"A Metal Casket for Two"

by Mark L. Stinson


1:00 P.M. (Saturday) - I was relishing the lumps in my antique mattress when the phone rang. If my head hadn't felt three sizes too small for my brain and the pounding…a common side-effect of over-indulgence…hadn't been deafening, I wouldn't have answered it. I managed to grunt, "Hello?"

"Frank Tuddum, of Tuddum Investigations?"

"Yeah, that's me." I had a bad feeling. Nobody (not even my secretary) knew this number. It's not a smart thing for a man in my business.

"We have a job for you." The raspy voice on the other end of the line wasn't familiar.

"Who is this damnit?!"

There was a pause. "Mr. Tuddum, look out the window you're sitting at." I dove to the floor expecting to hear glass breaking, but the voice continued. "A contact will meet you in that alley in three hours. Be prompt."

"What? Wait a minute! Who is this?" There was a click. I struggled to my feet, my head in worse shape than before, and began removing last night's garments.

4:00 P.M. I felt refreshed. A cold shower and three shots of scotch does wonders for a headache. I was packing a shotgun under my overcoat and I was ready to use it. This was a little too mysterious for me. I wondered how many people I had made feel like this.

I walked into the alley half expecting not to walk out. A man who does specialty work like I do makes a lot of enemies over the years and I figured this was someone's try at erasing me from existence.

"Hello, Mr. Tuddum."

"To whom am I speaking?" I couldn't see where the voice was coming from. Somewhere in the shadows.

"Call me Vic, Frank. And don't worry, I have no intention of hurting you," answered the man in the shadows.

"Tell me the job. I can't stay here long. It's dangerous for me to show my face in the day. Cops and all, ya know?"

He laughed. "Frank, I am here representing many, many people who would like you to kill a man. An evil man. A many who wouldn't be missed by many."

"Who is this guy?" Then it hit me, "You don't mean the…" I couldn't say it.

"The Casketmaker, Frank, the Casketmaker. He's on the run from the mob. The bosses wanted an outside man for this one. You're their choice."

I had heard of his fall from favor. "Why should I? What do I get?"

Another chuckle. "We own a lot of people. What would you do to be able to stop running from the cops? Who wouldn't you kill to get the heat taken off you? I heard a vicious rumor that he Feds were going to get involved. This is your one chance to stay out of the slammer. How 'bout it, Frank?"

"O.K., I'll do it." I wish it had been anybody but the Casketmaker. He was a ruthless old man who had been in the employ of the Mafia since before the war. His profession was killing. He owned a funeral parlor and for the right price he would allow you to slip an extra body in the caskets. He only tolerated the defilement if the body was drugged and tied-alive. He was still only burying one dead man per coffin. Twisted, but it let him sleep at night. There was one other reason I hated to do it. He was my uncle.

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Tuddum. We'll start pulling strings as soon as we hear he's dead."

"Thank you, Vic. It's as good as done."

He stepped from the shadows and walked towards the open end of the alley. He turned. "This will make it easier, I think." He grimaced and tossed an envelope to the ground at my feet."

"Wait!" I yelled, but he was already gone. Remembering the envelope, I stooped down, picked it up and opened it. Inside were a series of photographs showing my uncle, Maxwell "Casketmaker" Tuddum, drugging, tying, and placing my father in a casket. "That Goddamn old man!" His life was forfeit. I was going to find him and release my anger. My father would be avenged. I had been told he had gone back to Italy.

6:30 P.M. I hate bars, and if ever a bar deserved to be hated, it was this one. All the scum of Chicago frequented it. "The Glass Gun" was the stomping ground of my uncle.

After getting hold of myself in the alley, I caught a bus and went over to a girl's apartment that my uncle had been making it with even before my aunt disappeared. I figured if he was anywhere, he was there. Right as I was about to kick the door in, I heard the phone ring inside. Betty, his mistress answered the phone.

"My God, Max where are you?…O.K….Yeah…The Glass Gun…Tonight?…Oh, right now? I heard her hang up the phone and come towards the door. I hid in the shadows and followed the hussy to the bar.

Here I was, watching her across the room from me, waiting for Maxwell to approach her. "Where is that S.O.B.?" I thought to myself.

I looked down into my glass of scotch and then glanced up. She was gone. Vanished. "Damn!" Pushing my way through the crowd, I ran for the door.

I ripped the door open and rushed out in time to see my uncle and his floosie tear off in his black hearse.

Boom! The bar erupted in a gout of flame and bricks. I was blown forward and smashed into the side of a taxi. There had been no screams. My uncle had been willing to kill all those people just to get rid of me. How had he known I was after him? This was not a time for contemplation. I ran around to the driver's side of the taxi, the side that wasn't burning. As I got there, the driver was just getting out. "Here's the keys, Bub. I ain't followin' nobody."

"Thanks, I'll return it." Who was I kidding. Insurance would replace his 'stolen' taxi.

"No hurry."

The wheels smoked as I tore away from the curb. The wind put the fires out and I was soon caught up with my uncle. "I'll get revenge, Father," I promised more to myself than to him.

Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. I followed that old man for what seemed forever. His coffin-mobile really could go and his driving was masterful. I nearly lost him three times. The word is 'nearly.'

He was old, nervous, and scared. And I guess the fact he couldn't lose me panicked him. It was this loss of control that must have caused his death. He turned down a dead-end alley and I followed.

Right when I expected his brake lights to come on and his car to come to a halt, he stomped on the gas and accelerated towards the brick wall in his path.

7:15 P.M. The car was half its original length, the front half of it unneatly shoved into the back half. AS soon as I jumped out of the cab, I knew he was dead, but he probably didn't even feel it. He didn't and couldn't pay for what he had done to my father, his brother. I spproached the car hoping the sight of his mangled body would appease my urge to kill. My anger needed a release.

"Frank. Frank Tuddum. Good job." It was the man from the alley, Vic. By his voice he must have been about 10 feet behind me. "Was it hard killing your own blood? Your own family? Probably as hard as it was for him."

I grunted to acknowledge I was listening.

"Here's money." I heard a briefcase being set on the hood of the taxi, "and I'll go clear you with the police right now." He turned to walk back to his car parked out in the street.

I whipped around, my shotgun throwing clouds of lead. "Don't bother, Vic. This one's on the house." He cursed once and then he was dead.

I left the money, the cab, and the bodies in the alley and walked away. I don't work for the mob. It's not a smart thing for a man in my business.

THE END