Prelude to a Dirge

Ray and his beloved guitar arrived at the cantina at half past eleven, both of them chauffeured by Rosa Moreno. That was a full hour later than he had promised his tía that he’d be there, and he couldn’t wait to tell her the reason.

Isabel, however, was in no mood for teasing. A rooster crowing at midnight had awakened her the night before, an omen that always cast a pall over the following day. And just that morning, the enchiladas she’d prepared as a main dish for the memorial buffet had not turned out as planned, which she knew to be a precursor of things going awry. With all the turmoil of the previous few days, she’d had no time to make her regular produce purchases and was forced to turn out a batch of red sauce without tomatillos. And, while she conceded that the subtle tang that the dish was lacking would scarcely be noticed by the funeral guests, she considered the unavoidable omission portentous, nonetheless.

Ray and Rosa were late, and preparations for the wake were falling perilously behind. As he expected, his beloved aunt greeted Ray with a tirade of half-meant aspersions.

“Where the hell have you been? As if I didn’t know.” She shot a quick but icy glance at Rosa. “It seems like I can’t depend on you for anything these days, mijo. You stay up past midnight. You sleep till noon. You don’t pick up after yourself. You let your hair grow long and shaggy, and you only shave when the mood hits you. Now this. You say that Freddy was your best friend, but then you’re too distracted to help with the preparations for his memorial. And your suit jacket is wrinkled. What is that about? I raised you better than this, Raymie. At least you remembered to bring your guitar. And why are you grinning like an idiot? You look like Ray Charles, grinning with those dark glasses on.”

“Because, Tía, I am going to make you take back all your angry words with one sentence.” Rosa turned her eyes to Ray and gave a knowing look that he could not catch, although he stuck by her side and clutched her arm for guidance. “We were busy.”

“I’m sure you were. Is that the magic sentence? Because if it is, it didn’t cut it.”

“I didn’t finish. We were busy taking care of our lost refugee.”

Isabel gaped. “You found Curtis?” she whispered, trying to contain her excitement. “Where was he? No, I mean, where is he now?”

“He found us. He showed up at the café right after you left, and, oh my, what a sight he was—or so Rosa told me. She said the little chistoso looked like he’d just taken the long way through a war zone, so we took the time to clean him up for the occasion. There now,” he stated smugly, “that’s why we’re late.”

“What the hell are you talking about, mijo?” Isabel demanded. “Just where is the boy?”

Ray cast a thumb backwards over his shoulder. “Back of Rosa’s car, Tía. Considering the story he told us about that lowlife hound Deputy Aycock, we didn’t think it was a good idea to leave him alone at the café.”

“All things considered, I suppose I might have done the same,” Isabel admitted reluctantly.

“Great minds think alike, Tía. So come and say hello; it’ll lift his spirits. He’s really fond of you. You know that, don’t you?” Ray told her.

“That’s just because he misses his mother, poor thing,” Isabel observed as they strode across the lot toward Rosa’s blue Fairlane. “That’s okay, though, because I have a strong feeling he’s going to be seeing her again real soon.”

The rear window rolled down as they approached, and a familiar voice rang out.

“Hola, señora! Me gusta en verla,” called Curtis.

Isabel peered into the back seat. There sat Curtis, looking rather dapper, dressed up in a clean white oxford cloth shirt, black bow tie, and neatly pressed black slacks.

“I am pleased to see you as well, chico.” She chuckled. “But where have you been? We were worried sick about you! And, Dios mío, what happened to your hair?” She suddenly noticed that his crown was as hairless as a billiard ball.

“I had a little run-in with the law again. Sorry I left the place a mess, but I had to leave in a hurry. And, as for my bald bean, just ask them,” Curtis replied, gesturing with his chin toward the grinning pair standing nearby.

“We couldn’t think of any way to change his appearance other than to shave his head,” Ray offered. “And we dug out some of my old clothes from when I used to bus tables at the café when I was a kid.”

