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It takes a little digging, but I pull out a pair of worn Levis I haven’t worn in maybe ten or fifteen years. I take off my mailman costume for what I can only assume will be my last time. I toss it onto the bed and smile.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I say, standing there in my boxers and white knee-high tube socks. “But I ain’t gonna miss you at all.”
Grabbing the jeans, I slip into them, and go to button the waist. But man oh man do I have to suck in my gut or what. Gazing into the mirror over Joanne’s dressing table, I see my belly is spilling out.
“Time to get in some kind of shape,” I say aloud, as if hearing my own voice will seal the commitment.
I go into the closet, find a dark blue button down, which I put on, leaving the tails hanging out to better hide my beer belly. For shoes, I pull out a pair of old combat boots I’ve had since the 1980s when punk rock was all the rage. I blow the dust off them, slip them on and lace them up. Taking another look in the mirror, I don’t look half bad for a retired, middle-aged, mailman with a new lease on life in the form of stolen money, drugs, and a brand-new funeral home and casket business.
The car horn honks again. I can just picture red-faced Sean seated behind the wheel of his Volkswagen hatchback, his fist punching the steering column horn.
“What’s taking Bradley so long?” he’ll be saying. “It’s almost time to get a beer.”
Exiting the bedroom, I head for the front door, and grab my keyring. I detach all the keys I needed for work...keys to apartment complexes and mailboxes...and set them onto the little vestibule table. Like I said, I should have handed them in when I handed the boss the keys to the facility and the truck. I guess it was just one of those obvious things he shouldn’t have had to mention. I can just drive them back to the facility one day this week. Or maybe not. Something in the back of my mind tells me it can’t hurt to keep them around for a while.
Heading outside, I spot Sean’s gray Volkswagen parked at the top of the drive. Joanne has seated herself in the back. The shotgun seat is empty and waiting for me.
“’Bout time, Brad buddy,” Sean says not without a smile, as I get in. Then, “Say, don’t you look spiffy. What happened to Mr. Nerdy, Blend-in-With-the-Crowd, Bradley Jones? You trying to change your image?”
“I’m trying to keep up with my young wife,” I say, glancing at her over my shoulder.
“I have to say,” he says, “she is looking mighty tasty these days.”
Tasty...that’s my wife he’s talking about.
“Oops,” Sean says, slapping my thigh. “Sorry, Brad buddy. Slip of the ole tongue.”
“You’re such a charmer, Sean,” Jo says from behind us.
She’s clearly loving the attention. But I decide to let the comment slide.
Sean backs out of the driveway, throws the tranny in drive and motors towards the main road. It’s only when we’re speeding in the direction of the city do I notice that he’s got an open beer stored in the center console cup holder.
“Jesus, Sean,” I say, “you’re drinking and driving.”
“It’s all under control, Brad man,” he says.
“I can see that,” I say, shooting Joanne another glance over my shoulder.
“Oh, leave poor Sean alone,” she says. “He knows what he’s doing. He’s been drinking and driving for years, isn’t that right, Sean?”
He laughs, gazes into the rearview presumably to see if there’s a cop riding his tail. When he knows the coast is clear, he grabs his beer and steals a slug out of it.
“Hey, I’ve got a good one for you guys,” he says, wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “A cop pulls a guy over for suspected drunk driving. The cop opens the door, and the driver spills out onto the road. The cop says, ‘Holy shit, you're so drunk, you can't even walk!’ The drunk says, ‘No shit, that's why I took my car!’"
Joanne laughs. I don’t. By the time we enter the city, Sean has already finished his first beer and started on another.
The Fitzgerald Funeral Home is located in the Pine Hills district of the city. It’s where most of the State Workers live in some of the cutest, packed-together-like-sardines, bungalows you ever did see. Friends of mine grew up here and I can recall drinking beers in the basements of some of these homes back in the late seventies and early eighties. Those were the days.
We stand in the empty parking lot of the funeral home, which is a single-story ranch with a red brick facade. Sean stands at the entrance to the establishment, dressed like he always is in lose khakis, brown loafers, and a green sweater bearing an orange Keltic cross. His dyed black curly locks tremble in the wind.
“Behold your new life,” he says, proudly.
“At a place that caters to the dead,” I say.
“Are we going to remove the sign and change the name?” Joanne asks.
