Fiction Portfolio

Dan Feuerbach
English 352
3-29-2006
Portfolio One
Chapter One
The green-copper eyes of the Sower watched over Lincoln like a stone guardian. It did this job everyday for seventy years and probably would for another seventy. The sower faced west and its green-copper eyes rested squarely upon Tanker Hill, fifteen miles away.
Everett Gibson stared right back at the glowing building. He was at the highest elevated point in the area, but his mood didn’t match.
His right hand held a small tube of paper with a glowing end. He paid a lot of money just to go to a hospital later. In his left hand he held the letter. He had been clutching it and carrying it and folding it and opening it since he got it last week. Wrinkled and blurred from sweating palms, it still carried the same message.
He crushed the fifteenth glowing filter under his foot as fog rolled over a hill far to the north and spilled into the city. Before he could finish the eighteenth tube the fog spread over everything. The capitol became a bright-dim blob in the distance and only the blinking red warning light at the base of the sower was clear.
Too bad, he thought, a plane crash would be a nice distraction.
Occasionally a wind would charge up the hill from the suburbs below. He didn’t notice; he just lit number nineteen.

Their weekly ritual was about to begin.
He pushed the doors open as far as they could go. This was probably the most action they’ve seen from a non-staff member in a week, he thought.
He carried the letter in his inside coat pocket like a secret. He could feel it pressing against his heart. He was not looking forward to this conversation.
The door creaked back into place and he strolled through the common area. The way between where he was and where he was going was littered with old people. Loud, wheezing coughs pierced his ear drums as oxygen tanks hissed at him. Some people stared at the wall with the intensity of a college football fanatic watching the big game. Some lay in beds with bleached sheets. Their mouths moved but no sound escaped as if they were drowning. These people didn’t bother him
The people in the room that knew him or his mother bothered him. Those people turned away, or coughed to distract themselves from him. Some scuttled away form him like roaches and a few squirmed uncomfortably and tried to look at anything else until he walked past.
Every time he came here this happened and he still couldn’t understand why. These people looked at him like he was the angel of death come to take them away. He wouldn’t kill any of them, probably; he would just simply make their frail forms presentable—as this crowd clearly needed—to the family (if living) and the friends (if any.)

The red, yellow, blue and green lights of the “airport” were floating pinpoints now. Every couple of seconds the spotlight would sweep over the area on its axis. He pulled out a new square box from his jacket. Turned it upside down, smashed it against his palm a few times, took off all the wrappers and foils and pulled out a new tube. He spit toward the search light and lit up, again.
After taking a drag, his mouth was invaded with the taste of burning cotton and rancid anus.
“Fuck!” he shouted at the disinterested grass and shrouded town.
He threw the burnt filter, brown tobacco and white paper as far as he could and tried again. This time he succeeded.

He paused a second in front of the khaki door in the evergreen-carpeted hallway, the letter in one pocket, a lighter in the other and a rose in his hand. He took a deep breath. He let it out and knocked on the door. This time the ritual was going to be a little different.
“Come in,” a feeble voice said on the other side.
He opened the door and saw his mother and forced himself to smile. It wasn’t a completely false smile, but the letter was good at detracting him from positive emotions.
She was sitting on her bed looking at a particular wall. On the particular wall were three particular pictures. There was a big picture of the farm he grew up on, the farm his parents ran most of their lives and the farm they had to sell when Everett left for college, Dad died, and Mom got old. He didn’t know who owned it now and he didn’t care. He wouldn’t go there anymore, there was no reason.
On the left of this picture hung his mother and father’s wedding picture and to the right was his graduation photo. This was usually how he found his mother every week.
She looked at her son and smiled back. It had been a week since the last time, which means it had been a week since anybody outside the home spoke to her.
“How are you, Everett?”
“Fine, Ma. How are you?”
“Hangin’ in there. How’s work?”
“It’s busy, Ma, same old same old. This is for you.”
He gave her the rose.
“Thank-you. This means so much to me. I’m so glad you came. You work so hard. You’re such a good son for coming to visit your mother.”
He laughed inaudibly at himself.
“Guess who’s coming to visit me next week?”
“Who?”
“Father Devorak. He took Dad’s Rosary to the Arch-bishop in Omaha to have it blessed. It already had been, but one more won’t hurt.”
“It most certainly will not. Are you ready for mass?” he was in a state of grace solely because of his mother.
She was always ready to go to St. Mary’s. It was her chance to get out and see something different. Everett didn’t particularly care for church, but it meant a lot to her.
He felt the thing growing in his chest and coming to his throat. It just needed to go a few more inches and then she would know.
“Before we go, there’s something I need to tell you.”
His heart began to pound.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I have to work late next Sunday, so I’m going to have to come see you on Saturday instead, is that okay?”
Damn it! He thought. It was almost out. Oh well. No reason to spoil mass for her, he thought. Besides, he could tell her afterwards.

