{"id":16926,"date":"2021-09-24T05:00:33","date_gmt":"2021-09-24T09:00:33","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/?p=16926"},"modified":"2022-08-03T13:09:46","modified_gmt":"2022-08-03T17:09:46","slug":"hard-boiled-funeral","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/fiction\/hard-boiled-funeral\/","title":{"rendered":"Hard-Boiled Funeral"},"content":{"rendered":"

Larry died wheezing in early December, when it was cold enough to freeze your nuts off waiting for him to get underground, but just warm enough that the funeral director did nothing to keep bystanders comfortable, which might raise his overhead.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We, the men, didn\u2019t wear hats. Because Larry never wore hats. Never ever in a city where it was only occasionally bright. Cloudy with a chance of despair was the joke. If it rained, which it did a lot, his unlit cigar just got wet.<\/span><\/p>\n

He had a dismissive gesture, a wave of the arm that gave you a glimpse of his withered right hand, something that happened in Eastern Europe. Seeing it made you feel guilty, which he sometimes used to his advantage precisely by not drawing attention to what a creep you were for gawking at his hand.<\/span><\/p>\n

But on the subject of rain and cigars, he waved to no one in particular when he barked, \u201cWho gives a fuck if it\u2019s raining?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

One day in the newsroom, a long time ago, he made the gesture when religion editor Jerome argued for a Catholic story on the front page.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWho gives a fuck about the Catholics? Catholicism will be dead in thirty years,\u201d he said. Ally and Sarah laughed. Ally was Larry\u2019s No. 1. Sarah worked in features. \u201cI think that\u2019s a no,\u201d Ally told Jerome, who looked more horrified than surprised.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now Larry was dead and his people were burying him Catholic. Jerome knocked on the casket\u2014closed\u2014at the wake, and said, \u201cHey Larry, whose gone in thirty years?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe woulda liked that line,\u201d I said, hearing it delivered because my time with the casket was up next.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWho gives a fuck,\u201d Jerome said as tears welled up. He fought to hold them back because sentimentality in a religion editor only confirms other journos\u2019 suspicions.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back at the graveside, Larry was still dead. Incense burned and was wafted around, dirt got tossed in the grave.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow completely fucking inadequate,\u201d an investigations editor sotto vocce\u2019d, because investigative editors love to show off.<\/span><\/p>\n

The casket was lowered into the ground. The last pallbearer to place his gloves on the top of the case, a nephew, looked at them for a long time, slapped them in his hand. He and Larry went to ball games. Larry secretly bragged on the kid, couldn\u2019t help but mention that he\u2019d introduced the boy to single malt.<\/span><\/p>\n