“This is his disguise—Yul Brynner in a busboy’s uniform?”

“Hey!” Curtis protested.

“Don’t be offended, chico,” Isabel assured him. “Yul Brynner is a handsome man—very macho, in fact.”

“Okay, but I was thinking more like Woody Strode, maybe.” Curtis struck an exaggerated Charles Atlas pose.

“Por supuesto! Him too, of course. How could I have missed the obvious resemblance? Woody Strode is a wonderful actor and a fine figure of a man.”

Curtis’s face lit up.

“Anyway, back to the point,” Ray broke in. “We figured we could make him blend in with the kitchen help,” he explained. “That way we can keep a close watch on our little friend and protect him, if need be. That deputy’s got it in for Curtis, Tía. I hope he doesn’t show up here.”

“Anything is possible today, Raymie.” Isabel sighed as she rolled her dark eyes upward. “I have a bad feeling about this whole event, and hiding in plain sight is always risky. Still, at this point, I don’t see that we have any other choice.” She opened the car door and beckoned Curtis out. “C’mon, chico. Sounds like you’re the new dishwasher. And, when we get a minute,” she half whispered so only he could hear, “I need to have a word with you in private.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded with an easily detectable note of eagerness in his voice.

Once inside, Isabel introduced Curtis as a kitchen helper hired out of a Tucson temporary service. Manny and Maria accepted the story without question. Manny handed the boy a clean white apron and directed him to the dishwashing operation. Rosa noted that the pass-through order window from the kitchen enabled them to monitor the boy’s presence. Isabel added that other guests could notice him as well.

“I guess we can’t have it both ways,” she observed. “But, oh well, I’ve got to leave this all up to the Lord now, ’cause I sure can’t keep a handle on it anymore.” She literally threw up her hands and cast her face downwards. “It’s all too much—even for me.”

“I rather doubt that,” Dr. Morton interjected as he entered through the open front door.

“Where have you been, Jay Pee?” Isabel snapped as she whirled around, surprising even herself at her sudden familiarity with the doctor. “I expected you back here an hour ago. We still have a lot of setup to do.”

“I’ve been arguing with the undertaker here,” Jay Pee replied, taking the lady’s affectionate terseness right in stride. He gestured to a tall, gaunt figure in a rumpled black suit that he seemed to have in tow. “This is Harold Hackett, owner and operator of Peaceful Passage Mortuary. Hal, this is Señora Hightower, Freddy’s widow.”

Exuding a dreadful unguent of morbidity from head to toe, the mortician oiled his way across the floor and offered a limp-fish handshake to Isabel. “My sincerest condolences to the bereaved, señora,” he chanted mechanically in a raspy baritone voice. The unmistakable odor of formaldehyde hovered like a cloud about his presence. “We’ve spoken only by telephone, so now I know the pleasure I missed at not having had the enchanting experience of meeting with you in person. I only wish these terribly unfortunate circumstances were more favorable.” The dim lighting in the dining area created a certain dreadful shading effect that underscored the cavernous hollow beneath the mortician’s prominent cheek bones while somehow accentuating his rather appalling, almost luminous pallor. “Now, I must apologize for the unfortunate confusion I seem to have caused,” he croaked.

“What confusion?” Isabel demanded as she withdrew her hand from his clammy grasp. “What did you do with the body?”

“You needn’t worry about that.” He snickered nervously. “You will be pleased to know that the, um…that Mr. Hightower is resting peacefully parked out front in the rear compartment of my hearse—quite available, in fact.”

“In this heat? What are you thinking?”

“I left the motor running with the AC on, of course,” Hackett retorted. “No, the confusion I speak of involves the accessorizing of this solemn occasion.”

Isabel turned to Jay Pee. “What is he saying?”

“It seems that Hal couldn’t come up with the pine casket that you ordered over the phone for the viewing,” the doctor explained.