The fog was pressing its attack more and more and it was pissing him off more and more. He could hardly see any lights now. The capitol’s flood lights shut off and only a tiny red speck under the invisible sower remained.
He wished he could be anybody else in the missing city before him, anybody else with anyone else’s problems. Hell, even that smack-head’s parents didn’t have it so bad compared to him. He removed the letter from its envelope and frowned at it. The letters mocked him, even though he couldn’t see it, he knew damn well what the letter said.
“Past due” it said. “One month remained” it said, time was running out before they kicked his mom out because he didn’t have enough money to keep her where she lived and the worst part was she didn’t even know.
If only he hadn’t gotten that pay cut. If only she could stay with him, he thought. If only he hadn’t rented the duplex with no wheelchair access. If only he could get out of his lease. He could find a place she could access and maybe get a live-in nurse. Then she could get more human contact and she would be safe. Then everything would be okay.
He put his face between his hands and sighed.

They drove down “O” Street and chatted about what he did this week, like they did every week. How Menke treated him and all the other mindless things people talk about to avoid silence.
Halfway to the church, they prove past a Planned Parenthood. When they came here, she lowered he head and made a sign of the cross.

Halfway through the pack and his lungs didn’t ache. His throat wasn’t dry. His mood wasn’t affected. He was putting hundreds of chemicals in his body trying to find some kind of solution or idea or plan, but instead found a small pile of tan cotton filters at his feet.
He stood up and started pacing. He thought for a moment about how much he smoked. He realized it didn’t help, but it didn’t hurt either, he thought. Well, his thought process at least.

After mass they went to the next part of the weekly ritual, which was just a regular as the mass they attended. He resolved in the car ride over that he would tell her as soon as they sat down and ordered.
He could see it now. As soon as the waitress left earshot, he would tell her. She would be upset, she’d cry and he shuddered at the thought.
By a miracle (no doubt their reward for going to church) they found a parking spot.
Old Chicago again. The waitress recognized them and instantly snapped on a plastic smile. She seated them and took their orders; a burger for him, a small salad for her. The waitress was promising how she’d be right back and he was getting that familiar feeling again. He thought he was about to vomit into his sweating palms.
The waitress left and so did his courage.
“Remember how Dad used to call biscuits and gravy ‘shit-on-a-shingle’?”
They both laughed. He could wait until after the meal, right?

He looked at his watch; it was three in the morning. He had to work tomorrow. He had to sleep tonight. He had to find a way to make extra money. He had to do something. He stood up and started pacing. The last scene of the day played out in his head.

Their weekly ritual always ended the same way and it always cut him like a razor blade dipped in rubbing alcohol.
After losing heart every time he was about to tell her, he remembered why it would be easier to try and find a quiet way of fixing the situation. After all, she was eighty three, she didn’t need anymore stress on her failing heart.
Visiting hours were almost over. He stood up from the uncomfortable maroon recliner he sat in every week.
“Ma, I had fun today,” he took look at the floor, then back at her, “but I have to go now.”
He couldn’t look away but he couldn’t look at her. Trapped in this middle zone again, he put on the stone face he earned after so many repeats of this event.
Her white hair became whiter than the sheets the bed-ridden patients decayed on. Her face turned stop-sign red as her already quiet voice got quieter and more broken. He blouse was suddenly dotted with salty drops from her tear ducts. The hoarse whisper sounded like she was about to die.
“Please. Don’t go. Stay.”
“Ma, I have to go. The nurse needs to give your medication and I’d just get in the way,” he said this as gently as possible, like talking to a child. He wished he could hold her until she felt better, until they felt better.
A new twist on this came when she grabbed his forearm and some of her tears sprinkled on his wrist.
“Please…”
“I’ll be back Saturday, I promise. I’ll be back. I always come back. I love you, Ma. I won’t abandon you, you know that.”
“Please…”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I swear. I love you, Mom. Good-bye.”
He kissed her on the enflamed cheek and turned around.
“I love you.”
He could feel her eyes watching him as he turned around and walked away. He could feel her eyes stab his back as he walked past his future paychecks. He could feel her eyes when he got in his car a drove away.

