Текст книги "Blood And Bone"

Автор книги: William Lashner

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

He looked right, looked left, saw a figure walking down the dimly illuminated street and turning onto Juniper. Kyle hop-stepped cautiously toward Juniper, turned the corner like a spy, and saw the man heading north, toward City Hall. City Hall, where his father had plied his trade in the city’s courts. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then followed, quickly, hustling to get close, to get a view. His sneakers smacked against the cement as he got closer.

The man stopped, turned around. Kyle pulled up short as the man eyed him.

He was nobody, nothing, just a man walking down the street, fortysome years old with a dark shirt and a head of prematurely gray hair. The man cocked his head and then turned around and kept going.

And Kyle felt stuck there, right there, on the sidewalk, as if the rubber of his soles had melted onto the cement. He needed somebody to pry him loose, and he thought of Kat.

CHAPTER 5

AS HE WALKED east down Lombard, he saw her sitting on the steps of her apartment building, a converted brick town house just past Seventh Street. She was thin and tall, with lustrous black hair, tied back into a ponytail, wearing short shorts that showed off her long, athletic legs and a T-shirt two sizes too small. Had she been anyone else, Kyle would have been smitten on sight and fallen right into pickup mode. But she wasn’t someone else; she was Kat.

They had been friends for as long as Kyle could remember, growing up in the same working-class neighborhood outside Philadelphia. Kat was the brain with attitude and looks, Kyle was the superstar athlete. They had been friends too long to date, but even as they went out with other people, they were a unit, far closer to each other than to their ostensible partners. For a long time it had been assumed that Kat was secretly in love with Kyle, the big man on his high-school campus. Now it was assumed that Kyle was secretly in love with Kat, the rising legal eagle with the fat bank account and the glittering future. In truth, there was nothing secret about what they felt for each other and love was but a pallid word to describe it.

As he approached, she smiled wearily.

“You waiting up to tuck me in?” said Kyle, who’d been crashing at Kat’s place almost every night now, since Kyle was currently between places and had been since his childhood home had been seized by the bank a number of weeks back.

“I tried calling,” she said.

“I think I left my phone somewhere.”

She pulled his phone out of her pocket and tossed it at him. “Thanks,” he said. He flipped it open to check his messages. “It helps if you charge it,” she said.

He closed the phone, jammed it in his pocket, sat down beside her

on the stoop. “So why are you still up?”

“I was waiting for you. Is everything all right?”

He looked at her, saw the unwelcome maternal concern in her

eyes, turned away. “Word travels, I guess.”

“A bit, yeah. And it got me a bit worried. There’s a lot going on in

your life right now.”

“Is that the way it seems to you? Because to me it seems like there’s

nothing going on at all.”

“So really, how are you doing?”

“Just dandy. And yourself?”

“Fine, sweetie, but then I’m not the one still seeing my dead father

in the outfield.”

“You don’t have to. Yours is alive.”

“You sound like you resent it.”

“Sure. I resent everyone who’s not orphaned. The resentment is

about the only thing I have left in the world—that and my car. And it

doesn’t cost fifty a pop to fill up my resentment.”

“You’re a strapping twenty-six, hardly the image of the poor orphan boy.”

42 WILLIAM LASHNER

“But still, when you call me an orphan, you want to hold me in your arms and mother me, right?”

She reached a hand to his face, rubbed his cheek forcefully with her thumb, examined the smear of red there. “Looks like somebody beat me to it.”

“One of Skitch’s friends,” he said, unembarrassed.

“What happened to her?”

“She had to go back to New Jersey.”

“Ahh, a Jersey girl. And a friend of Skitch, so you know she’s a class act all the way.”

“She was nice. A teacher, I think.”

“You going to see her again?”

“Maybe, if I can remember her name.”

“But that’s why you drink, right? To forget.”

“I only had a few.” He sat, thinking for a moment. “And maybe a few after that.”

“It hadn’t happened in a while, had it?” she said.

“No, and then tonight I saw him twice.”

“Twice?”

“Again outside McGillin’s. I saw him, and I chased him down, and it was just some guy.”

“It’s always just some guy.”

“I know.”

“What are you hoping for when you chase these ghosts?”

“I don’t know. He was my dad. Maybe he can teach me the one thing I need to know.”

“What’s that?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need him.”

“Kyle, sweetheart, don’t be such a lummox.”

“How’s your dad doing?”

“He’s fine.”

“You see him a lot, right?”

“Once or twice a week.”

“What do you talk about?”

“You’re pathetic.”

