CHAPTER 26

Scott downed his Johnnie Walker—neat, this time—trying to keep up with Joe Black. Maybe he’d get used to the sting. His head started to spin. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, he sort of liked the feeling. It didn’t even bother him when Joe cut into his rare steak and the red juices leaked out and streamed across his bone-white plate, soaking into his baked potato.

Joe had ordered a bottle of wine for them to share with their porterhouses and Scott noticed he was a bit behind on the wine. Joe was pouring a second glass for himself and topping off Scott’s. And the whole time Scott couldn’t shake out of his mind the envelope Joe had handed him when they first sat down. It would have been uncool to pull the money out, but with only a glance Scott saw the envelope contained hundred-dollar bills. And there were certainly more than the five hundred dollars they had agreed on.

“Your finder’s fee for the indie,” Joe smiled at him. “And a little extra for the storage space I’m going to need. Looks like the conference is being postponed. I have some frozen specimens I’ll need to bring in. So are we good?”

“Oh, absolutely. Other than what we added earlier, I only have one guy in there now and the family wants the service Tuesday morning. Not even an open casket. They wanna get the old coot buried before the storm hits.”

“And you’re set up with generators, just in case?”

“All set,” Scott told him and made a mental note in the back of his spinning head to check.

“I have a delivery coming in tomorrow morning,” Joe told him. “I asked them to reroute it to the funeral home. You’ll be there around ten, right?”

“Absolutely. Not a problem.”

“How old of a guy?”

“Excuse me?”

“The old coot.”

“Oh, him. Sixty-nine. Bachelor. Lived alone.”

“Obese?”

Scott stopped mid-bite. Even with a fuzzy head, Joe’s interest seemed odd.

Joe noticed Scott’s hesitancy and said, “Just curious,” and sipped his wine. “You know how it is. Occupational hazard.” He gave Scott one of his winning grins and Scott relaxed.

“You should hear the calls I get,” Joe continued. “Independent brokers, toolers, even surgeons contact me. And the worst are these conference organizers. You should hear them. ‘Hey, Joe, I need six torsos, five shoulders, and a dozen knee specimens in two weeks.’”

He slung back the rest of his wine, reached for the bottle, and filled his glass, taking time to top off Scott’s again.

“And you should see these conferences.” Joe pushed his plate aside and planted an elbow in its place on the table. “Five-star resorts, usually with beaches and golf courses. First-class flight, deluxe suite, dinners, cocktail parties. It’s all included for the surgeons.”

Scott slid his plate aside and mirrored Joe’s posture, leaning in and sipping his wine. He really didn’t need any more alcohol. His head was already starting to swim. But now he just nodded and listened, grateful because he wasn’t sure he could trust his words to not slur.

“And for guys like us, Scott? The sky’s the limit. Don’t get me wrong. I respect the rules of the trade. It’s not my fault there’re so few. And as long as I transport within Florida I don’t even have to worry about shipping regulations.”

Scott was still stuck on the phrase “guys like us.” He liked that Joe finally considered him a part of his network, his ’hood.

“Can I get you gentlemen some dessert?”

The waitress’s sudden presence startled Scott.

“Yes,” Joe answered as smoothly as if he hadn’t had several Scotches and half a bottle of wine. “How ’bout the flaming cherries jubilee?” He was asking Scott, not the waitress.

“Oh, absolutely,” Scott managed, surprised at sounding so coherent.

“Excellent choice.” She rewarded Joe with a smile. “Oh, and I need to get a cheeseburger to go. Medium well,” he told the waitress.

“Fries?”

“That’d be perfect.”

As she left, Scott raised an eyebrow at Joe. “Still hungry?”

“Don’t ask. I promised someone.”

But something had changed in Joe’s demeanor. Scott saw it immediately though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly. It made Joe sit up. He waved a hand over the table.

“This is the lifestyle, Scott. And it only promises to grow. I can’t keep up with the demand. Having a few choice funeral directors like yourself has really helped. You know, you guys are the true gatekeepers of America’s donor program. You have such tremendous influence over whether a family recognizes the valuable gift their loved one can give to future generations.”

Scott recognized the switch and he felt disappointed. Joe had lapsed back into his “you guys” pitch. Before the waitress interrupted, it was “guys like us.” He felt like Joe had started to open up, that they were more like buddies, not the Death Salesman shoring up the ranks.

Once again, Scott wondered who Joe Black really was.