And he could feel her eyes on top of the hill when he smoked his last cigarette and looked at the letter. Paper shouldn’t control lives like this, he thought.
He flicked his last cigarette into the darkness and left for his car.

Chapter Two
Jenny Baldwin, age nineteen, died from a heroin overdose, a rarity in Lincoln. Her insides would consist of an exploded pump feeding into a spider web of ruptured veins, capillaries and arteries.
Dean Graham, thirty-seven, died of syphilis; his tissue could spread it to anybody who received the transplant.
Mark Ferguson drowned in a river, his body wasn’t found for eight days. He would be mostly soggy hamburger and flooded bones.
Harvey Kopelson tossed the donor profiles onto his desk. They scattered slightly on the glass protecting the dark oak of his favorite piece of furniture like brittle brown leaves. None of these potential products would sell.
The ligaments would be weakened by years of inactivity or the skin would be dry and leathery or the heart valves would pass a deadly disease or the bones would not hold up.
“Not enough healthy people die,” Kopelson muttered to himself.
People needed transplants. People needed his transplants. He needed a solid inventory of these investment goods. He needed arms for car crash victims and skin for burn victims, ligaments for athletes who landed the wrong way and heart valves for people who ate much pork.
He turned around in his leather chair to look out the window directly behind him. It was getting late. He could have left three hours ago. He should have told Bob to call him at home. It didn’t matter though. The good part about having no family is the freedom of not doing what anyone else wanted.
He tapped the butt of a pen on his desk. The call should be coming in any minute. Bob had something important to tell Kopelson. He flipped the pen around in his palm then clicked it so the point was exposed. He spun it again and clicked it again.
He rolled back over the transparent mat onto the sapphire Saxony carpet. He pulled the lower left hand drawer open and felt the smooth rollers practically open it for him. He pulled out a tin of Camel Exotic Blends— Ismar Stingers—and an ashtray from his trip to Munich for the transplant supply conference. He was supplier of that year.
He opened the windows in his office and counted his steps as he walked to the door.
“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one” he counted the steps from his desk to the door.
Fuck the ban, he thought. After the door was shut he lit up his cigarette.
He waited, staring out his window, counting pick-ups or SUVs, green cars or bikers, students or professionals.
He stamped his cigarette out into the tray when the phone rang, then he picked up the receiver. He knew who it was.
“Hey Bob, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad, how about yourself?”
His voice sounded affected, bordering on afraid.
“I’m alright. I’m just looking through the donor list for this month. Looks kind of on the diseased side. I’m not worried though, you know how it is. Hit or miss. Feast or famine. Next month will be better.”
“Well, Harvey, that’s what I called about.”
There was a pause. Kopelson did not expect good news.
“Tomorrow MedSupply is going out of business.”
Kopelson’s blood turned to ice. He reached for another cigarette.
“What do you mean?” he forced his composure, “your stock went up three points last quarter.”
“I’m ready to retire. I’ve had enough, selling these transplants to people who sell transplants. Going to families and asking for free fibulas and tendons, putting up the whole ‘they would have wanted it that way’ act, making a profit. And then there are the regulations that…”
“Donovan you stupid bastard. Do not do this to me. You supply me with a full third of my total inventory. If you drop out I’ll have to put my business on hold to find a new supplier. You can’t just do this to me. I can’t lose all that money.”
He stamped out one and lit up another.
“Are you smoking?”
“Don’t fucking change the topic, Donovan. What have you got left in your freezer? You have to let me pick and chose. I need more parts. I’m already under supplied as it is.”
“I sold most of my inventory to Benza Corp. this morning, tomorrow I make the official announcement. Don’t worry. BioServices will be fine.”
“You sold your shit to them? I have been a loyal customer for years.”
“They’ve been a loyal customer for longer, and in higher volume.”
“You stupid bastard.”
“Look, Harvey, I hate to do this to you, but it was time for me to get out.”
“You’re just going to walk away from this? You fucking Judas.”
“I’m going now. Good luck.”
“I’m not done yet Donovan.”
It was too late; Donovan’s voice was replaced with a dial tone.
He lit up again.
“Dick-less wonder,” Kopelson muttered to himself. He hoped Donovan could hear him.
He stood up to reach halfway across his desk and pick up the donor profiles. He threw them in the trashcan and sat down again.
The leather on his chair farted as he slid down. He closed the lower left hand drawer on his desk. He sat back up and grabbed his paperweight. A scarab encased in glass sitting in its coveted position right next to the first dollar he ever made with his business.
He tossed the half oval from hand to hand. Feeling the smooth surface and occasionally pulling the cigarette out of his mouth to flick ashes in the trey.
When he finished the last drag, feeling the heat of hot toxic tar pulled through the filter he stamped the last cigarette on hand into the ashtray, effectively making it a piece of garbage.
He went back over to his trashcan and picked up the manila envelopes. It shouldn’t hurt to take them home, besides, he thought, maybe there was something he missed.
He looked at the clock. Nine. Well what else could he do? He thought. He turned off the light, locked the door to his office and went to the elevator. He still had time and money to buy another pack. As for tomorrow, he thought, fuck it.
Chapter Three