At the reception, the paper\u2019s staff tried hard to steer clear of Larry\u2019s family, stood in the corner, told shocking, hilarious stories from life with him on the road, along with bitter ones from the executive suite. They tried to get really hammered early in the day, without anybody noticing. Their verdict on Larry: He was a journos\u2019 journo. A tough son of a bitch. A star in the field, a failure in the boardroom. A man with virtually no pity for anyone but lost souls.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t get with it, so much wasted anger in the guy, around the guy, but felt sad nonetheless. I\u2019d spent my career being an editor with a notable lack of major success or importance, and few allies in the newsroom. But that quirk in Larry that loved birds with broken wings must have seen something that appealed to him because he\u2019d drop by my desk now and then to recruit me for a quiet, late night drink in a way neither of us advertised and did my career no good. Standing there at the reception after Larry\u2019s funeral, in front of a help-yourself bar, I realized most of my adventures were really his, retold.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There was whisky from the Highlands and I was still stamping my feet from the frost, so I had one. It burned all the way down, chasing the cold out of my bones. I leaned my head back and exhaled.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ally was watching. \u201cJust takes one,\u201d she said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe would find that true and happy,\u201d I said, because the day you bury somebody every thought goes back to them, and also because I wanted to say something declarative that would discourage Ally, a fool without her Lear, from talking to me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The good news was a suit walked in about then. He and I had a nodding acquaintance, mistrustful somehow, but we had been out for a dinner arranged by Larry on a couple of the same nights. I tried to remember any detail, anything at all. His last name? Fitch. It was a start. The only other thing I could pull from my head was that he\u2019d been a government guy, one of ours, in some way in some Iron Curtain country a million years ago. He and Larry must have overlapped. They had that clubby international way about them. He offered me a refill, I accepted, and he gave himself a generous pour.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s take a walk,\u201d he said. He nodded to Ally, dismissing her. Fitch guided me upstairs to Larry\u2019s study, which smelled of leather and disintegrating paper and unwashed glasses. Neither of us wanted the desk chair so we got as far apart as possible on the couch that faced it and turned toward each other as well as we could.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m the executor,\u201d he said, \u201cand I need you to do a job for me.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I thought it would be trivial. But it turned out there money was involved, more than one should legally carry across international borders, in cash, destined for a woman and her son. They lived on a street full of apartment buildings made from poured concrete in a country that smelled like boiled meat. One of Larry\u2019s old haunts.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fitch wouldn\u2019t tell me the whole story of my mission. \u201cI only know what\u2019s in the will. And this job is what\u2019s in the will.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBecause you liked his stories, and he thought you needed to see the world.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, you\u2019re not telling me everything about why I\u2019m going because it\u2019s not in the will, but you are telling me why I got picked for the job\u2014so that must be in the will, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Fitch almost grinned, half-shrugged.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNow I get why he liked you, kid.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A week, three flights, a missed connection, and 40 hours in transit later, I was at her flat, jetlagged and rumpled. Fitch had been able to locate the woman and send some cryptic message like, \u201cExpect a visitor.\u201d What struck me when she opened the door were her eyes, complete ice, absolutely penetrating, so much so that I wondered if she wore silver blue contacts, or if those eyes had been surgically altered. An amazing face, the beauty crossed by lines earned through hard living and deprivation. I was getting ready to speak slowly and loud, as my people do when they meet a European, but she spoke first, in perfect standard American: \u201cYou\u2019re Larry\u2019s boy, yes? I\u2019m Vera.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Vera waved me into the flat, a worn place with wallpaper that would have looked fine in a 1980s\u00a0 sitcom. Pictures of the son, I presumed, but no sign of him living there. We sat at the kitchen table, where there was a big electric kettle. She made me sour instant coffee, offered me a cigarette. Yes on the coffee, no on the cigarette. She served me, then turned her chair 180 degrees from the table, sat down and crossed her legs.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s gone,\u201d she said, a question made to sound declarative. I nodded slightly. She lighted one of her cigarettes, took a monster drag, and blew out a long, long cloud of smoke. \u201cCrazy son of a bitch, Larry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI, uh, I\u2019ve got some money for you\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s bullshit,\u201d she said, the bull sounding like the \u201cbul\u201d in Kabul. \u201cI don\u2019t do that anymore.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She snuck a peek over at me. \u201cC\u2019mon, Larry\u2019s boy, don\u2019t look so heavy. I\u2019m just messin\u2019 with you.\u201d She smacked a hand on the table to wake me up. I took a big swallow of coffee.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, like I was saying, there\u2019s money. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions first.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Vera got up, looked out the window over the sink, peered up and down the street, and closed the curtains.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSuch as?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Larry always said the newspaper bureaus here in his day all seemed to come packed with gorgeous local female staff, and he said, in any office, if you looked around and found the prettiest lady, she was always the spy. Were you our paper\u2019s spy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Vera exhaled another smoke cloud. \u201cYou know that old joke you American guys have? I could tell you but I\u2019d have to kill you? Well, here it\u2019s not a joke.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She looked at me dead on with those eyes. It was like getting sliced with a laser.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou said something about money?\u201d she said.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I pulled out a briefcase, packed by Fitch, which I had unlocked but never opened as I got on and off planes across three countries and thousands of miles, my white American nerd look enough to get me by. It was that easy. I pulled the case onto the table, turned it toward her and said, \u201cOpen it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She did. There was a greeting card, and neat stacks of U.S. dollars, I could see from my vantage point. She opened the card, read it. Smiled, smoked, smiled, and wiped something from her eye. When she finished she put the letter down, and flipped the envelope to me. The front bore Larry\u2019s handwriting, unsteady but recognizably his. \u201cMy favorite spy,\u201d it read. Vera dabbed at her cheek.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t know exactly what I expected this trip to show me, but I\u2019m a lot sadder now.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She nodded. \u201cC\u2019mon, Larry\u2019s boy. Let\u2019s go get dinner. I\u2019ll tell you some stories about your boss. How he got that hand. I won\u2019t kill you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t have to do that\u2014dinner, I mean. I could go back to the hotel. I fly out tomorrow.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll the more reason to see something tonight. Besides, I\u2019m buying. I just became fucking rich, you know.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Back at the graveside, Larry was still dead. Incense burned and was wafted around, dirt got tossed in the grave.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":16949,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-16926","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-john-affleck"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16926","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16926"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16926\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16968,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16926\/revisions\/16968"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16949"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16926"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16926"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16926"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}