“My suggestion is to leave it,” he says. “This was a well-respected and established funeral home before they had no choice but to close their doors after the owners retired and none of the children showed interest in the business. The place comes with all the equipment required for modern embalming and more importantly, it also houses a cremation oven.”
“One problem,” I say. “We don’t know the first thing about embalming or cremating.”
Sean digs for a key in his pocket, uses it to unlock the door.
“Relax, Brad buddy,” he says. “I’ve got all the bases covered. I’ve got some good people coming in to handle the day-to-day operations. They’re being supplied by Carcov himself.”
“What kind of good people?” I ask, a little suspiciously.
He successfully unlocks the door and opens it. Turning to me.
“Good...people,” he says. “You gotta learn to trust me, Brad man. I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
“Darling,” Joanne says, “please don’t be critical of Sean’s every move. He is on our side and let’s also not forget that without him, none of this would be possible. Isn’t that right, Sean?”
“The Brad man will come around, Joanne,” he says stepping inside the building. “He’s just not used to being his own man. He’s used to being told what to do all the time. It could take some time.”
Is that what people have always thought of me? Brad the pushover? Step and fetch it, Brad?
I step inside and so does Joanne. For now, I’m ignoring Sean’s assessment of my, well let’s call it, cautious nature. What we’re about to engage in is an illegal activity, on top of the illegal activities we engaged in when Joanne killed the Perez brothers and together, we destroyed the bodies of evidence. I think I have a right to be cautious.
“What do you think?” Sean says. “Not only has our first shipment of MacDonald/Jones caskets arrived, but the place comes with all the original furniture. We don’t have to buy anything. We could put on a funeral today, right this very minute, if we had to.”
Joanne is positively beaming.
“I love it,” she says, as if she’s looking not at our new funeral parlor, but instead our new luxury home on Lake George. “I’ve been to a few funerals here, and I always thought this place was different from the usual darker settings since it has a lot of windows and so much natural light. It brings a kind of joy to the occasion, don’t you think, Sean? I mean, death is a natural part of life, so why shouldn’t it be a happy occasion?”
Sean claps his hands together. He’s also smiling up a storm.
“See, Brad buddy,” he says, “that’s why I love your wife so damned much. She’s a perpetual optimist.”
...death is a part of life. Why shouldn’t it be a happy occasion?...
Did my wife actually just say that? Until today...no scratch that...until this very minute, she hated even the mere thought of having to attend a wake or a funeral. She said it gave her the creeps and reminded her that she would have to die one day.
“Gee,” I say, “maybe we should paint the walls pink and green. Maybe pipe in some Beach Boys music and serve hors d’oeuvres and beers during our wakes.”
Sean locks eyes on mine, his face now deadly serious (if you’ll pardon the pun).
“You know what, Brad man,” he says, “I think you’re onto something here. We can bill ourselves as a completely new death experience.” He waves his hands in the air like he’s bringing attention to a slogan on an imaginary billboard. “When you wake with Fitzgerald, you wake up to some fun! Or something like that. Whadda you guys think?”
“I love it, Sean,” Joanne says. “You’re so...so...gifted.”
He presses his lips together.
“I try,” he says.
I think I’m about to puke.
We spend the next few minutes touring the two separate waking rooms, and then the connecting offices. Since the place actually served as a family residence once upon a time before being converted into a funeral home, there’s a full, eat-in kitchen outfitted with a microwave oven and one of those Keurig pod coffee makers. There’s a private bathroom for employees along with a men’s room and a lady’s room for the public, although Sean suggests we make them unisex since that’s more politically correct. How very woke of him.
Once the main floor tour is finished, he turns to us and says, “Now, I have a real treat for you guys.”
That’s when the front door opens, and a man walks in. He’s tall, very skinny, and maybe ten years older than us. His face is pale and thin, his cheeks concave. His head is eggshell bald and he’s wearing a black wool suit over a white button down, a long thin black necktie to match. His shoes are black Florsheims and although they are newly spit and polished, I can tell they’re at least ten years old. Maybe older.
“Karl,” Sean says, “right on time.”
The stone-faced man approaches us, his gait slow but deliberate. This might sound a little crazy, but he reminds me a lot of Lurch in the old Addams Family show from the sixties.
“Joanne and Bradley Jones,” Sean says, “I’d like you to meet our newest employee and General Manager of the new and improved Fitzgerald Funeral home, Karl...that’s Karl with a K like Karl Marx...Karl Anomaly.”