The alarm clock called and Tom Menke responded. Out of bed and into the shower as quietly and quickly as he could.
He was soaped, shampooed and out before the shower could fully adjust to being turned on.
Four bodies in the Dungeon, three appointments with families and God knows how many orders for flowers, coffins, graves and vaults he would have to make before the day was over, he thought.
Into his suit, he buttoned as fast as he could, he zipped as quick as he could and he combed his black hair, parted on the left, and was ready to make his exit. He almost grabbed his keys off the oak dresser and paused to look at her.
Jenny was asleep and Menke was relieved. Curled into the comforter he smiled. Then he picked up his keys and went out the door.

Gibson was waiting when Menke arrived.
“Menke, you need to move closer. I beat you here every damned day.”
“You’re a whore.”
“Happy Monday, asshole,” Gibson said.
Into the door and over to the alarm system. He turned it off and turned around, Gibson was right behind him.
“What’s the plan today?”
“Well, we need to get at least two as close to done as possible. I have to meet with some families, the usual shit.”
Gibson went downstairs, Menke went to his office. Fifteen more minutes before the first family came in. He couldn’t remember who it was. He opened his appointment book.
“Jenny Baldwin,” he whispered to himself, “intravenous drug user, overdosed on heroin.”
This was a rarity, he thought, usually he dealt with natties (people who died of natural causes) and people who got in accidents. He saw a few suicides and even fewer OD’s. Usually it was meth, but variety is the spice of life, he thought, and death.
With the door shut he could hear Gibson’s music, he listened closely; he wasn’t quite sure what song it was.
You’ll work harder with a gun in your back
For a bowl of rice a day…
The family would be there any minute. He jogged over to the stairway that led to the Dungeon.
“Gibson! Turn that shit down,” he said, hoping the family wouldn’t walk in.
“What?” he responded from down the stairs.
He went double-time down the stairs to find Gibson leaning over a corpse, getting ready to reconstruct the face of the Chinese man who burned to death in his house in “T-town,” Gibson referred to the man as a “rice crispy.”
“Gibson turn that down, there’s a family coming any minute.”
“What you don’t like D.K.?”
Menke unplugged the CD player.
“Turn it down or off,” he said as went back up the stairs.
Something must have been wrong. Gibson usually listened to bands like Journey and Air Supply. Menke hadn’t heard that punk or metal or whatever it was since he gave Gibson his pay cut.

