The Wrong Goodbye

8.

“So how’s this work, exactly?” Gio asked, tucking his shirt into his dress pants and straightening his tie. “How’m I gonna help you find this guy?”

“When a Collector takes a mark’s soul, there’s this moment —a moment when that Collector experiences the lifetime of joy and sorrow, of happiness and regret, that brought the mark into their grasp. The thing is, that moment cuts both ways, which means that once it comes to pass, the collected can forever sense the presence of the person who collected them. That isn’t usually much of an issue, on account of once the collection happens, the collected’s dead, but in the rare instance a Collector makes a play and misses, it can make their second try a bitch. And if, after you’re collected, you’re unlucky enough to wind up a Collector yourself, that ability to sense the one who collected you never fades —it gnaws at you for all eternity.”

“Wait —you’re telling me I’m like some kind of asshole compass? That you’re gonna follow me to the dude who screwed us over?”

“I wish it were that simple,” I said. “But for you to sense Danny, we’re going to have to get you close to him. Which means we need to find out where he’s gone off to —and to do that, we need to figure out what he’s playing at.”

“How we gonna do that?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I’ve got an idea where we can start.”

“Well, let’s get going, then —we’re burnin’ daylight! I think it’s high time we made this fucker pay!”

I had nothing to say to that, so I just gritted my teeth and nodded. Truth be told, Gio’s enthusiasm made me feel like shit. He had no idea what I was about to drag him into. He had no idea he was only here because Danny’s plan to appease his Deliverants by getting me to inter his soul had failed. He had no idea that Danny would be as desperate to put him in the ground as I was to bury Varela.

He didn’t know because I didn’t tell him. Telling him would have only complicated matters, and matters were plenty complicated already. Besides, it wasn’t like telling him would’ve made a difference. Gio here was damned either way —the only question was whether he was going help me extract his pound of flesh before he went. And until that time came, I didn’t need him getting cute on me. So I didn’t tell him.

Keeping Gio in the dark was the right call —the smart play. But knowing that didn’t make me feel like any less a heel for doing it.

Just then, a whimpering alerted me to the fact that our mortician friend had awoken. He looked to have a pretty good goose-egg on his forehead from where he’d connected with the floor tiles, and as I watched, he collected himself into a ball and began rocking back and forth, knees hugged tight to his chest. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor six inches in front of his shoes, and he was muttering something to himself, though what it was, I couldn’t hear. A prayer, I suppose, if he were so inclined. Or it coulda been a grocery list.

“The hell’s the matter with him?” asked Gio.

“Cut him some slack,” I said. “Poor bastard’s had two corpses get up off his table in as many days.”

“Well, then, you’d think he’d be getting used to it by now.”

I approached Ethan, crouching down beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but he flinched nonetheless. “Listen, Ethan,” I said, in the sort of tone you might use to soothe a frightened child, “you did good. You honored your end of the deal, and now I’m going to honor mine. Me and Gio —er, Mr Frohman —are taking off, and my guess is, you’ll never see either of us again, OK?”

I don’t know if he heard me. I suppose it didn’t matter. I’d said my piece —and besides, once we were out of Ethan’s life, everything would eventually return to what, in the world of a mortician, passed for normal. That was more than you could say for either me or Gio here, a fact that went a long way toward blunting my sympathy and assuaging my guilt.

Gio, for his part, was busy struggling into the jacket of his burial suit —a jacket that, with the proper support, could’ve sheltered a family of four. Once he managed to squeeze himself into it, he sat down to pull on his shoes, grunting with exertion as he tried to reach his feet.

“Jesus, dude, it ain’t that I’m ungrateful for you bringing me back and all, but next time you find me a body, you think I could see something in a medium? I mean this guy’s freakin’ gaaah–”

At that last, he tossed his loafer to the floor in sudden fright, the intended end of his sentence forgotten. When the shoe hit the tiles, a fat orange-brown cockroach spilled out of it and skittered under the stainless steel mortuary table. Gio recovered quickly, blushing at his startlement and retrieving his errant loafer. I, on the other hand, did not. At the sight of the cockroach, a chill crawled up the length of my spine as though on spindly insect legs, and a cold sweat broke out across my face and neck.

“Hey, Captain Mumbles,” Gio yelled toward the fetal Ethan, full of false bluster now in compensation for his bout of fear, “what kind of funeral home are you runnin’ anyway? I mean, I know you keep dead bodies and shit in here, but can’t you fucking clean? You owe better to the folks that come through here than to bury ’em full a roach eggs.” Ethan didn’t reply —he just rocked and stared at nothing. “Hey, asshole,” Gio continued, “I’m talkin’ to you!”

“Leave him alone,” I said, my voice thin and tinny to my ears. “The roach wasn’t his fault. You want to blame somebody, you’re going to have to take it up with me.”

Gio balked at my admonition, wheeling toward me with an eye-roll and a derisive snort. “What, you moonlighting as his housekeeper?”

“Francis,” I said, my voice dripping quiet menace, “I’m telling you to drop it.”

Something in my tone must’ve convinced him, because the predatory smile that his chiding of Ethan had brought to his face faltered, and then disappeared altogether. He followed my gaze to the spot where the cockroach had disappeared from sight and stared at it with an expression like clouds gathering. “So that thing,” he said, his words devoid now of all humor, “it’s like some kinda bad guy or something?”

I shook my head, though my eyes never left the shadowy underside of the mortuary slab. “More like some kind of sign,” I replied.

“OK, then, a sign. But a sign of what?”

“A sign we’re running out of time.”

“Get your things,” I said, “we’re going.”

“Everything I got in the world right now, I’m wearing. Where the hell we going?”

I drew my thumb and forefinger across my lips as if to zip them, and then nodded toward the door, still staring at the spot on the floor where the cockroach had been. Truth be told, I didn’t know if it could understand what we were saying, or whether my reticence would delay my Deliverants’ pursuit either way. What I did know was that I wasn’t gagging for a repeat of the whole bugs-in-my-motel-room incident, so for now, discretion seemed the better part of valor.

Out in the driveway, Gio caught sight of Ethan’s tiny, ancient hatchback. “You’re kidding me, right? I seen Matchbox cars bigger than this thing. No way this dude you stuck me in is gonna fit inside that piece of shit.”

“Yeah, well, he’s going to have to, because it’s all we’ve got.”

He eyed the Fiesta up and down and shook his head in disbelief. I had to admit, the car didn’t look much larger than his Frohman-suit, and its faded blue exterior was flecked with enough rust to make me wonder if it was structurally sound enough to carry him. As we climbed into it, I heard him mutter something about clowns and sardines, but it was kind of hard to hear him over the squeaking of the shocks.

I thumbed the ignition, and nothing happened. I frowned, and tried again. Nothing still. Three tries later, the old girl sprung to life, but I guess my frown stayed put, because Gio clapped me on the shoulder and smiled.

“Hey, man, lighten up! We ain’t neither of us dead yet —we may as well have some fun while we’re here! ’Sides, you and me decked out in a coupla kick-ass suits, hunting down the shit-bag who killed me? We’re like the fucking Blues Brothers, man! We’re on a mission from God.”

I’ll admit, mob stooge or not, I felt sorry for the guy. Poor son of a bitch was wrong on so many counts, I didn’t even know where to start. So I didn’t. Didn’t bother to point out that he and I were dead already, or that if God was the one pulling our strings, He was a supreme deity with one sick sense of humor.

No, I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I shook my head at the damned man’s pointless optimism and threw the Fiesta into reverse, wincing as it labored backward into the quiet suburban street.