Is he serious? Karl’s last name is Anomaly? As in strange or odd?
He slowly raises his hand. Joanne shakes it. She tries to smile but I can tell she doesn’t like the feel of his hand. When I shake his hand, I can see why. His skin is cold. Almost like he’s a dead man himself. And here I thought we were about to make the new Fitzgerald Funeral Home a new, happy place to be. Like Chuck E Cheese for dead people.
“Karl has been in the business since we were in high school,” Sean says. “He comes highly recommended by Mr. Carcov, and he knows everything there is to know about sending the dead to the great beyond. If we lived in ancient Egyptian times, he would be considered a God, like Anubis or Isis, or whatever. Isn’t that right, Karl?”
“You are too kind, Mr. MacDonald,” he says in his deep, slow, Russian-accented voice. When he says Mister, it sounds like Meester.
“Karl can also be trusted,” Sean goes on. “I’ve taken the liberty of revealing our plan to him, and in a moment, he will put on a little demonstration of how we will succeed with it.”
I glance at Joanne. She catches my glance. She knows what I’m thinking. Shouldn’t Sean be checking with us first before he goes spilling the beans on our new laundering operation? She gives me a look like, Just go with it, will you please?
“Let’s head down to the basement and get the show on the road,” Sean says.
We go to a set of double doors located at the far end, “Employees Only,” portion of the home, adjacent to the kitchen. The doors open onto a freight elevator that’s big enough to fit a single casket and a couple of occupants. We pile in, close the metal accordion style door, and take the elevator one-story down into the basement. The accordion doors open automatically. Sean steps out and hits the lights. That’s when we get our first look at the beating heart of the Fitzgerald Funeral Home operation.
Set in the center of a battleship gray concrete floor, are two stainless steel tables like you might find inside a morgue. Embedded into the floor between both tables, is a round drain. In my mind, I can’t help but picture a whole bunch of blood pouring into that drain. To the right of the tables, the long wall is covered in stainless steel cabinets and a long counter. The cabinets are filled with all sorts of chemicals, and what also look to be tools for applying makeup and other supplies. A bunch of four-gallon, plastic translucent jugs are stacked up beside the counter. I’m guessing it’s embalming fluid. To the left of the tables is a big square machine that looks sort of like a pizza oven. It’s got to be the cremation oven.
We step into the room and only then do I notice the casket set on a portable gurney. It’s been positioned to the far side of the oven. I can’t help but notice the small white lettering printed on it. MacDonald/Jones Casket Co.
“Don’t be shy everyone,” Sean says. Then, turning to Karl. “Whaddaya got for us, big guy?”
Karl takes his place beside the casket. He is about to open the box and in turn, reveal what I imagine to be a pale-faced dead man. My stomach goes a little queasy at just the mere thought of seeing another dead guy up close and personal. But then, nothing can be as bad as the bodies of the Perez brothers and how we had to more or less scrape them off the ground and off their hotrod windshield.
I glance at Joanne. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest. She’s breathing normally, her sunglasses still covering her eyes. She doesn’t seem the least bit affected by the unveiling of a dead man.
Eyes back on Lurch/Karl.
He says in his low gravelly, Russian voice, “We have here deceased man who has no money, since he is street person. We kindly offer to provide funeral services for street person. It is gift to city that will look kindly upon us in how you say in America, long run. That is, should we ever require favor from big dogs in local government. That is how it is done in Moscow, da?”
“See that,” Sean interjects. “Always thinking. We are so, so lucky to have you on board, Karl buddy.” He extends his thumb, aims it at me over his shoulder. “As much as we love him, Bradley wouldn’t know the first thing about the funeral business, or any of the other businesses we’re getting into.”
“You’re right, buddy,” I say. “I wouldn’t. And I’m not sure I would want to.”
Sean just looks at me over his shoulder. Until he turns, slaps me on the arm and bursts out laughing.
“That’s my Brad buddy,” he says. “Always joking.”
As if on cue, we all turn back to Funeral Director Lurch. He’s most definitely not laughing. He clears his throat, as if it needs clearing. He also goes about opening the casket by unlatching the several closures on its side and at both its ends. When the lid is raised, we finally see the dead man. The sight of him is not shocking, so much as disturbing. First of all, he’s buck naked, which isn’t doing a whole lot for my stomach. His head is abruptly cocked over his right shoulder, as if someone called out his name at the very moment his heart stopped beating. The entire exposed side of his face is caved in, like gravity has a grudge against him.