“I know, but humor me.”

“We talk about stupid stuff. His kidneys. His golf scores. My sister’s husband.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s not like he’s relaying the meaning of life to me.”

“But you see, maybe he is. You’re just not listening carefully enough.”

“You know my dad—he’s more concerned with the meaning of his phone bill than the meaning of life.” She roughened her voice into a strong Korean accent. “ ‘What is this charge here? I don’t understand. Fees on top of fees. And don’t get me started on damn cable bill.’ ”

“Sounds lovely,” said Kyle. “So why were you calling?”

“To relay a message.”

“Oh, yeah? From who?”

“Bubba Jr. Were you supposed to be at the bar tonight?”

Kyle let his head drop between his shoulders. “Crap,” he said, in a calm, unconcerned voice. “I knew I was forgetting something. Maybe I should stroll on over there.”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “I think he fired you.”

“Fired me? He can’t fire me. I’m his shortstop.”

“Not anymore, honey,” she said. “Not anymore.”

CHAPTER 6

BUBBA’S BAR AND GRILL, just a few blocks away from Kat’s place, was a neighborhood joint in Queens Village, a corner tap on an obscure little corner that drew a clientele from a radius of four blocks or so. It was already late, close to closing time, and all that was left were the usual suspects who were always left at closing time. Junior was behind the bar, leaning on his elbows listening to Old Tommy Trapp rail on against something. Junior glanced up when Kyle entered the bar. His eyes glowed red for a second, and then he turned back to To m m y.

Kyle took a seat at the far end of the bar and waited. And waited. Junior was ignoring him, which was Junior’s right, considering how Kyle had screwed up. But what with meeting Skitch for drinks, and then getting all twisted up with that Jewish girl from Jersey, and then seeing his father for a second time in one night on the street, what with all of it, Junior had slipped from a priority to a nagging detail that he couldn’t quite remember. And long ago Kyle had decided that nagging details he couldn’t quite remember were best left ignored.

But now he had to make amends. Junior was playing it cool, but later he would be apoplectic, no doubt, his dark face darkening and spittle flying as he hurled invective upon Kyle’s broad shoulders. Then he’d sputter a bit and slow down, looking for Kyle to say something in his own defense. Should Kyle act all contrite, like what he’d done was the worst possible thing in the world? Or should he toss it off like it was no big deal, dude, but things got in the way, and tell Junior to stop sweating the small stuff? That’s the way he really felt, but he figured contrition was the way to go. As he sat at the bar, he put on the face of a penitent.

At one point, when Junior went into the back room for something, Old Tommy looked over and gaped his toothless smile. “You’re dumber than a dingo,” he said, “and that’s pretty damn dumb.”

“I know,” said Kyle.

“You get any at least?”

“A l it t le.”

“What the hell does that mean? You get laid, yes or no?” “No.”

“Dumber than a blue-balled dingo,” said Old Tommy, shaking his

head.

Finally Junior came out of the back room, wiped the bar a bit, and slowly made his way down to Kyle.

“I’m so sorry, dude,” said Kyle, his head hanging at an appropriately contrite angle. “No excuses, I just screwed up.”

“My daughter had a dance recital tonight,” said Junior with a scary calm. No loud words, no spittle. “I had to leave the party after it to cover for you. My daughter said, ‘Do you have to go, Daddy?’ ”

“That’s bad.”

“It was like being in the middle of a country-and-western song.”

“Welcome to my life.”

“I hate country-and-western songs.”

“Want me to close tonight?”

“No, Kyle.”

“How can I make it up?”

“You can’t.”

“Kat says you fired me.”

“I think you just fired yourself.”

“Dude.”

“This isn’t easy for me,” said Junior.

“From this side of the bar, it looks pretty damn easy.”

“Well, maybe it’s easier for me than it is for you. But this has been a long time coming.”

“Junior, we’re friends.”

“I know we are, but that has nothing to do with the bar. I need someone I can rely on here, someone who will show when he says he’ll show. To get someone like that, I need to guarantee hours, and the hours I’m going to guarantee him are yours.”

“Well, maybe until you find someone . . .”

“I have someone lined up already.”

“A lready?”

“She’s starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? That’s cold. It’s like you were just waiting for me to screw up.”

“If I was, I didn’t have to wait long. You know why my father hired you, Kyle?”

“Because I can hit.”

“No. Well, not only that. It’s because he cared about you.”

“I loved your father.”