Just as he got to the top the front door opened and in stepped two haggard individuals. A woman and a man, she had the dark bags under her eyes, which were bloodshot from crying. She wore a tan pantsuit, old but it was still in style. There was some fraying around the edges but it still looked good on her. The man was wearing a black suit, like they all did, and he tightened his lips in an attempt to look strong.
“Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin?”
She didn’t say anything; he had to take the initiative.
“Yes, we had an appointment,” he said. His voice sounded like it had been hit by a semi. No doubt a result of finding out that not only was his daughter dead but a hardcore drug had killed her.
He put on his condoling face; dignified and strong, like he could lead them through the whole process. He stood straight and talked gently.
“We here at Menke and Son offer our deepest condolences and hope we can guide you through this difficult time in your life,” he said, “please step into my office and we can begin planning your daughter’s memorial service.”
“Will we meet your son?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s out of town.”
Odd question but, whatever, he thought. He came up with a convincing explanation and nobody was hurt. The truth was his son was too young to be in the industry, but “Menke and Son” sounded more professional. None of the customers had ever called him on it until now, so he lied.
The woman in the pantsuit leaked tears. Her lips would quiver occasionally and she’d shut her eyes had hard as she could. The tight-lipped man acted as professionally as he could.
“There are a variety of internment options for your daughter,” he said, “is there any religious affiliation that you would like me to keep in mind before I show you your options?”
“We’re Catholic,” the tight-lipped man said, “we were thinking about Wyuka.”
Wyuka was the massive cemetery in the middle of town. Charles Starkweather, the famous Nebraska serial killer, was buried there.
“Wyuka is an excellent choice. It is an extremely peaceful location to lay your daughter to rest.”

Almost two hours later they wrapped up. It hadn’t been too difficult. They selected lilacs because their daughter loved them, they were going to have her buried in the northeast section of Wyuka and they picked the most expensive coffin and vault available and given the home a healthy commission.
“Just one more issue,” he said, “embalming. Did you wish to have your daughter’s organs donated?”
“We’d rather now,” the tight-lipped man said.
Menke opened the upper right-hand drawer and removed the necessary forms.
“If you could just sign this I can take care of that immediately.”

“Gibson, that smack-head, get her rolling,” he said, “she’s not a donor so make it quick.”
Gibson groaned and suggested Menke do it.
“I’m busy, and their shit goes down in four days.”
If only Jenny Baldwin knew how difficult she made things for them. Intravenous drug users are an interesting problem for morticians. All the broken blood vessels and deteriorated heart tissue would require Gibson to watch the corpse the entire time it was being pumped with juice. He would have to scope out the cadaver for puncture wounds. He would have to massage those wounds so fluid didn’t build up.
The only other time they had to deal with an IV drug user, she shot up into her breasts.

They took a break around three o’ clock.
“So let me get this straight,” Gibson said, “you sold them a plot at Wyuka but they don’t know they can get the same services from them as us and not hire escorts?”
“Yeah.”
“Hefelbower is going to be pissed.”
“Fuck him. It’s not like there’s some massive shortage of corpses. What was that music you were playing so damn loud?”
“Just some seventies punk-band.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Gibson said.

He had a few minutes before the last appointment of the day. He sat at his desk, getting the last pieces of information ready for the last bit of work that day when he looked at the wedding photo on his desk.

It was her flirting brown eyes that made him fall for her; eyes that could glance at anyone or anything and give the impression that she was interested. It was those eyes that made him propose to her, to buy the two-thousand dollar ring that caused him to live on peanut butter and crackers for two months.
He would do anything for those warm, brown eyes, give anything to make her gaze his. He held open doors and put his coat over puddles downtown. It was those flirty eyes that moved them to ninety-third and Old Cheney, twelve miles from his business.
It was the possibility of another pair of those eyes that brought Evan into this world.

He smelled like embalming fluid and sweat. It had been a long day. After he arranged all the funerals he went to the Dungeon and help Gibson out a little bit. He was tired, beat-down and ready to go to bed.
He walked in and his wife was asleep. He took off his suit and showered. This time he got to enjoy the warmth. When he finished brushing his teeth, he lay down beside her. She turned over to face him in slow motion.
“Hey baby, how was work?” she said with her eyes still closed.
“Busy, go back to sleep.”
She turned away from him and he pressed the front of his body to the back of hers. He put his fingers on her stomach and felt her bulging tummy.
Chapter Four
Saturday was a much deserved day of rest for Menke. After the constant running around from the previous week he was glad to be able to putter about the house he worked so hard for.
It was noon and his wife was still asleep. The doctor recommended and he insisted that she rest as much as possible. She was so fragile that sometimes it amazed him that she got their son out without dying.
He took Evan over to her parents’ house the night before. He loved going over there. He did as he pleased and every time he came back he was difficult to keep in line. They spoiled him but he had it coming.
He remembered when Jenny’s parents first found out they were engaged. They were ecstatic.
“The best part,” his father-in-law said, “is going to be the grandkids. We will spoil them rotten. Think about it as our revenge.”