His hands are folded over his genitals, but not hiding them entirely. His belly is bloated and flabby, and his legs are crooked and twig-like skinny. His fingernails and toenails are not only overly long, they’re the color of old, yellow Linoleum.
“What are we gonna do with him?” Joanne asks.
“It’s the crematorium for him,” Sean says. “Kinda excited to use the thing for the first time.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
Karl/Lurch eyes me.
“We do not have name,” he says. “Like many homeless and indigent persons, he has only reference number. Six dash One Seven Five. Reminds me of gulag.”
“God speed, Six dash One Seven Five,” I say.
It’s around that time that I start to smell something rancid. Joanne does too because she clothespins her nose and makes a sour face. I notice that Sean has taken on one of his shit eating grins. He has also locked eyes with Lurch.
“That rather nasty odor, my good friends and colleagues,” Sean says, “is what’s known in the business as a dead man’s fart.”
Again, Lurch is neither smiling nor frowning. He doesn’t seem the least bit affected by the nasty fart either.
“But he’s dead,” Joanne says. “How is it possible for him to...” She’s about to say fart, but she catches herself. “...How is it possible for him to...pass gas?” she says instead.
“Madame,” Lurch says, “all dead bodies continue to pass gas on occasion, even after the embalming process. As a human body deteriorates, it creates gas. Think of it this way. If you leave big piece of meat lying out in hot sun, eventually it will begin to rot and bloat because of gasses contained inside. That is precisely what’s happening with Mr. Six dash One Seven Five.”
Joanne says, “What would happen if we embalmed the poor soul instead of burning him up? Seems like he’s had such a hard life, maybe the least we can do is give him a sort of life in death, if you know what I mean. How long would his body last if we took care of him?”
Her question sparks a little curiosity in me.
“Since we’re going into the funeral business,” I say, “I’d like to know how long an embalmed body does last before it becomes dust.”
The question is tossed out to both Lurch and Sean.
“You wanna answer this one, Karl?” Sean asks. “Or do I?”
“I’m sure you can handle question, Mr. Sean,” Lurch growls.
Sean takes a step back and waves his hands in the direction of a stack of four-gallon jugs filled with pink fluid.
He says, “Once you drain the body and refill the veins with embalming fluid, which is a mixture of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, and several other solvents, the body’s natural degeneration not only slows, but it also practically ceases.”
“So how long can the body actually last?” I press.
“Ironically, about as long as your average lifespan,” Sean goes on. “If the quality of the casket is superb, unlike this one which is used for cremation purposes only, by around the fiftieth year your inner tissues will have turned to liquid and simply disappeared. But you still look pretty good, all things being relative. What’s left behind are mummified skin and tendons. But eventually, those too start to vanish. After 80 years, you’re pretty much down to the bones, but hey, you’ve had a hell of a run. Am I right?” He issues one of his belly laughs. Then, “Give it another ten years, the bones crack and fall apart. Ten or more years after that, they start turning to dust. Some of the bones will last seemingly forever, like the skull, the teeth, and the big bones like the femurs. But the littler ones will more than likely fade away.” He presses his lips together in a sort of satisfied, proud manner, like a college professor after a particularly poignant lecture. “Any questions?”
Joanne is staring at Six dash Seven One Five like he’s a member of the family who sadly kicked the bucket.
“Just seems a shame to burn him up after such a hard life,” she says. “It’s like we’re trying to erase his memory altogether. I mean, he doesn’t even have a real name.”
“Joanne,” Sean says, “this is no time to go soft. Remember, this body is not an end in itself, but a means to our end goals. Isn’t that right, Karl buddy?”
“Indeed, Mr. Sean,” he says.
“Now,” Sean goes on, happily rubbing the palms of his hands together like he’s about to sit down to a delicious meal, “what else do we have inside this MacDonald/Jones casket that might be of interest?”
That’s when Lurch reaches into the casket, slowly and methodically peels away the purple fabric lining, exposing dozens of plastic sandwich sized bags filled with brown powder. He also pulls an interior panel off the casket lid, exposing more bags.
“We need to remove body temporarily, to retrieve more product,” the tall Russian states.
“Is that our product?” Joanne asks. “The stuff we took off the Perez brothers. Because it sure doesn’t look like it.”