“I know you did, and he felt the same way about you. He didn’t mind that the bar always needed cleaning the mornings after you worked. He didn’t mind that you were overly generous with the bar’s liquor. He didn’t mind that the till was never right, because he knew there was usually more in it than what was supposed to be there.”

“I would never steal from this place.”

“He knew that, Kyle. He explained to me that the reason there was too much cash in the till was that you cared so little about money you would sweep half your tips in with the rest of it.”

“I’ll keep better track if that’s what you want. And I’ll spend more time cleaning.”

“He hired you because he wanted to help you. And then after your mother died, that cemented it. He decided he would do everything he could for you.”

“He was a good man.”

“Yes he was, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe letting you slide in the job, come in when you wanted, do a lousy job, maybe that wasn’t helping you at all.”

“No, it was. He was right.”

“You’re too old for this, Kyle. Sloughing off work, stopping between first and second because you think you see your long-dead dad, taking pride in your irresponsibility. It’s enough already. All these years after my father first took you in, you’re still lost.”

“When did you become so damn grounded?”

“When my daughter was born. When I bought a house and got a mortgage wrapped around my throat. When my father died and left me the bar.”

“It’s a pity, dude.”

“No, it’s life. And I’m sorry, but this is the way it is.”

“Look, Junior, I’m working through things.”

“Then do it, and do it quickly. Come back after, and we’ll talk.”

“But I need the job, I need the money. I got nothing coming in without this.”

Junior looked at him for a moment and then went to the cash register. He pressed a button, the drawer popped open, he started counting out some bills. When he was done, he closed the drawer, walked over to Kyle, slapped the stack of bills on the bar.

“What’s that?” said Kyle.

“All those tips you didn’t collect. My father kept track, and after he died, so did I.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just take it.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“It’s your money, Kyle. We were just holding it, waiting until you needed it.”

“What about interest?”

“Take the damn money.”

Kyle hesitated a moment and then stood. He grabbed the stack of bills and, without counting it, stuffed it into his pocket.

“Stay in touch,” said Junior.

“Sure.”

“By the way, someone was in here earlier looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. A guy named O’Malley. He said if he didn’t see you here, he’d probably catch up with you at the funeral.”

“Funeral? What funeral?”

“A guy died name of Toth, he said. Something about him being your father’s partner.”

“Laszlo Toth?”

“That’s it.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. Shot through the heart in his office. A robbery.” “Wow.”

“Didn’t you read about it in the paper?”

“I haven’t looked at anything all weekend except the Cartoon Channel.”

“Your future is so bright. This O’Malley said the funeral’s tomorrow and that he’d see you there. I’ll tell you, this whole thing makes me glad my dad fitted that shotgun underneath the cash register. Someone comes in here looking for an easy mark, they’ll be pulling shot out of the corpse for a week.”

But Kyle wasn’t listening anymore to Bubba Jr. He was thinking about Laszlo Toth and his getting shot in the heart and about the funeral on Tuesday, and while he was thinking of it all he was smiling.

CHAPTER 7

NICE DAY FOR A FUNERAL,” said Detective Ramirez.

“For the corpse especially,” said Detective Henderson. “Sounds like you’re looking forward to it, old man.”

“Oh, I am, believe me,” said Henderson. “One day life is nothing

but worries, next day all those worries are gone, like a flock of finches flitting into the sky.”

“A flock of flitting finches?”

“Didn’t know I was a poet, did you?”

“Is that what you are?” said Detective Ramirez. “Because I’ve been wondering.”

They were a team, a single unit, Detectives Henderson and Ramirez. It didn’t matter that Henderson was tired and old, a burnout waiting for his full pension to vest so he could sit in his lawn chair and watch his tomatoes grow. Or that Ramirez was young and ambitious and disappointed in drawing Henderson as a partner after her meteoric rise to the Homicide Division. It didn’t matter that they came from different generations, listened to different music, viewed the world from entirely different perspectives. It didn’t matter whether they had gotten drunk together, because they hadn’t, or whether they liked each other, because they didn’t, or whether they respected each other, because they both expected they never would. It only mattered that they were partners.

“Widow looks cut up about it all,” said Ramirez.

“She didn’t seem as upset when we questioned her right after, did she?” said Detective Henderson.

“You think she’s faking?”

“Putting on a show. But then that’s only natural, foul play or no. What were they married, forty-five years? After all that time, love has degenerated into habit, and mostly the only thing that still glows bright is the hate.”

“How long you been married, Henderson?”

“Not quite that long, but we sure as hell are getting there.”