The mailman came by and he walked down the small hill their house rested on to get it.
He flipped through; bills, junk mail, and a letter from the Federal Trade Commission?
He tore it open.
His blood stopped. He was about to get in trouble. Matt Hefelbower was pissed, like Gibson said. The bastard called the FTC because he failed to tell the junkie’s parents about the option of getting their daughter worked over at Wyuka.
This was a massive problem. He knew he didn’t have the money for the fine and a lawsuit would put him out of business. What if the Journal Star found out? If there was a story in that rag that’d be it.
He went inside to lock the letter away until he could come up with a plan. When he closed the door to his study, he heard footsteps upstairs. He began to panic. He locked the door and stopped for a second. He took a deep breath and went to his mahogany desk. He found the key and opened the drawer. The footsteps were getting closer.
“Tom? Where are you?”
He locked the letter away and stepped out of the study.
“Hey baby. How’d you sleep?”
“Really good, do you want breakfast?”
“I’ll cook it,” he said, “you need to take it easy.”
She smiled and they went into the kitchen.
“What a great husband,” she said.

Chapter Five
The drive from downtown to the apartment fifty-seven blocks away didn’t usually annoy Kopelson. He liked having the freedom of being in a moving vehicle. When he left at five he might as well walk. As far as he was concerned the benefit of working later than everyone was free-reign of Twenty-Seventh Street on his ride home.
Today was different. MedSupply was done. Its last day came and went. He still had time to buy some of the remaining inventory but it hadn’t changed at all since the phone call. He contacted potential new suppliers but time wasn’t in abundance and he was worried about having to impose a shut down.
His best chance was his old friend Chris Burner, whose main buyer kept mishandling the products, leaving them out too long, or selling them for way below market price. Burner planned to find someone new, perhaps Kopelson, but the contract expired next month so he needed a supplement.
His cigarette smoke flew out the cracked window as he rolled home. He stared at the road and tried to focus but his thoughts kept cycling back to his impending problem. He tried to think of anything else, but the thought would end and the same one would come up again.
He pulled into his apartment’s garage and shut the door. He punched in his code so hard his index finger throbbed while he walked up the stairs to his room.
He sat down in his leather chair and opened his briefcase. He pulled out the donor profiles hoping that some miracle rejuvenated the stiffs to a usable condition. He shuffled through them again.
Still disappointed, he put the manila envelopes on his desk and picked up an ashtray. When he sat down he looked at the top profile. Baldwin. She was the youngest and least fucked up of the group, which was saying a lot since she died of a heroin overdose. He opened up the file and noticed the name of the funereal home.

Kopelson loved these conventions. Large gatherings of weird people whose jobs were stigmatized by society were always a good time. He always met crazy-ass bastards at the bars in hotels. Menke was definitely one of them.
“How old is your son?”
“My wife is three months pregnant.”
“So why is it ‘Menke and Son?”
“It sounds more professional.”
Kopelson tapped a cigarette filter on the bar and offered one to Menke. Menke turned it down but that didn’t defer Kopelson at all.
“Kind of limiting his career options, aren’t you?”
They laughed and ordered more beer.
“You know, Harvey, I’m thinking of expanding my business to include more donations to you boys. I think we could work something out.”
“I’m not in the market right now, Tom. MedSupply is good to me. They keep getting more stock points and I don’t think they’ll go out of business for a while.”
“Did you hear about the guys selling transplants in Dallas?” Menke said.
“Yeah, it’s a shame; our outcast status is bad enough.”
“I meant that they got caught, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
They laughed, but something about the way Menke said it was off. Was Menke baiting him, testing to see if Kopelson would respond favorably? He shrugged it off and the two kept on drinking.

Since that time the two had kept in moderate touch. Though far from friends they usually saw each other at conventions and shared a drink or six. It hadn’t been bad except Menke always brought up the supply thing.

His cell phone rang. He flipped it open and checked to see the caller. It was Matt.
“Matt, how’s it going?”
“I’ve been better.”
“What’s wrong? Is everything at Wyuka okay?”
“Yeah, its fine, but one of the local mortuaries sold a plot here and didn’t tell the family they could have the same things done here but save money.”
“That’s not right. I hate that. The family shouldn’t have to pay for escorts if they know they don’t have to.”
“I know, so I told the FTC.”
“Who was it?”
“Menke and Son.”