Sean shakes his head. “We’ve already sold that first cache of product for which we will soon be seeing our profits in the form of cold hard greenbacks. What you see here is our very first shipment of high-grade heroin, purchased with some of your available cash which we filled the casket with prior to picking up the body. All we had to do was drive the hearse into the inner city, pick up a load from our supplier, and pay him off.”
“Who’s our supplier?” I interject.
“Do you truly wish to know, Brad man?” Sean says. “It might be good for you and Joanne not to know specific details like that, just in case the worst happens.”
He’s got a point. The cops start asking questions, maybe it’s better I have no idea where he gets the drugs. Still, I’d like to know. I feel uncomfortable not knowing. I mean, what if the stuff isn’t high grade? What if it’s junk? Jesus, what if it ends up killing people?
Joanne looks at me. I know for certain the same questions are running through her heated brain. I also know what she’s about to say before she says it.
“Honey,” she says, “I think we need to trust Sean. If he believes we need to work on a need-to-know basis, at least for now, I think that’s what we should do. Isn’t that right, Sean?”
He nods. Karl/Lurch, on the other hand, shows no expression whatsoever. I’m starting to wonder if he’s alive. Maybe he’s a Russian zombie.
“Come on, Brad buddy,” Sean says, taking up his position at the head of the open casket. “Help me get our dead friend out of the box.”
My hesitation must be obvious. Because Sean adds, “You’re not afraid to get a little dirty, are you, buddy?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “Let’s roll this gurney over to one of the tables first.”
Together we move the casket over to one of the two empty tables. Sean is careful to lock the gurney wheels. He then shoves his bare hands under the body’s armpits. I take hold of the very cold and clammy legs.
“On three, buddy,” Sean says.
“Gotcha.”
“Three,” Sean says.
We lift the stiff, deadweight body and set it down on the table.
“There,” Sean goes on. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
The skin on my hands feels like it’s now diseased. Like it’s about to break out in open sores and pustules. But then, I guess it’s something that I should get used to if I want to own a funeral home. I guess I could inquire as to why Lurch doesn’t do the dirty work. But then, a little voice inside me says it’s probably better that I keep my trap shut.
Sean goes about tearing the rest of the lining out of the casket and retrieving more bags of product. When the casket is empty, he then makes his way to the opposite side of the embalming room, opens a metal door, and turns on the light. He re-emerges with a second casket which he rolls to the second table. He begins filling the casket with the product we’ve collected from the dead man’s casket. When he’s done, he asks me to help him put the dead guy back inside the now drug free casket. I reluctantly nod and proceed to get the grisly job done. He closes the lid on the box, locks the latches, then glances at his watch.
“They should be here by now,” he says.
As if on cue, I make out the abrupt sound of the elevator being called up.
“That will be them, Mr. Sean,” Lurch says.
“It better be,” Sean says. “Let’s hope it’s not the cops. Or worse, Juan Perez looking for his little brother’s money and drugs.”
He’s joking, but I can tell there’s an air of seriousness to his tone. Glancing at my wife, I can hardly believe what she proceeds to do. Reaching into her new leather purse, she pulls out her gun. She sees me looking at her, wide-eyed.
“Listen honey,” she says. “Better safe than sorry.”
“I must agree with Madame,” Lurch says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out what looks like an old-fashioned Colt .45 model 1911. I know this because I’m sort of a fan of guns. I don’t own any, other than the ones we stole from the Perez brothers, but if I did, it would be one just like Lurch’s. He holds the gun in his dominant hand, barrel aimed at the floor.
The elevator is now descending. Sean reaches around his back. Placing his hand under his sweater, he pulls out a small black snub-nose revolver.
Jesus, everyone is packing but me...
He looks a bit pensive, which does nothing for my already anxious state of mind. But by the time the descending elevator lands, I’m wishing I was packing a gun.
“Sean,” I say.
“Yes, Brad man.”
“When you get a chance, buy me a new pistol, please.”
“Consider it done, Brad buddy. You’ve got the money to get anything you want.”
“Make it a Colt .45 just like Karl’s.”
“Excellent choice, Mr. Jones,” Lurch comments.
The elevator car lands, and the accordion doors open.
“It’s okay all,” Sean says, his face once more full of smiles. “It’s just our guys.”