They were standing a bit back from the proceedings, dark glasses guarding their watchful eyes. The sun was bright, the sky lightly dotted with clouds, the air springtime fresh. It was a respectable crowd, not as large as some but enough of a turnout to know that the deceased, one Laszlo Toth, a victim of murder by gunshot, was a living, breathing person before he was a corpse. Beneath a blue canopy, sitting in the middle of a row of folding chairs set next to the freshly dug grave, the widow sobbed uncontrollably as the priest carried on about souls and forgiveness and eternity. Two old women were on either side of her. One, with dark hair and dark glasses and bright, overlipsticked lips, offered comfort as she patted the grieving widow’s hair. The other sat withered and twitching from palsy in a wheelchair but remained an imperious presence nonetheless. A factotum in a navy-blue suit stood behind the wheelchair, apparently ready to answer any whim as the woman gripped her black purse tightly and scanned the crowd.

“Look at the women sitting on either side of the wife,” said Detective Henderson. “It seems a little strange, them sitting there like that.”

“Why?”

“You’d think it would be the daughter comforting the mother, but she’s been shunted off to the side. These other two women have the place of honor. It might be interesting to know who they are. Any idea?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you should find out,” he said.

Detective Ramirez bristled. She never liked being given orders, and she especially didn’t like being given orders by a burnt piece of toast like Henderson. “This is a waste,” she said, turning her head away from the proceedings and scanning the empty landscape. “We should be on the street trying to catch the merchandise being moved.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that,” said Henderson. “And I’ve already given Robbery a heads-up on the missing items. But for now why don’t you find out who those old ladies might be.”

“You want me to go up and ask them?”

“People at a funeral love to talk. The only place better for learning who screwed whom is at a wedding. Just find someone who can’t wait to spill and you’ll get it all. Go on, now, before they start throwing dirt in that hole.”

Ramirez gave him a hard, canine look, like she was about to bark him up a tree, before thinking better of it and heading off to find someone talkative to talk to.

Ramirez didn’t want to spend her morning at a cemetery. She figured she had it figured, the whole murder-robbery of Laszlo Toth. A rear door accidentally left unlocked, a lawyer working late, an opportunity for mayhem. And the crime scene backed up her view. The wallet emptied, the victim’s prized Raymond Weil watch missing, files scattered, drawers rifled, a clutch of flat-screen computer monitors gone. Ramirez assumed that the killer would have taken the copy machine if he could have lifted it. To Ramirez’s way of thinking, getting a line on the gun and searching for the fenced screens or the watch, keeping constant lookout for the credit card to be used was the way to go, and they could do all that while working the other open files piling up on their desks. Scoping out the dead guy’s funeral was simply a lazy man’s way to pleasantly pass the time as he waited for retirement.

Henderson was lazy, he’d admit it, and he did like cemeteries, admired their peacefulness and fine greenery. And Henderson agreed with Ramirez that their being at the funeral was probably a waste of time. But something about the crime scene didn’t sit right in his stomach, and he wasn’t willing to let any opportunity to figure it out slip away. The murder and looting of the legal office was a bit too careful for a kid coming off the street with a gun in his belt and a habit to feed. In random robberies with drugs as the motive, the destruction often had a frenzied quality to it; the damage wrought here seemed controlled by comparison. And no one in the building could account for the door’s being unlocked, which made it seem that instead of its being a burglary, the killer might have been invited in by the dead lawyer. Maybe the lawyer was staying late just for the meeting. The victim’s wife said the broken fingers were the result of an accident, but Toth could have been threatened before he was killed. And what about the cuff link they found beneath Toth’s desk? The widow didn’t recognize it. What kind of drug-addled killer wore cuff links? But more than anything, Henderson couldn’t understand the peculiar pressure that was being placed on him to solve this thing quickly. The captain had called him in, told him the commissioner was getting heat from the mayor to climb on top of the Toth murder as soon as possible. Which meant the mayor was getting heat himself. That was a lot of pressure for a dead seventy-year-old lawyer facing financial troubles, all of which set Detective Henderson to wondering if there might not be more to this than Ramirez figured.

“I found an old man with Italian hands who couldn’t wait to tell me everything,” said Ramirez when she returned.

“Italian hands?”

“They were roamin’.”

Henderson chuckled.

“The woman on the right is a Mrs. Byrne. Her husband was Toth’s partner.”

“He died, what, fourteen years ago?”

“That’s right. Apparently the partners weren’t getting along at the end.”

“You don’t say.”

“Fighting about money.”