The phone call ended and Kopelson went to his computer. He clicked the ‘Local’ folder and found Menke’s site. He went to the contact section and found the number for the home. He programmed it into his phone. The clock said one-thirty so he decided to go to bed. He could give Menke a call in the morning.

The phone rang and Gibson answered.
“Menke and Son, how may I help you?”
“Is Mr. Menke available?”
“One moment, please.”
He put the caller on hold and strolled down to Menke’s office. He knocked and after about thirty seconds was cleared for entrance.
“Are you jerking off in here?”
“Yeah, it’s the thought of you and all that corpse love. It gets me so hot. What stiffer, your dick or your partner.
“Call on line two,” he began walking, “you jackass.”
“Hello?”
“Tom, its Harvey Kopelson.”
“What’s going on?”
“Not too much. I realized I haven’t seen you in a while. We should go have a drink and talk business. What works for you?”
Menke looked at his over-sized desk calendar. He ran his finger along the current week.
“It looks like I’m free uh…tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
“Sounds good. Zen’s at seven?”
“You’re on.”
Chapter Six
What better night to get fucked up than Tuesday? Menke asked himself as he finished off another drink that caused the familiar buzz to grab hold and drag him down. Kopelson sat across from him in the dimly lit martini bar. They had much to discuss as they downed expensive drinks. Each time they bought a drink they left a tip for the bartender with large breasts.
“I heard MedSupply went under,” Menke said, “I saw it in the paper.”
“Yeah, Donovan’s such a cheese-dick.”
“I don’t know. I worked with him a few times. He’s efficient.”
“He’s a jackass. He dropped out because ‘he felt like it’ and left me with my dick in my hand.”
Menke stood up to get another drink, which meant another dollar for the bartender. Kopelson stood up, but Menke wanted to buy this round.
“How’s that one guy you work with?” Kopelson said.
“Gibson?”
“I don’t know, sure.”
“He’s good, I guess. I think he’s been down. The other day I heard him listening to some old punk band or metal band or something. He usually does that when he’s pissed.”
“Do you know if something’s wrong?”
“No,” Menke said, “he pissed me off. Some smack-head’s family almost walked in. I unplugged the CD player and told him he couldn’t listen to it anymore.”
He was lying, but so what? Kopelson wouldn’t know.
A few dollars and drinks later things became a little more interesting for both men in the dimly-lit bar.
“I heard Wyuka turned you over to the Feds,” Kopelson said.
“Who told you that?”
“I know Hefelbower. He was my main supplier when I was supplier of the year back in ninety-eight.”
“Does he know you know me?”
“No, why would he?”
Another drink downed by both men.
“I can’t have this fine, Harvey.”
“Why?”
“It’ll ruin me. I’m sure if I could come up with more money I could, you know, pay the fine. That’s the best-case scenario. I could go to court. I could go out of business.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I might have to give pay cuts, again. Maybe even fire Gibson and hire some kid fresh out of college who will work for less. That would suck. Gibson is good.”
They drank some more and then the whore bartender with large breasts cut them off. She ordered a cab and forced them to drink water until it arrived.

Kopelson offered Menke a cigarette. He declined. His wife would be pissed. He would get yelled at. It would be easier not to, although he did miss the feeling of nicotine with his buzz.

A skinny kid pulled up in a station wagon that was capped with a glowing half circle on top that said cab. He got out and went into the bar. He looked at the ticket. He went to the bartender and forced himself not to look down.
“I’m here for; let me see here, Tom Menke and Harvey Kopelson?”
The too drunk men came up to him. They asked the skinny kid with the too tight shirt and too baggy pants if he was their cabby. He said he was.
“How old are you?” Menke asked.
“Twenty-one,” the kid responded.
“Jesus, I’ve got herpes scars older than you,” Kopelson said.
The two men and the one kid laughed.
“Where to, gentlemen?”
“The Hi-way Diner?” Kopelson asked Menke.
“Yeah, I’m starving.”