“The Peaceful Pathfinder model was a very tasteful choice,” Mr. Hackett chimed in, “but you must understand, señora, the combustible wooden casket line has enjoyed a phenomenal demand since the Church lifted its prohibition on cremation.” The mortician clasped his greasy hands as if he were beseeching forgiveness. “With such short notice, I’m afraid that a premium quality wooden casket will not be an option.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this on the phone on Monday, Mr. Hackett?” She rolled the h in her exaggerated Mexican accent, making a sound like the clearing of a larynx.

“I was certain that I could procure your choice at the time, but, as you can see, unforeseeable circumstances intervened. I am truly sorry for this lapse in service.” His voice broke on the end of the phrase.

“The short version of the story is this,” Jay Pee offered. “Hal here wanted to sell us a high-end replacement box for a mere twenty-five hundred. The hitch is that it can’t be used in the crematorium because it has metal components in its construction.”

“Ours is a highly regulated profession, señora,” the slender man rasped, wringing his sweaty hands.

“The gist is,” the doctor continued, “that we would be paying top dollar for a box that would be used as a prop for six hours tops. I couldn’t see doing that—even with someone else’s money. I suppose I should have let you decide, Isabel, but as a responsible executor, I had to say no way.”

“What choices are we left with in this mess?” Isabel sighed in exasperation.

“None, really,” Jay Pee answered. “Freddy’s out there in the cremation container.”

“In a cardboard box?” Isabel shrieked, horrified.

“Actually, it’s heavy-duty, multilayered, corrugated fiberboard with reinforced corners—quite durable and one hundred percent combustible,” the undertaker stated a little boastfully. “It is a simple but very tasteful vessel of departure, I assure you.”

“At this point, I suppose I should be thankful it’s not a fruit-packing crate,” the lady muttered. “No time for other options. Bring him in. Rosa, go get Manny and C…er, the Negro boy to help. We’ll see what we can do with this latest nightmare.”

“First,” the mortician declared, “there is the unpalatable but essential detail of payment for services.”

“Jay Pee, you didn’t pay the man yet?”

“Sorry,” Jay Pee responded, “I couldn’t make the call, and, technically, it requires a joint check with each of our signatures.”

Isabel quickly executed the check that Jay Pee produced and extended it to the undertaker.

“Here, Mr. Hackett. And…are you serious? Do you really hold corpses hostage until you’re paid?”

“You have no idea the kind of larceny I am subjected to in this business, dear señora. After all, when the remains have been converted, there is not much collateral to collect on. I am only following a policy that is standard in our industry, good credit status notwithstanding,” Hackett stated.

Isabel gaped at the undertaker but said nothing.

“I want to assure you, dear lady,” Hackett continued, “that your departed husband received the most thorough and painstaking restoration that my talents could provide. I administer to each of my subjects according to his or her individual needs. Did I mention that I mix my own preserving fluids? I find that the premixed fluids that are commercially available do not always address a subject’s distinctive rate of decomposition. Your husband, for example…”

“Please, spare me the grisly details, señor!” Isabel cried. “Have some respect for the grieving widow.”

“As you wish.” The undertaker sighed.

When the bearers brought the deceased into the cantina in his “vessel of departure,” it was worse than Isabel expected. “It looks like an oversized shoebox!” she cried. “And where is the pedestal? There was supposed to be a pedestal and a skirt.”

“The bier was part of the Peaceful Pathfinder package,” Hackett explained. “The judge here decided on the economy option—no appurtenances included.”

“Put it on the table over here,” Isabel directed. “Take that dreadful top off the thing. I swear, I expect there to be a giant pair of tennis shoes inside instead of a corpse!”

Hackett, the only one of the group not helping with the heft, shot forward and removed the cardboard box top the instant that the container was settled. The odor of embalming fluid wafted up, and there lay Freddy in the bare box, wearing a fine-looking, charcoal-gray, three-piece suit and a frozen Mona Lisa smile. The mortician flashed a similarly morbid smile at the first unveiling of his workmanship, then silently withdrew.