“They were lawyers. Of course they were fighting about money. That’s what being a lawyer is all about.”

“But there is something else. Byrne was supposed to have been quite the ladies’ man.”

“Maybe he stepped out with the Widow Toth, is that the word?” Henderson gave the widow a new and more interested look. Her sagging jowls, her arthritic hands. She might have been something at some time, but it was hard to still see it. “How’d Byrne die?”

“The man I was talking to didn’t know.”

“We’re going to have to find out, I suppose.”

“And the woman on the other side in the wheelchair? Get this, she is a Mrs. Truscott.”

“Truscott?”

“That’s right.”

“As in Senator Truscott?”

“The mother. Apparently an old friend of the family and client of the dead man.”

“Suddenly we know who’s pressuring the mayor.”

“Good. Now that that’s all settled, can we leave and do some real work?”

“Not until we do a drill.”

“Drill?”

“Take a look around and tell me, who doesn’t belong?”

“I don’t do drills. What is this, band practice? And don’t tell me you’re expecting the killer to show up at his victim’s funeral. The captain won’t want to hear we wasted the whole morning on that old saw.”

“Old saw, huh? How long you been in Homicide?”

“Long enough to know a waste of time when I’m in the middle of it.”

“Let me tell you, lady. Old saws still cut.”

“Okay, to humor you, and so we can get the hell out of here. Let’s start with who does belong. I see the daughter, who we spoke to already, sitting down beside that Mrs. Byrne.”

“Okay.”

“Her husband’s the thin guy standing behind her. The grandkids are standing with him.”

“Fine.”

“I see the two lawyers we questioned that were working at the firm. One has a woman with him, nice-looking, with expensive hair, wife or girlfriend probably, it doesn’t really matter. They’re standing there behind the family watching their future being buried.”

“Good.”

“And then a whole mess of old men and women saying good-bye. Friends from the old neighborhood, I would expect. And from the profession.”

“Nothing makes an old man feel better than someone else dying before him.”

“You sure do like funerals, don’t you, Henderson?”

“And nothing’s more deadly than an old friend, settling scores before the reaper reaps.”

“You speaking from experience?”

“We’ll check the condolence book they all signed, find the names of these old friends with scores to settle. But now look again. Who doesn’t belong?”

Ramirez scanned the entire scene. The priest, the crowd of old and young, the gravediggers off to the side, waiting to close up the hole. There were some other people milling in the distance, visiting the dear departed at other graves. Nothing stood out. Except maybe . . .

“Who’s that?” she said. “Standing back a bit, in the gray suit?”

“Don’t know,” said Henderson, the twist of a smile bending the corner of his sour mouth.

The man in the gray suit stood with his hands in his pockets, situated on a litt le rise behind t he main mass of mourners. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair was unkempt, his beard casually unshaven, his loose tie stylishly askew, his stance a leisurely contrapposto. His eyes were guarded by a pair of Ray-Bans, and he sported a strange, crooked smile, as if he were watching an amusing lounge act.

“He’s big, isn’t he?” said Henderson.

“Yes, he is.”

“And quite good-looking.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, no? Now, is that any way to start a partnership, lying at the outset? Someone that good-looking, everybody notices. But see how he’s standing close enough to keep his eye on the proceedings, yet not so close that anyone would start talking to him.”

“Maybe he’s just shy.”

“He doesn’t look shy,” said Henderson.

“Well, this is a sad situation,” said Detective Ramirez. “Poor boy is at a funeral, trying to hide his sorrow, and no one is making an effort to give him some of the human contact he clearly craves. I think I ought to head on over and offer the man my condolences.”

“You want me to tag along?”

Ramirez took another look at the man, pulled off her sunglasses, and tossed her hair. “No thanks. I think I can handle this cutie-pie all by my lonesome.”

CHAPTER 8

IF KYLE BYRNE collected comic books, Laszlo Toth’s funeral would have been Detective Comics number 27, the first appearance of the Batman. If Kyle Byrne collected baseball cards, it would have been a 1909 Honus Wagner tobacco special. But Kyle Byrne didn’t collect comic books, or baseball cards or stamps or coins or blown-glass figurines. What he collected were funerals. Of a certain type.