The skinny kid in the punk-band shirt had a sense of humor, but no sense of direction. He might have been new to the job, but Kopelson didn’t care. It took him almost thirty minutes to get them there. They paid the fare, but the tip stayed in Kopelson’s pocket.
The Hi-way Diner was practically a legend in Lincoln. Located on a former artery of the Midwest, it was a place where college students could study and drink cheap coffee while drunks and stoners ate bad food.
It was a truck-stop without the trucks. It didn’t just sell greasy food; it sold random crap from all over the city. When Kopelson and Menke fell in they saw a washing machine, six bags of assorted rags and copy of the original SimCity.
It was also famous for its bus. The owner purchased an old city bus from the local busing company and gutted it. He put in tables, chairs, lights and heaters. Patrons could go on the bus anytime they wanted and smoke. It was a middle finger to the local ban. Normally it was crowded with high school students drinking but tonight it was empty.
“Tom, we both have a problem. I think I have a solution.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“You have to promise you won’t tell anybody,” Kopelson’s hands began to sweat as voice sank to match his stomach.
They were alone on the bus but he kept it down anyways. There were still some people inside and he didn’t want anybody to randomly walk in and surprise them.
Menke leaned in closer; his eyes became slightly more alert. He saw some activity behind the glaze.
“I was thinking about that convention where you told me about those guys in Dallas.”
Menke thought as hard as he could.
“I remember vaguely. They sold transplants or something.
“They sold transplants in a completely safe fashion; the only problem was the families didn’t exactly know.”
“You’re not suggesting…” Menke’s voice came to life as he stood up.
“Shhh. I’m not suggesting anything right now, sit down damn it. I’m just brainstorming. Hear me out, okay?”
Menke sat back down and leaned forward even closer.
“The reason they got caught was they got too greedy. They were making millions and the government got wise. All I’m saying it do it for a month. Keep me supplied until Burner hooks me up. Then we get out and never mention it again. We’ll make a couple thousand dollars, split it fifty-fifty. You can get some hush money for Hefelbower, I don’t have to shut down and everyone wins.”
“Harvey, those are people’s loved ones we’d fuck with,” he said, a lot less harsh than his previous outburst.
“I’m not saying we take the entire body, just some tissue and ligaments. It won’t do anybody any good rotting in the ground. This way people’s lives are saved, selfish non-donors do some good with the bodies they’re throwing away and we cure our headaches.”
“It can’t be that much.”
“I guarantee you one-hundred dollars a finger joint and five grand for a tibia.”
There was a pause while Kopelson lit a cigarette.
“Besides, nobody would ever know, it’d only be a month.”
“How do we even get the parts to you? There are all kinds of rules and regulations.”
“All you have to do is get me the shit with a signed death certificate. That’s it. It’s maybe a half-hour of work. I’ll test is and ship it. I’ll take all the expense so technically you’d make more money and do less work.
Menke looked out the window.
“Only a month?”
“That’s all I need. Just to tide me over until the contract.
“Well. No, no this is crazy. I can’t do this.”
“Don’t decide tonight. I’ll give you a few days. I have four until I have to shut down. That’s plenty of time to make a well informed decision.”
“Give me a cigarette.”
Chapter Seven
Around two in the morning Menke got home. He had a vague idea where his car was and a buzz giving way to a headache.
The first thing he saw when he came in was his wife looking pissed off. In her hand she held an unopened letter from the Justice Department. Her normally warm gaze was ice. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the tears coming down her face froze into icicles.
“What’s this?” she her icy voice demanded.
“It’s nothing, business stuff. Give it to me.”
“Have you been drinking?” she said, “and smoking?”
“Absolutely not. Give me that letter.”
“Don’t lie to me. I could smell you coming up the walk.”
“Okay, I drank.”
“Who with?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Who with?”
“Give me that letter.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“Harvey Kopelson, he’s a good guy I’ve worked with in the past..”
He snatched the letter from her.
“You said you’d quit. You swore it. If you’re not going to think about me, could you please think about your son, think of the example you’re setting.”
“Why are you drinking on a Tuesday? Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
“You’re just hysterical because of your pregnancy.”
Even through the alcohol haze he immediately regretted those words.
She stood up calmly and walked upstairs like nothing was wrong, like he ceased to exist. He heard her footsteps knocking as she went up and their door slammed shut, shaking the entire house. The lock on their room slid into place and it would be couch time for him.
He opened the letter and his eyes bulged. He reached into his pocket and looked up Kopelson’s number.
“Hello?” a groggy voice on the other end croaked.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”