Isabel was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of him. The sutures on his eyelids were visibly apparent, the chin was outthrust—the result of his jaws being wired shut with a grotesque underbite—the thinning hair was slicked back with some cheap pomade, and the face makeup was overdone, with too much rouge on the cheeks. Indeed, he looked the very epitome of a cinematic, Universal Studios corpse, and yet Isabel sensed, too, a certain real animation that the man had demonstrated in life, ghoulish appearance notwithstanding.

Isabel turned away briefly and barked some more orders. “Manny, take the boy back to the kitchen. Jay Pee, please stow that awful box top in the back room. Ray, go and get set up next to the podium; your audio is already hooked up. Rosa, please go upstairs to the apartment and get a top sheet and a pillow from Freddy’s bed.” She turned back toward the corpse. “I want to be alone with him for a few moments.”

“May I be of any further assistance, señora?” inquired the undertaker, suddenly reappearing.

“No, you’ve done quite enough, thank you, Mr. Hackett.” Isabel growled.

“I hope you don’t mind if I stay for the fest…for the memorial, that is. The aroma from the kitchen smells heavenly.”

Isabel shot the mortician a look that could curdle milk.

“Of course, I was very fond of Mayor Hightower,” he added in thinly veiled recovery.

“You can stay and pay your respects,” Isabel conceded. “Besides, just in case some of your handiwork fails, I may need you to fix him—like if something breaks open or falls off. Just try to make yourself scarce. Some of the guests will probably bring children.”

“Excuse me?” Hackett wondered.

“We wouldn’t want them to have nightmares,” Isabel affirmed.

Hackett wandered off, shaking his head in wonder at her comment, and once the others had directed themselves to their appointed tasks, Isabel turned and began to gaze upon Alfredo Hightower lying in repose. It was his ghastly countenance that riveted her. The paralyzed facial muscles distorted his expression into an eerie rictus grin that seemed to be mocking her. Isabel shuddered briefly but regained her composure quickly.

“Freddy.” She smiled wryly and bent closer as if he could hear. “I see you’re doing your best to get some last-minute revenge on me. You should know that it will take more than a rooster crowing at midnight, a bad box, an evil smile, and a creepy mortician to vex me. So go ahead—do your damnedest. Anything short of you sitting up and pointing an accusing finger at me, I can take in stride—and you’re in no shape to do that. Besides, you have no righteous grievance with me, anyway. I only gave you what you deserved. You made an attempt on my mijo’s life; I took yours in return. It seems fair to me. When you think about it, the only difference between what I did and what you did is that I was successful. Why don’t you just relax and call it even? Enjoy this memorial service that I’ve arranged for you. People will come to celebrate your life, completely unaware of your dark side. All of your wealth will go to good causes in your name. I did this for you—for your memory. Okay—I get the side benefit of appearing saintly, the perfect grieving widow—which should dispel anyone’s suspicion of foul play on my part. As for you, you can rest peacefully knowing that your good name will never be tainted with the knowledge of your own murderous intent. Now, sleep well, little man. I have lots more work to do.”

With Rosa’s guidance, Ray had settled onto his stool beside the raised platform that served as a podium of sorts. Jay Pee caught sight of him from across the room, sitting by himself, tuning his guitar. The doctor took the opportunity to have a word with him alone.

“Hello, Ray. Mind if I pull up a chair?”

“Not at all, Dr. Mort—as long as you don’t mind if I keep tuning. This is a fairly new set of strings, and I have to keep working them,” Ray said.

“Don’t mind at all; pluck away,” Jay Pee said. “By the way, that’s a truly fine guitar you’ve got there.”

“Thanks—it is that.” Ray flashed his toothy Ray Charles grin. “It’s a Manual Rodriguez Junior—custom made. My tía bought it for me several years ago. Freddy used to call it my Man-Rod.”

