story. It was not pleasant.

His monotone was gone; he sounded more like a politician with an audience. Worse, he was raging. Even his dog, a big black Lab named Hooter, had gone into refuge behind a couch. Not that Caleb was throwing things, just pacing and once in a while kicking furniture. I'd never seen him angry before; that was usually my department and I was big enough to get away with it. Size-wise, Caleb was the Mutt to my Jeff.

"We charge a standard two hundred dollars extra for a round rail on a casket and it's supposed to go down the hole with everything else. Bradley's recycling his; that's where his ethics are." Caleb was enough preoccupied I had to pour my own drink.

He continued his rant. "He calls his reposing rooms "Salons". Can you beat that? He's got one named the "Memories Salon" for calls with Alzheimer's. Another's the "Green Salon" for nature lovers. He pipes New Age music into that one. Then he's got the "Prairie Sunset Salon" for country and western music fans. Some guy drops from a heart attack and his family gets to hear "Achy Breaky Heart" fifty times during the viewings. Better still, he's got a rotating bier in one for what calls the "Deluxe Rites in the Round Service." He's got more profit centers than a Las Vegas casino.

"I complained to the Licensing Commission, supposedly my peers and fellow professionals. They responded by naming him Funeral Director of the Year with Special Mention for Marketing Originality."

Caleb knew how to beat some subjects to death. Professionalism was one of them. Tradition was another. He probably still kept the phone numbers of on-call professional keeners, even though they hadn't been used for centuries except in the isolated mountain regions of eastern Europe or the barrens of western Ireland. In those places, it's said, time doesn't stand still, it backpedals.

I don't mean to put the knock on professionalism; I'm a professional myself, and I care just as much about closing a case properly as Caleb does about closing a casket properly. I'd heard him complain about the up-and-comers in the trade before, but this time his tirade was different. It was tougher, and seemed to have some desperation to it. Usually Caleb wound down like an old watch, not this time.

"So, Caleb, apart from Bradley isn't a credit to his profession, what's really bothering you?" Even when I'm bored and exasperated, I can express concern and understanding. Cop training comes in handy sometimes. Nor am I totally immune to human despair. I know it when I see it.

Caleb sat down on the couch. He looked deflated. "Bradley has been killing my business," he said. Good pun from a guy who'd lost his sense of humor. "Have you noticed this year that official Metro business police, sewer workers, what-have-you killed in the line of duty, plus the paupers -- it goes to Bradley now. The paupers alone were enough to pay my taxes, more now with all the homeless in winter."

"No, I don't keep up on things like that."

"Every five years the business is tendered. Since my father's days, Hooton's always got the contract. Never a question. Remember when I did Mayor Tucker. We decorated the reposing room with posters from every election campaign he had won. Terrific memory picture; so powerful his protege got elected by a landslide.

"Bradley took my contract. Same price schedule, same everything, except he threw in a pre-service wine and cheese reception at every funeral. Free, he said, but I happen to know he has a kickback deal with the charities that do the in-lieu-of-flowers business, which more than makes up the cost of the wine and cheese."

I could see why Caleb was upset. "That's a big piece of your business, Caleb."

"Not the worst of it," he continued. "A few years ago Bradley got into what we call Grief Therapy. Everyone was doing a little of it, mostly to keep the lid on the family's emotions until they paid their bill, but not Bradley. He got a contract from the Board of Education to go around to schools and give kids Grief Therapy whenever one of their classmates got shot in a drive-by or run over at a cross-walk. The parents were impressed; Bradley made sure they were impressed. He sent pamphlets and videos home with the kids. Now the parents are throwing tremendous business his way because 'he shows true understanding of the trauma of loss, and the need to transform it into a growth experience.'" Here before me was a bitter, shattered man. "Maybe you should think about retiring, Caleb," I commiserated.

"Fat chance. I have, but I had some bad luck on a real estate deal."

"So?"

"So, I bought eighty acres of pasture up by Caledon. It took every nickel I could scrape together. My plan was to open a pet cemetery with the name, PerPETual Care, get it?"

I got it. I wanted to laugh. I needed to laugh. My good friend, Caleb, had whiffed up too many formaldehyde fumes. But I didn't. The look on his face -- damn, I thought he might be about to cry.

"Jesus, Caleb, what happened?"

"The pasture turned out to be an old landfill and the environment people wouldn't give me a license. Said it was too toxic. I mean, I ask you, what's going to hurt a bunch of dead dogs, cats, and parakeets?"

"Caleb, this is your home, your business. You put them on the line for a pet cemetery?" I was astounded; I'd always figured Caleb was sharper than this.

I let out some big air. "You were screwed, Pal."

"Bradley. That pressure rushed me into the deal without thinking. I blame him."

Two groups of people see things clearly at all times. Cops see things solely in terms of black and white -- not right and wrong like most people think; and undertakers see them solely in terms of dead and alive. Bradley was black and alive. This was the mix Caleb saw. To him it was as wrong as rigor mortis in a person with a heartbeat. I missed his vision then, anyway. Maybe cops don't see things so clearly after all.