Two men are standing on the opposite sides of yet another casket. One of them is tall but heavyset if not portly, the other tall and slim. The tall slim one is a Black man. His head is shaved so smoothly, the overhead elevator lamp reflects off of it. Tall Fat Man is partially bald, with a ring of closely cropped blond hair that covers his lower head. His round face is shaved smooth and, like Sean, his complexion is red, as are the broken blood vessels in his pug nose. Clearly...and also like Sean...this man likes his booze. I peg them for late forty or early fifty somethings. Both men are wearing black suits, white shirts, and skinny black ties that match Lurch’s outfit precisely. Even the shoes are the same.
While everyone puts their guns away, the two men roll the casket to the second table.
“Joanne and Bradley Jones,” Sean barks, “I’d like you to meet your other two employees.” He points directly at the fat one. “That’s Jack Orr, with two Rs, like the old hockey player.” Jack doesn’t say Nice to meet you, or Hello, or Thanks for the opportunity to play an integral role in your new organization. He just sort of grunts, then forms a half-assed grin on his chubby, red, beer-soaked face.
Sean shifts his aim to the second man.
“And this is Jay Belle,” he says. “That’s B-E-L-L-E, like Southern belle.”
Jay Belle nods his head and smiles politely.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says.
I already like him better than Fat Jack.
“What do you have for us, gentlemen?” Sean goes on.
The two roll the new MacDonald/Jones casket in and stop next to the second empty embalming table. Using their feet, they lock the four gurney wheels, and then, working together, open the casket lid. What I see both takes me by surprise and at the same time, makes me happy. It’s money. And lots of it. Jack and Jay begin removing the stacks of bundled cash from the casket and proceed to stack it up neatly on the stainless-steel embalming table.
“That, my good partners in American crimes,” Sean says, proudly, “is the take on our very first sale of product. The Perez brothers’ product to be precise, but then, you already know that.”
I glance at Joanne. If I were a writer, I’d describe her expression as positively giddy with joy. Like a kid on Christmas morning.
“How much?” she says, going right for the jugular.
“Three hundred K and change,” Sean says.
“Oh goodie,” my wife says, clapping her hands together. “We’re going to be so rich, so quickly.”
“Not so fast, Jo,” I say.
“What?” she says. “Look at all that money, Bradley.”
“Listen,” I say. “I’m no businessman. I’m just a schmuck who wasted his best years working for the U.S. postal service. But I do know this: all that cash can’t be profit. So, what’s the net?”
Sean turns to me. But then he shifts his focus to Lurch.
“You have the final tally, Mr. Anomoly?”
The stone-faced Russian clears his throat.
“Ninety thousand,” he says. “After we consider cost of product, plus payments to Mr. Orr and Mr. Belle. My take and your take, of course, Mr. Sean.”
Joanne’s expression goes immediately south.
“That’s it?” she says. “Ninety thousand? It’ll take us years at that rate to get filthy rich.”
For a time, we all just stare at the money. If someone told me just a couple month ago that my annual salary was going to be increased to 90K, I would have been jumping for joy. Today, that number seems real paltry even though we made it in only one day.
“So how can we improve on our take?” I say. “Make more profit?”
“If you don’t mind my sharing opinion on this matter, Mr. Sean,” Lurch says.
“By all means, my Russian buddy,” Sean says. “We’re all friends here.” Then, giggling. “Well, maybe not Jack Orr.”
Jack scowls at Sean. He then locks eyes on me and offers up the same scowl. My guess is he hates the world. But I digress.
“There is one sure way to increase profits,” Lurch says in his Russian drawl, “and that is to cook our own product.”
“You mean like make the drugs ourselves?” I press.
“Da,” Russian Lurch says.
“But wouldn’t that cost us a pretty penny?” I say. “Kind of defeats the purpose.”
“Initial setup costs very high,” Lurch explains. “But once all is paid for, we collect pure profit from that point on.”
“But won’t the person or persons we’re buying from get a little angry that we’ve cut them out of the picture?” I ask.
“That’s the risk we run for more profits, buddy,” Sean says.
For a long beat, no one says a word.
Until finally I say, “Okay, Sean, who the hell are we buying our product from? I think it’s time you told Joanne and me.”
Sean purses his lips, glances at the two grunts, and then at Karl/Lurch. Finally, he eyes me and Joanne.
“You already know who we’re buying from,” he says. “We discussed it last week, Brad buddy.”
“Oh no,” I say, shooting my wife a glance.
But she just rolls her eyes, and grins sheepishly, like she knew the answer all along but was holding back.
“Don Juan Perez,” I say. “We’re buying from the man whose little brothers we killed.”