“Very clever, that Freddy.” Jay Pee chuckled. “Speaking of which,” he continued, spotting the segue, “how are you holding up? I know you two were fast friends. He spoke of you often, and very fondly so.”

“I’m okay, I guess. Still pretty sad, really, but nothing like I was when I first heard. I was mad as hell.” He plucked a B string and adjusted the tension, twisting the tuning peg, modulating the pitch until it was a perfect third to the G string above it.

“Angry, huh? At whom?” Jay Pee asked.

“Sounds stupid, but at him.”

“At Freddy?”

“Yeah, him most of all—and at God, and at Tía, and even at Curtis.”

“Who’s Curtis?” Jay Pee wondered.

“Just a friend—you wouldn’t know him,” said Ray.

“Just to let you know, I’ve heard that it’s fairly common to be angry when someone you care about leaves you like that. It’s not exactly rational, but it happens. To be honest, I was somewhat pissed off myself when I found him. It was so unnecessary. He did it to himself, you know.”

“Yeah. Drank himself to death, I guess,” Ray speculated.

“Yes, something like that. And, now that I think about it, he was always fond of a drink, but it never really went to excess until the last few years.” Jay Pee fell silent and just shook his head for a moment before continuing. “There was something that was troubling him deeply, but he would never share what it was. I know his newfound friendship—or, rather, romance—with your aunt gave him great joy. But even so, the anxiety—and the drinking—never ceased.”

“You two were close friends, I take it,” Ray speculated, striking a high E.

“Good buddies since junior high school,” Jay Pee stated, proudly. “Actually, we were like brothers back then,” he said a little wistfully.

“Gee, I didn’t know,” Ray murmured.

“I digress,” said Jay Pee, composing himself. “I should save it for the eulogy. Are you planning to say a few words?” Jay Pee gestured toward the microphone, forgetting that Ray couldn’t see it.

“No, I’m the assigned musician for the event. Besides, I’m not that good with words,” Ray confessed.

“I’m sure your musical contribution will say it all. By the way, Ray, I’m wondering about your vision. Isabel tells me that you’re experiencing a relapse.”

“That’s right, Doc. It sort of comes and goes. Right now, it’s pretty much gone.”

“That must be very frustrating.”

“You can’t even imagine.” Ray shook his head. “You know, that’s something else I’m gonna miss about Freddy. He was always making jokes about my blindness.”

“Jokes—and you miss that?”

“Yeah, it made it seem less serious—made it hard to feel sorry for myself, you know?”

“Like you said,” Jay Pee replied, “I can’t even imagine. Well listen, I made some time to examine your eyes tomorrow, but you need to call my service to find out the exact time. Right now, it escapes me.”

“Sure thing, Doc. Thank you.”

Jay Pee rose to leave. “By the way, your high E is more than a little sharp.”

“I know. I’m just waiting for it to fall off. It’ll be flat by the end of the first song.”

“Nylon strings are a pain that way,” the doctor remarked as he started toward the bar.

“Hey, Dr. Mort!”

Jay Pee stopped in his tracks. “Yes, what is it?”

“Do you pick?” Ray asked.

“I fool around on an old twelve-string. Of course, I’m certainly not the virtuoso that you are—but yeah, I pick some.”

“Twelve-string, eh? Why don’t you bring it by sometime so we can do some jamming together—yes? C’mon, it would be good fun.”

“Yes…yes, I’d like that very much.” Jay Pee smiled. “I could use a little more music in my life—fun too.”

Rosa returned, dutifully carrying the white top sheet and pillow that Isabel had requested, but something more as well.

“I saw these dark blue curtains hanging in his room, and it struck me that we could fashion some kind of skirt with them if we drape them just right,” she offered hesitantly. “In the dark, they might appear to be black…well, almost black, anyway.”

“Hmm, yes. That was very resourceful, Rosa,” Isabel muttered as she held one of the dark cotton panels up to the cardboard casket, “but they’ll be too short if we use this table for a pedestal.”

