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

I pieced together the rest of the story from Caleb's statement after his arrest. Back when Caleb was learning the trade at his father's knee, his father showed him one of the tricks of the trade to be used when local wise guys wanted someone looked after without a trace. This was the classic "over and under" casket. I knew they existed, Caleb had once shown me one. The end of the casket is hinged, dropping down like a trapdoor when a hidden latch is flipped. Running the length of the interior is a partition with enough space, over and under, for two bodies. The lid could be opened for viewing and the top body would be someone's bona fide dear departed, which meant, obviously, the bottom space was reserved for a less than dear departed.

Caleb had one specially made for Bradley. It looked like solid mahogany polished to a rich luster; the rails and handles looked like solid brass, but it was all plastic. Caleb even ordered re-usable rails for it.

As soon as he had the casket, Caleb sought out a lowlife of his acquaintance and struck a deal. The lowlife agreed to handle the matter in exchange for one of Caleb's vintage Caddie limos. It remained then to coordinate Bradley's demise with the arrival at Caleb's of a fairly light body. Two bodies weighing just so would pick up the weight difference between plastic and mahogany but not be so heavy as to make the pall bearers suspicious.

On a Wednesday shortly after arrangements were in place, old Gus Simone, the skinny little guy who ran our local fruit and vegetable store, dropped dead while stocking shelves. Thursday morning L.L. Bradley disappeared on his way to a pickup at the downtown morgue. Thursday afternoon the lowlife had his vintage Caddie in a body shop getting it repainted robin's egg blue.

Gus Simone's funeral was Saturday morning. I'd been up all Friday night because one of the cases I was working broke, and we needed paperwork completed for Monday morning arraignments. Tired as I was, my family had shopped regularly at Gus' for two generations and I had to make an appearance at his funeral. I got there a little late and it was standing room only. Gus had a lot of relatives and friends.

Even from the back of the cathedral, that casket was impressive. Caleb had had to go an extra mile to get Gus' mother to take it. She was old country, dressing all in black even when she wasn't mourning something, and she was tight with a dollar. I could picture the scene:

"Itsa too much money even if I love my boy dearly," she would have protested.

"For Gus, I give you a deep cut discount. You can be as proud of him in his passing as in his living."

"The bread man says things like that and then hands us day-old."

"I don't do day-old. You know that; you've known me since I was a boy. You knew my father, bless his memory, and I am my father's son. For a mother's son I'll give you my lowest price." She would have groused long enough for appearances, then given in.

If the cathedral hadn't had so many steps down to the street, everything probably would have been tickety-boo for Caleb, at least so far as getting rid of Bradley. But it did and everything wasn't.

I was down on the street when the procession came out the cathedral's massive double doors. I have to say that casket belonged. It would have looked like overkill coming out of a small church. This was a true Catholic casket, as powerful a memory picture as Mass at St. Peters.

The pall bearers were burly enough to handle it easily, even with Mother Simone kind of hanging on to the back of it weeping and wailing. Maybe she caused the problem. Whatever it was, just as the first pall bearer touched the third step down, both detachable rails came off the casket. It plummeted like a bobsled down an icy chute, bouncing off every step to the sidewalk. The pall bearers just stood there stunned, holding on to the rails. I managed to get out of the way before the casket reached the sidewalk, but as it split apart some of the plastic bits and pieces still hit me.

There's Bradley lying on the sidewalk; fresh and firm, the feature setting exquisite. Maybe Caleb hated the guy, but he had still done him justice. He looked so alive, if he'd winked at me, I'd have winked back. He'd have had to be quick, because in a flash all of the Simones were screaming, wailing and rolling around. Mother Simone fainted flat out beside Bradley, causing even more stir because everyone thought she was having a heart attack. She was.

Now, in unctuous undertaker fashion, Caleb may have been able to smooth over the whole incident. I'd a lot of faith in his professionalism. But, dammit, he didn't. Instead, he just stood there looking down at the shattered casket, pointing at it, kicking pieces around, repeating, "Just what you'd expect from cheap plastic." I was the only cop there, so I had to make the collar. I knew in my gut that Caleb understood.


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Art Montague is a Canadian writer who has recently revived his writing career. His fiction has been published in Plots With Guns, Peridot Books, Lovewords, and HandHeldCrime. He is also a contributing editor for the upcoming e-zine, E-This!