“Naw,” Ruben said, “wasn’t real chatty.”
“These bodies,” David said, “will kill us both. Is what I’m trying to say.”
“We don’t got a return policy, Rabbi. So we either bury them or burn them. Which you want?”
“Who knows these bodies are here?”
“You,” Ruben said, “me, Miguel, and whoever fucking killed them.”
“You have any more pickups scheduled for this client?”
“Sunday morning,” Ruben said. “We meet in the same spot every time. Out in the Mojave.”
“What time?”
“Three thirty a.m.”
“Pack those bodies to go back.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“And I’m coming with you,” David said, “to inform them our business relationship does not include these fucking guys.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Ruben said.
“I don’t pay you to think,” David said.
“You don’t pay me,” Ruben said.
The last time David saw Ruben alone was inside this very exam room, a bag of bones representing Ronnie Cupertine’s wife and children between them, David telling him to drive to Oregon, dump them there. That must have been some drive. Turned out the bodies still had bullets from Matthew Drew’s gun in them, turning the ex–FBI agent into a fugitive, which was a good thing. If he wasn’t a fugitive, David would already be dead.
“You want money? Fine. I’ll bring you money.”
“You owe me an apology,” Ruben said.
David spent his entire life in the employ of criminals. Ruben was no different. He’d been banging until Bennie installed him at the funeral home. Problems always settled the alpha-dog way. Whoever was the baddest motherfucker, you did what he said. You wanted something different? You come for the crown. But you don’t ask for an apology.
“Christmas night,” Ruben said, “having dinner with my in-laws, right? Dan fucking Rather is talking about those bags you had me drop off. Telling me the FBI and the ATF and DEA were on that shit because those bodies were fucking Ronnie Cupertine’s missing wife and children. You know who the fuck Ronnie Cupertine is?”
“I am familiar,” David said.
“There’s fucking websites devoted to how that motherfucker kills people. They did an HBO documentary and shit. Dude from The Sopranos narrated it. Last four months, I’ve been waiting for some motherfuckers with tommy guns to light my house up. Dan Rather was talking about me. On fucking Christmas.”
“Keep your voice down,” David said.
“Who is gonna hear?” Ruben said. “Everyone here is dead.”
“Look,” David said, “you’re protected.”
“From The Family? They been in business since the 1800s. Where exactly is safe for me? They’re in the prisons, they’re on the streets, they’re in fucking government. How am I protected?” He inclined across the body. “And then there’s the fucking private detectives looking for information about Melanie Moss. The fuck, man. Every day, someone else has a question.”
“I understand you’re mad,” David said.
“I’m not mad,” Ruben said. “Mad would be normal. Mad is you lay off Miguel and now I’m working Tuesdays. Mad is you build this new assisted living place but don’t give me a raise. This is a whole other level.” Ruben stripped off his gloves. Yanked his scrubs off. “Did you do something to Melanie’s grave?”
“What?”
“Melanie’s grave. I went out there this week, put some flowers down, and it looked fresh.”
“I had to get something.”
“What the fuck could you possibly need from her grave?” David didn’t respond. Would never respond. You could put him on the fucking rack and he wouldn’t respond. “Fine. Fine. Maybe I call the cops, let them know someone is fucking with our graves. How about that?”
Miguel walked into the exam room just as David was about to take out his knife and stab Ruben in the eye. Miguel was just coming onto his shift, so he had a backpack with him, with a change of clothes, his lunch, and probably a couple paperbacks.
“Sorry I’m late,” Miguel said, setting his stuff down on a counter. “Got stuck on the Spaghetti Bowl for like twenty minutes. Always forget that my Monday is everyone else’s Saturday . . .” He looked up, saw that David and Ruben were poised like fighters in the middle of the room, a corpse between them.
“Oh,” Miguel said, “am I interrupting? I can come back, Rabbi.”
“You work for the rabbi or you work for me, Miguel?” Ruben asked.
He paused. “I guess I work for you, Ruben.”
“That’s right,” Ruben said, “so stay right here. This evening’s funeral is canceled. I’ll let the mourners know. While I’m gone, bag up Mr. Levy, put him back in the freezer. Turn the temperature down to 20 degrees on those units that have bodies.”
“That will make them too cold to work with easily,” Miguel said.
“Miguel,” Ruben said, “just do it.”
