The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 42

The service went, as all services do. People spoke well of the deceased. Many wept. And as is sometimes seen, the distraught widow had to be helped out when the service was done. If any funeral service could be considered a success, this might be one of them, given that no one spoke ill of the deceased or attempted to move the body. Although Jonathan and Emily were well-trained for such events, the last thing Frank wanted was for them to deal with was a mess or an outburst of violence. It does happen.

Services were held every day – sometimes twice a day. For a small town whose population was on its way down, business seemed to be on its way up as the elderly appeared to be dying off faster than usual. Frank was not concerned as to why, only in taking in what he needed to run his business. But with the stress of the increase in cash flow and his still-unresolved grief, Frank found himself medicating his pain more often. As far as Jonathan and Emily were concerned, he informed them that the increase in business warranted that he dedicate more time to management. In spite of the weeks that had passed, Jonathan and Emily believed that he was still struggling with Dorothy’s loss and expressed their understanding, telling him they were more than capable of keeping his funerary ship afloat. However, despite the influx of money, Frank began to realize that his addiction was beginning to bite out of his business earnings. He had given Jonathan and Emily raises, ensuring their loyalties and that they would be more likely to stay. Frank even purchased a new hearse that he described as ‘top of the line’, sporting leather seats and gold trim, where most displayed chrome. Within three months, Frank saw his debts begin to rise and soon began missing payments on not only the hearse but some updated equipment as well. Frank needed a way out, and without his business, he could find himself working in the county morgue, or worse, for the competition.

It was on one particularly gloomy night, when services were over, Jonathan and Emily had left for the day, and the funeral home’s lights had been turned off, that Frank sat in his office. He had been racking his brain for weeks while watching his addiction dry up his business. Thinking the air might do him some good, Frank stepped out for a walk. Perhaps the change of atmosphere would bring on a flash of inspiration. The street he walked was familiar, and having walked it before, he found his way to the bar he had come to frequent – the place he bought his ‘medication’. Either the man he knew only by sight knew he’d be there, or he simply spent a great deal of time waiting for people like Frank.

“Well,” he said. “Look who’s here.” Sitting in his usual stool at the bar, the man approached him with the attitude of a snake oil salesman – someone who would sell you the cure to life’s ailments but give you a bottle of gut rot instead. Frank’s expression told a story that needed no words, and the nameless man had seen it before, and always capitalized on it.

“Here for some more?” he asked. Frank waved off the bartender and continued sitting in a state of emotional despondency. “I can’t afford this shit anymore,” he began. “It’s starting to cost me my business.”

This was a response the man would not accept. But for every problem, there is a solution, even if that solution is somewhat unappetizing. After a brief pause, the man revealed what he knew about Frank. “You run a funeral home, don’t you?” he asked. “I’ve seen your commercial: ‘If anyone’s gonna bury you, it should be us’. Something like that, right?”

After a bit of quiet laughter, he offered a brief criticism.

“Frank,” he said. “Can I call you Frank? Anyway, do you really think a fucking TV commercial for a funeral home works? Dead people don’t watch the fucking TV, do they?”

Putting his elbows on the edge of the bar, Frank rested his chin on his hands. The man was right. The commercial was a ridiculous and embarrassing waste of money, and the dead don’t watch TV. Still, at a loss for ideas to generate more income, Frank turned to the man and, with a sarcastic response, asked if he had any ideas.

“Well, Frank,” he began. “Now that you mention it, I do have an idea.”

What was said next brought the taste of bile to Frank’s mouth as he expressed his disgust at the man’s suggestion. Creative thought, it seems, knows no bounds, and this is especially true for the man’s suggestion that Frank’s Funeral Home be used to sell and traffic drugs – especially cocaine.

Frank’s sudden outburst of anger frightened everyone in the bar except the man, who seemed to be waiting for him to adopt his thinking. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” he yelled. “People come to me to bury their dead, not to sell them coke!”

The man quickly interrupted Frank’s loud proclamation. The last thing he needed was advertising, and speaking firmly brought Frank’s emotional tempest to an end.

“Frank,” he said. “I’m going to tell you this once. I’m offering you an opportunity. If you don’t want it, that’s fine, but I would prefer that you keep your voice down, got it?”

The man was careful not to drive Frank off, and toning down his reaction explained the arrangement he was offering.

“Frank,” he continued. “It’s like this. You run a funeral home, right? Who’s going to know? No one. Nobody expects a fucking funeral home to be selling dope. We could make a fortune.” Frank had heard enough, and getting up from the bar stool, he turned to the man with one last remark. “I’m going to pretend we didn’t have this conversation, got it?”

As he walked out, Frank looked back slightly to see the man looking at him with a slight smile, as though he knew what Frank would likely decide. At least, that was what he believed.