The Waiting Mortuary by L.V. Pires

Author:L.V. Pires [Pires, L.V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pangram Publishing
Published: 2018-08-09T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

Bash

That bastard!

Alfred’s nowhere to be found. I march from room-to-room looking for him. My face feels flushed and red with anger. It’s one thing to sit up all night watching the dead, but another to be lied to. The image of Mrs. Garrity’s dead body sprawled out on the ground sends another wave of heat pulsing through my veins. I take a deep breath. A part of me wants to have it out with him. Who does that? What kind of crazy old man throws a woman’s body into his backyard like it’s yesterday’s trash?

Just as I’ve got myself all worked up and ready to yell, I stop in my tracks as I realize this isn’t the time to get angry. This is an opportunity. A loaded chance to make some money. Five thousand dollars isn’t going to cut it this time. I’ve had enough of his war stories. If he wants me to keep quiet, he’s going to pay me more. A lot more.

“Where are you?” I call down the hall.

No answer.

“Hey, Alfred!” I take a step closer to his bedroom.

Suddenly, the door swings open.

“What?” He emerges out of breath.

“We need to talk.”

He lowers his gaze. The bruise on his cheek pulses blue. “About what?”

There have only been two times I’ve ever seen a shakedown done right. The first time, in a mobster flick I saw on TV and the second, by this thug at school who threatened a few kids on the football team who had been taking steroids. Shakedowns seem fairly straightforward. He’s either going to go for my terms or I go to the cops. The only thing that’s got me rattled is that gun. I twist around and see it still stashed in the cabinet against the wall behind me, so I say, “In the kitchen.”

Slowly, Alfred follows me as I head to the table and pull out a chair for him. “Have a seat,” I say.

He narrows his eyes and twists from left to right, examining his newly cleaned kitchen. “You’d do great in the military, son,” he says as he examines the countertops. “Never seen it this clean.”

I point to the chair, but he marches past it to the counter and cracks open a new bottle of whiskey. “You deserve a drink.”

“No.” I hold up my hands.

“Come on, boy. One drink won’t kill you.”

Actually, it might at this point.

Refusing to take no for an answer, Alfred pours the whiskey into a small cup and thrusts it into my hand. Then, he pours himself one and downs it. He pours again. “We should say something,” he says, holding up his cup. “I always like to toast whenever I can. Never know what day might be your last.”

I raise a curious brow.

“To the living,” he says.

It’s better than toasting to the dead. I tap my glass to his and take a drink. The whiskey burns its way down my throat. My ulcer kicks into high-gear. It’s now or never. “Why is Mrs. Garrity out back?”

He lowers his arm.

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