v morozilʹnuyu kameru,” Brady said.
“What? Yazanoo otretom chellovecce moro seal juno caeroo?” The kid tried, but got it all wrong.
“YA znayu ob etom cheloveke v morozilʹnuyu kameru,” Brady repeated.
They went back and forth another three or four times but finally the kid got it right. “YA znayu ob etom cheloveke v morozilʹnuyu kameru.”
Russian for I know about the man in the freezer.
“Igor?” Brady’s voice carried far into the back. “Igor?” Even louder.
Igor, reeking of cigar smoke, stepped behind the counter through the swinging door. He looked at Brady, then at the kid, puzzled.
“YA znayu ob etom cheloveke v morozilʹnuyu kameru.” The kid spoke slow and clear, remembering every syllable.
Igor stared at him in disbelief.
Brady nodded encouragingly at the kid, then took a couple of steps back.
“YA znayu ob etom cheloveke v morozilʹnuyu kameru,” the kid repeated, even slower this time.
Igor’s right hand parted the curtain below the counter. He reached blindly, never taking his eyes of the kid. He stood erect, balanced with his weight slightly forward, and pulled the trigger. Twice. The explosions occurred so quickly, they could have been one shot. The kid dropped without saying another word, a red shiny circle formed in the very middle of his chest. Two shots looked like one, that’s how accurate a shot Igor was. It wasn’t a through-and-through, there would be no clean up. The images that remained; the hue of the blood, the kid’s eyes staring off into nothing, the lighter display on the counter, the humming of the freezers, Igor’s breath coming in short spurts.
Igor hooked his large hands into the pits of the kid and pulled the body down the hallway. Brady reached for the kid’s car keys on the counter.
Out in the dark parking lot, the kid’s fiery Mustang patiently waited. Compared to the old Bronco it was a definite improvement. The engine started with a moan, grumbled, then settled down, like a horse’s quivering haunches as they rock forward. A sleek flaming beauty it was, with muscles hidden underneath the shiny coat draped majestically over its frame.
Brady rolled down the window to better hear the engine. He had a vision of thundering hooves splitting the silence of the night and he imagined himself galloping through the bleak concrete landscape. He stepped on the gas and rolled through the parking lot, recognizing the Mustang’s natural canter and gait. In his peripheral vision Brady watched Igor hit the master light switch. The gas station was closed.
One determined tap with the foot and the Mustang propelled forward, powering across the lot. He pulled into traffic without thinking of where to go and what to do next, but he knew he wasn’t going to stop for anything.
When Brady hit the highway, he felt free. His knuckles, white like river rocks, stretched through his skin. He relaxed his hands. A new beginning, maybe up north; he’d never been beyond Arkansas. He felt sad thinking about the kid on the ground, dead, by now next to the other man in the freezer. He tried not to think of his clouded eyes.
He tapped the gas and the Mustang roared. It did what horses do once allowed to roam free; it joyously neighed into the night.
THE LIFE OF THE PARTY, by Mark Pryor
The invitation arrives on my birthday, as it does almost every year. That fact is pure chance but the irony is not lost on me: an invitation to the annual Austin Mortician’s Party reaching me on the forty-fifth anniversary of my birth.
In truth, I’m a little surprised to be invited this year. Not really, everyone gets to go, but for the past decade my business has been getting smaller and my financial circumstances are, you might say, becoming grave. Two national companies are fighting for territory and Austin’s not like it used to be. Small businesses everywhere are feeling the squeeze.
The only thing saving me has been the city’s expanding population, which means an uptick in, well, tickers not working.
My reputation, too, that is a life-saver. For me, I mean, life-saving in general isn’t my cup of tea, quite the opposite. But I’m known in south Austin as the reliable, red-headed undertaker in cowboy boots. I’m the guy who buries Austin’s old-school residents, the ones who want their man in black to wear cowboy boots as he powders their unbreathing noses and cotton-balls their sunken cheeks.
They don’t want the new breed of body-snatchers, the wing-tipped greasers from the east who paint and polish their plywood caskets and call them “heartwood,” as if the grieving can’t tell the difference between that and “hardwood.” They have their “eco” caskets, and charge a super-premium for “wrapped caskets” that are covered in pictures of the deceased person’s family, just like those tacky cars you see on the highway that advertise insurance or the latest protein powder.
Look, I’m all for making a buck, but someone needs to explain to the family interested in a wrapped casket that it’s about to be buried under six feet of earth. Since the dead fella inside isn’t enjoying the pictures, and no one on the surface is, you’re paying a couple extra grand for the viewing benefit of some worms.
No, I’m a traditionalist and I offer you the basics: three casket options, and my valuable time making your loved one look presentable for the viewing. And, as a traditionalist, I’m pleased that I am still an invitee to the Austin Mortician’s Party, despite my throw-back ideas and ideals.
My one worry is that I might get the hard sell. Rather, the hard buy. A couple of the larger outfits want me to sell my business to them and have been quite pushy about it. Polite inquiries turned into lengthy letters and a couple of months ago I got a visit from two men who wouldn’t identify exactly who they worked for. They came to my office on a Monday afternoon. One perched on the desk while the other stood looking out of the window.
“My boss doesn’t take no for an answer,” Mr. Perching-man said. He did all the talking for the two of them, which I found weird because he was also the muscly one. What was the other one there for?
“I’m not selling,” I told him. “I have no reason to, it’s all I know.”
“You’ll accept his offer, or we’ll give you a reason to.”
“You haven’t even said who your boss is!” I protested. I mean, what’s the point of threatening someone if you give them no idea who to be afraid of? “I’ve had several offers, you know.”
“Trying to negotiate now?” he asked, thick eyebrows rising.
“No, it’s true. But I’m not selling to you or anyone else. And I don’t appreciate being threatened.”
“No one ever does,” he said.
“I’m going to the Association. I won’t take this lying down, believe you me.”
He got up from the desk and ambled to the door, his partner following him. Before he let himself out, he turned and looked at me. “Lying down. That’s a good one. Very appropriate.”
I made that complaint and even called the police, but no one did anything about it.
* * * *
The