“I saw some picnic tables out on the patio,” said Rosa. “One of those wooden benches would be the perfect height, I think.”

“Good!” Isabel agreed. “Go and grab one and set it over on the raised platform next to Ray’s setup. That’s where the presentation will be—to the left of that microphone stand/podium thing…whatever you call it.” She spied Manny serving Jay Pee a drink at the bar. She cupped her hands around her mouth and trumpeted for another group of recruits in monotone, as if through a megaphone: “Attention! You two at the bar—I need some strong backs to lift a corpse—but just a little one!”

Manny drafted the kitchen help again, including the hairless Negro fugitive otherwise known as Curtis, and Maria. The four descended upon the lifeless body like distant-family scavengers, hoisted Freddy upward, and placed him face-down on an adjacent table at Isabel’s direction.

The skeletal mortician, Mr. Hackett, materialized suddenly in his uncanny way with a look of horror on his dreadful face. “You must handle him with great care and gentleness,” he cried. “You might disturb his cavity seal!”

“As I said before,” Isabel stated firmly, “that’s why we kept you here, señor. If his poop dam springs a leak, you’re the professional plomero on call. Besides, if you hadn’t brought him here in a goddamn shoebox, we wouldn’t be in this mess, Harold Hackett.” It was a double throat thrasher, and apparent to everyone that the hard h’s were intentionally stressed by the queen of hyperbole. “So,” she continued unmercifully, “if you still want a place in the buffet line, I’d keep a low profile, unless and until we call you for your professional help.”

The macabre apparition bowed away and seemed to melt into the woodwork.

“Goddamn rooster,” Isabel murmured. “How the hell did we end up with that weirdo for a mortician, anyway?” she asked Jay Pee. “He gives me the creeps; he looks a lot like that spooky actor, John Carradine, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well, he’s the brother of the county coroner,” Jay Pee informed her. “I try to steer business his way when it’s within my influence. Makes it easier to ask favors of his brother—such as his waiver of an autopsy and toxicology examination in Freddy’s case. You know, it occurs to me that you might want to ease up on him a little, Isabel—at least until Freddy hits the happy-trails bakery tonight.”

“Uh…okay. Sure. Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

“You were fine up to this point. I wouldn’t want the Hackett brothers to get too smug either. That’s why I didn’t let him take us to the cleaners on that whole casket swindle. Besides, I think you’re okay as long as his olfactory sense continues to possess him.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got him eating out of your hand—almost literally.” Jay Pee chuckled.

“The food…yes. And I’m worried about the food, Jay Pee. Do you think there’ll be enough?”

“Between you and Manny, I think you’ve made plenty for all the guests, with enough left over to feed the starving hordes of the world.”

“What’s that smell?” Isabel wondered aloud.

“Empeñadas?” Jay Pee guessed.

“No, it smells like rubbing alcohol.”

“Probably Freddy,” Jay Pee mused. “He always smelled like alcohol to me.”

“How’s this, señora?” Rosa interjected, pointing to her arrangement of the sheet and pillow in the box. She had also quite tastefully attached one of the curtain panels with a stapler she’d purloined from a cashier’s station.

“That’s fine, Rosa; thank you very much. Everybody else, put Freddy back in his box and carry him over to that bench that Rosa set up over there on the stage,” Isabel directed.

The others who had lingered there did as they were instructed. As they hefted Freddy and his “vessel of departure” over to the stage, Jay Pee took a sudden interest in the Woody Strode look-alike on the opposite side of the box—the one who’d been hired as temporary kitchen help.

“Hey there, son—your name wouldn’t happen to be Curtis, would it?”

Taken by surprise, the boy responded reflexively. “Yes, sir! But, hey, how did you know that?”

“Just a hunch.” Jay Pee chuckled. “They call me Dr. Mort, but don’t you worry about me; I’m on the good guys’ team. Your secret’s safe with me.”