Most Sincerely Dead

“Mr. Falon, you gotta believe me!” Al pleaded. “I didn’t have anything to do with that!”

“I’ll believe you soon enough,” I said. “If you don’t keep digging, I’m going start shooting your toes off one at a time.”

We were standing in the shadow of a steel plant along the lake in Indiana. A large sewer pipe the size of a man opened onto a stretch of sand. Twice a day, unbeknownst to the EPA, the plant forge purged chemicals into the lake. The chemicals came mixed with raw sewage in rhythmic pulses every few minutes for a half an hour, poisoning the lake and the stretch of sand on which we stood. One of the lampposts along the beach illuminated the area. The sand was a myriad of oily reds, greens and blues. Jerry and I wore plastic bags over our shoes.

I looked at my watch. Al was running late. He had dug about three and a half feet, up to his waist. I walked over to him.

“Get out.”

Al scrambled out, much to his relief. I pointed to Maria, John’s house woman, with the Walther.

“Get in.”

Maria walked over and stood handcuffed next to the shallow grave.

“Al, help her in.”

Al held her under her armpits and eased her into the hole.

“Sit,” I said to her.

She squatted on the backs of her legs. Her head came just above the sand. She hadn’t said a word since Jerry and I snatched her. We were standing in the backyard across the alley from John’s house, listening to a party going on, and wondering what our next move should be. Without John, there was no discipline, no guarding the rear approach. Maria fortuitously walked out to the alley to toss out a bag of garbage. We leaped from our hiding place, muffling and handcuffing her. She offered almost no resistance.

“Fill it in, Al,” I said.

Al hesitated.

“All the way?” he asked.

I pointed the Walther at him. “Up to the neck.”

Al moved in slow motion. He was trying to detach himself from his actions.

“I’m worried about your toes, Al.”

Al accelerated his pace. We had forced him into the trunk of the limo and driven him to a secluded slough in the southwest suburbs. When we let him out and threw the shovel at his feet, he was terrified enough to tell us everything he knew. Al knew a lot. Not even Lupo could have gotten to John without inside help. John had surrounded himself too densely with his Mexican gang. Al had turned Maria with Lupo’s cash. He had gotten close enough to her by being my driver. She had betrayed John: the woman who kept his home, slept with him, tended his wounds, nurtured his recovery from surgery, and administered his addiction to heroin.

Maria was covered to her neck.

“Tamp it down, Al,” I said, tiredly.

Al tamped the sand with the shovel and forced it down more tightly with his foot. He stepped away. Jerry walked over to Al and handcuffed his hands in front of him. He led him up the grassy slope next to the sewage pipe and forced him to sit. A distant flushing noise came from the pipe followed by some gurgling and then the sound of rushing water. I walked up the slope and stood on the pipe’s concrete housing that jutted out from the grassy hill. Maria was stretching her neck above the sand like someone with an uncomfortably tight collar. The weight of the sand against her chest was making her breathing labored.

The rushing sound came closer. Maria looked at me, squinting in the lamplight. She was beautiful. Her Indian face was bronze with high cheekbones and expressive, almond shaped eyes. She took a deep breath and began to sing. I was surprised. I would have expected some kind of totem chant, but the song was soft and light and pretty. I looked at Jerry standing behind Al, asking if maybe we shouldn’t grant a reprieve. He shook his head no.

Water burst from the pipe across the small stretch of sand. The force of the surge pushed her head back. Her eyes and her mouth were open in shock as the filthy water rushed through her sinuses. The liquid was colorfully slimy and quickly dispersed over the sand. Maria was desperately coughing. Steam rose from her head from the chemical burns.

When she recovered the first wave, she sang again, but her voice was strangled and desperate. I looked at Jerry again. He refused to look back at me. I could see the forty-five shaking in his hand.

The next wave hit her. Mucus burst from her nose as she tried desperately to breathe. Blood ran from her nose to her lip. This time she didn’t sing. Al began to cry. Jerry grimaced and waved away an odor in front of his face. Al had voided his bowels.

We watched the water flush over her long after she was dead. Her skin became discolored and shriveled from the chemicals. The sand had invaded her mouth and poured out in colorful streams with each washing over, making her look like a toy sausage grinder you push clay through. I walked over to Jerry and Al.

“Grab your shovel, Al.”

“No! No, please! No!”

I backhanded him hard across the face. “Shut up, you pimp!”

Al curled into a fetal position and whimpered.

“I think this is your lucky day, Al,” said Jerry. “Jack ain’t got the stomach for two. And right now, neither do I.”