The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 61

With the young boy having been prepared and in storage for the next day’s service, Frank sat in his office wrapping up the day’s paperwork. With the door ajar, he heard a soft knocking at the front door. At first, he thought it was simply a reflection of how tired he was, but he heard it again. Getting up from his chair, he walked out to the front door, and upon opening it was startled to see the unnamed man from the bar. Standing in front of the door, he bore the same grin as though planning something sinister. To say that Frank was unhappy with the man’s unexpected appearance was not nearly accurate, as he leapt into a quiet tirade – not wanting to draw the attention of the immediate neighborhood.

“I told you tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Walking past him the man spoke in a calm manner. “Oh, Frank, take it easy. What’s one day?” Walking into the nearest viewing room, he marveled at its clean, Victorian style.

“I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of these places.”

Frank didn’t want him there in the first place but knowing the consequences of refusing his offer, he decided it would be best to hurry him into his office should he receive an unannounced visitor. “Alright, fine,” Frank said. “You’ve seen the viewing room. Let’s go to my office.” A grin came to his face knowing he had the upper hand and turning toward Frank accompanied him to his office.

Once the man was seated, Frank closed the door and stepping around to the back of his desk sat in front of him.

“You do know I have a business to run,” he said. “And to be honest, I’d rather see you in one of these caskets than sitting there with that shit-eating grin on your face.”

Sliding down in the chair slightly, the man crossed his legs and spoke with a confidence that further angered Frank.

“You know, Frank,” he replied. “I know how you feel about me. Everyone I deal with feels the same way. But, you know what? I don’t give a fuck. My goal in life is to make as much money as possible, and I don’t give a fuck who suffers for it. I mean, when someone comes to me, they make a choice; a conscious decision. Who am I to judge them? You made the same decision, didn’t you?”

Uncrossing his legs, he leaned forward and pointed a finger at him with a final remark meant to put Frank in his place.

“So, don’t you sit there on your fucking high horse like you’re better than everyone else. And I don’t care if you stopped. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a fucking coke head.”

Sitting back in his chair, the man crossed his legs again as a snide grin returned to his face. At this point, the only thing Frank wanted was to see him dead, and briefly imagined numerous methods by which he could end his life. There were no words for the anger he felt and sat determined to exact revenge. But one thing was true. The man was right. He had made a decision that nearly cost him everything, and now he was making another decision whose consequences could be far more severe.

“Fine,” Frank said. “But this is my business, so I’m making the rules, got it?”

The smile on the man’s face quickly faded as he felt his desire for control quickly come under threat. “Rules, huh?” he replied. “Tell you what, let talk about how we’re going to do this then we’ll talk about rules.”

Frank listened intently as the man outlined his plan for using the funeral as ground zero for the distribution of cocaine. He would bring in a small handful of his criminal friends who would cut and package the substance – readying it for sale. Frank interrupted with a degree of anger that resonated through the walls.

“You are not bringing a bunch of fucking druggies into my funeral home,” he said. “Exactly where did you expect to be doing this? And another thing, if anyone sees any of this I lose my business and everyone goes to prison -- not that I give a shit about what happens to you.”

An angry response was expected. After all, the man was blackmailing Frank into committing several felonies. But details needed to be worked out, and the man continued to maintain an irritating state of calm.

“Are you done now?” he asked. “Look, we’ll keep things quiet. You’ll never know we’re here. We’ll set things up in the basement – no parties, no loud music, no girls. You’ll be able to run your business and every week you’ll get your cut, okay?” His sarcasm was intentional, knowing that Frank had no choice.

“It’s better than watching this place burn to the ground, isn’t it?”

Frank had been backed into a corner. He knew that in the event of a fire, his insurance would cover the cost of rebuilding, but the delay would financially break him. Frank was trapped. There was one more point of discussion. Frank didn’t know the man’s name.

“Hey,” he said. “What am I supposed to call you, asshole?”

In spite of his psychopathic nature, the man did appreciate Frank’s sarcasm and took his time with a response.

“Well,” he replied. “I suppose you could call me a piece of shit, but I guess you could call me Sam.” Frank responded with a grin.

“You mean, Uncle Sam, right?”

Expressing a twisted smile, the man answered with his own metaphor.

“No,” he replied. “I was thinking more like Son of Sam. That’s a bit more like it, don’t you think?” While Frank was certainly not amused by his answer, he was also frightened by his response as a reflection of his mental state. With this impression, he quickly came to the realization that the man who now took the name of a serial killer was indeed dangerous. Frank would have to watch his back from now on.

But down the hall from his office, another situation was brewing. Emily had just finished cleaning up the cool room after the preparation of the young boy’s body and, having grabbed her coat and keys, started out of the room. As she approached the door of Frank’s office, she overheard the sound of two men engaged in a heated discussion. One voice was obviously Franks, but the other was unfamiliar. However, it was the argument that surprised her, but its content. Standing only a few feet away, she listened to a conversation she did not initially understand. Was her employer planning to sell drugs out of his funeral home? Listening further, Emily found herself both shocked and terrified at what Frank was planning. Her career was still in its infancy, and working in a house being used for drug distribution could end it before it even began. But unlike Frank, she had a way out and would soon make her escape – hopefully without raising Frank’s suspicions. The last thing she wanted was to be found out that she had eavesdropped on their conversation. It made no difference to her who the other voice belonged to. She also knew that where drug sales are concerned, people are sometimes killed over money and occasionally over what they know. At this point, Emily felt she already knew too much and as she drove home considered quitting the next day. Yet, in spite of what would be taking place, she reconsidered and reached the conclusion that a professional exit would be the best course of action. Either way, Emily and Franks Funeral Home were soon to part ways.