Every day, after stumbling out of Kat’s spare bedroom at about noon or so, scratching his stomach, emptying his bladder, and scrounging for loose Doritos scattered around the empty beer bottles or the bong on the living-room coffee table, he gathered up the pieces of the newspaper, turned swiftly to the obituaries, and hunkered down for some serious study. He was scanning for old men, born between 1935 and 1950, men in the legal profession who had practiced in Philadelphia. Then he checked their fields of expertise. He didn’t want dour corporate types, in-house hacks, he didn’t want government bureaucrats, didn’t want the bankruptcy or patent-law specialists with their cramped codes and closed fraternities. But if the dead old man had practiced criminal or personal-injury law, or even some insurance defense, then he might take a second look. And if he had an Irish surname or grew up in North Philly or graduated from Temple Law, then Kyle would rip out the obituary, circle the time and date listed for the funeral proceedings, and fill in another line on his very open schedule.

He owned one suit. Gray and single-breasted, the lapels quite narrow. He wore it only to the f unerals. It hung all alone in the closet of the spare bedroom. Open the door of the closet and there it was, his gray two-piece, solitary and limp, waiting for adventure like the Batsuit. Add to it a white shirt, a narrow black tie, a black belt, argyle socks, black shoes. And then, as safely anonymous as any superhero in his mask and cape, he’d head off to the funeral parlor or the cemetery chapel or the grave site that was listed in the obituary. Off to stand apart and breathe in the air of bereavement, take in the expressions of brave grief, watch the condolences pool together into a sea of sorrow and loss.

For a son, every funeral before his father’s death is a rehearsal and every funeral thereafter is a memorial. As Kyle Byrne stood among the mourners in his gray suit and watched body after body of old dead lawyers being lowered into the ground, lawyers whom in all likelihood his father had known, he felt as if he were standing in for his father. When he signed the condolence books, he always signed his father’s name, not his own, and felt a strange exultation. His mother was dead, his past was obliterated, his present was bleak and his future was deeply in doubt, but in these moments he felt a connection to his father that induced in him an undeniable joy.

Sure, it was a little morbid, but hell, everybody needs a hobby. That was why Toth’s funeral was so special. There was no wondering if his father had really known this dear departed, Toth was his partner. And it was Laszlo Toth who had expelled Kyle from his father’s own funeral, instigating the events that Kyle seemed to replay in his heart during every funeral thereafter and that remained, puzzlingly, the proudest moment in his life. Of all the funerals he had attended, or would attend in the future, the sad little affair at the grave site of Laszlo Toth would be, for Kyle Byrne, the large-size 1979 Empire Strikes Back Boba Fett action figure of funerals, which is to say pretty much the ultimate.

The tears came unbidden, but not unexpectedly. It was why he had worn sunglasses. In a way, as he watched the priest deliver his eulogy over the casket and as he watched the grieving Mrs. Toth be comforted by his father’s widow—a woman who still had never acknowledged Kyle’s existence except when she had pinched his face fourteen years ago—in that special moment he felt closer to his father than he ever had in his entire life. As he lifted his head and surveyed the burial fields, through teary eyes he thought he spotted a mop of gray hair in the distance, and the mirage, instead of feeling like a sick joke of some sad sort, seemed perfectly natural.

“Nice day for a funeral,” said a voice from beside him.

So lost was he in the distant vision and the swell of his emotions, Kyle hadn’t noticed the woman who had sidled up to him. Slowly he turned his head toward her, but even then he couldn’t quite focus on who she was and the words she had spoken.

“Huh?” he said.

“The day,” she said. “It’s nice. That’s all.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say so.”

She was pretty, actually, young and solid, with tawny skin, high cheekbones, and lovely brown eyes. And he liked her lips, full but not too thick. He wondered what they would taste like. And just that quick, the swell of emotions he had been feeling about his dead father were replaced with the swell of something more pressing. It might seem perverse, but Kyle had learned from his funeral hobby that nothing stirred a whole bouquet of hungers more than a hole in the ground.

“Were you crying?” she said.

“Uh, no,” he said, lifting his glasses with one hand and wiping his eyes with the back of the other. “Allergies.”

“It’s okay to cry, it’s a funeral. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Loss? What loss is that?”

“The deceased. Mr. Toth. I can see that you were close.”

“We weren’t, actually.”

“So you’re not a relative?”

“Not even distantly.”

“A f r iend?”

“Not exactly.”

“A friend of a friend?”

“You couldn’t really say that either.”

“So what are you doing here, just enjoying the day?”

“Yes, actually. You’re right, it is a lovely day. And who doesn’t enjoy a good funeral?”

“Is that what this is?”

“Well, I have to admit I’ve seen better. This one’s a little sparse on the attendance, and the words of remembrance are a tad generic, but the communal atmosphere has a certain piquant poignancy. I’d give it a solid six.”