Elvis sat in his office with his head buried into his arms. He wasn't crying but he was very close to. He'd been in the same position for almost an hour. His face and arms were beginning to sweat. The combination of warmth, moistness and darkness he was in was somewhat comforting. After having such a horrible day, he wanted nothing more than to shut out the world. Not that he had to try too hard. Nobody ever came to see him. That was part of the problem.
Business was slow. So slow you could say it was dead. Of course, that would be a good thing if you happened to own a funeral parlor. Which Elvis Feinstein did. He was the not-so-proud owner of Feinstein Funeral Home. It was Elvis' inheritance when his father, Mr. Gary Feinstein had become one of Elvis' customers.
Living in Florida, booming was not how one would describe business for Elvis. Nevertheless, he'd always gotten by. Not anymore. People were dying much slower now. His last customer had been a 300-pound grandmother with terminal lung cancer. That was 2 months ago. The bills were piling up. Then something awful happened to his mama. She got a job.
Elvis felt terrible about this but he recognized that without her meager paycheck, he would have long ago lost the funeral home to the bank. It'd never been Elvis' dream to be a mortician but it was his father's last wish. That meant more to Elvis that his own hopes and dreams.
His mama's job wasn't too bad at least. She worked at a big time bookstore. She was a smart able old woman who could fend for herself. Elvis knew that but it still broke his heart that he couldn't care for her like he thought he should.
In addition to his financial troubles, something else tormented him. His girlfriend Marie, or possibly ex, was probably cheating on him. The last time they'd spoken, Elvis accused her of fooling around.
Enraged, she cursed him and threw him out of her apartment. That occurred two nights prior. Since then, he'd tried to forget her and throw himself into his work but there was no work to throw oneself into. All he did was think of her: where she was and what she was doing and whom was she doing it with? Had he been wrong to accuse her? All the signs were there. There was the lack of sex, the late night phone calls that were always 'wrong number'� when he entered the room, the lack of interest in spending quality time and the new found habit of lying to him about the smallest things. Some times after work (actually, most of the time) she'd o out with the girls all night. These were all complete reversals of character in all the time he'd known her.
One night he followed Marie to see which 'girls'� she was hanging out with. He discovered her having coffee with a handsome stranger. Elvis now had a face he could hate. When he confronted her she said he was psychotic and over possessive. Then she threw him out'�again. Afterwards, Elvis realized that she'd never denied any of his accusations; she'd just insulted him.

Another half an hour passed before Elvis looked up from his desk. His face was red and his hair was soaked in sweat. His eyes were squinted and bloodshot. He'd been crying for the better part of the last fifteen minutes.
A thought occurred to Elvis. He truly loved Marie and he wasn't going to let his paranoia destroy the best relationship he'd ever been a part of. Maybe he was psychotic and over possessive. God knew he wasn't a playboy. All Elvis had always wanted was to find his one true love and end up like his parents, married happily for thirty four years.
Elvis jumped into his car and sped off to apologize to Marie's apartment. He stopped at a gas station and bought her some roses then continued. He rehearsed what he was going to say the whole drive over.
Once there, he kept mumbling to himself his speech. He practiced all the way up the elevator until he got to her door. He stood facing the door, cleared his throat and then rang the doorbell. A moment passed with no answer. He rang it again. Still no answer. As he turned to leave he heard Marie's voice shout:
'Don't answer it!'�
The door swung open. A tall, muscular man clad only in boxers answered.
'How can I help you?'�
It was the coffee guy. Behind him he heard Marie.
'Who is it Craig?'�
'Sorry, wrong apartment.'� Elvis lied.
He stalked off. Behind him, Marie had rushed out and was yelling his name. Elvis turned, threw the roses at her and kept walking to the elevator.

Elvis was furious. He tried and tried but he couldn't get rid of the choking sensation welling up in his chest. As he drove home, he wanted to hit something; break a window; lash out somehow. Instead he slammed on the gas pedal and tried to out race his anger. The needle on the speedometer was soon climbing. It jumped from 90mph to 100mph to 110. His car was shaking but he didn't care. Elvis kept going. Where? He didn't know anymore but he was getting there fast. Suddenly, there was a sound like a gunshot. Billows of smoke steamed from his hood. The engine shut off and his car died. His foot was still on the gas but the car was slowly coming to a halt.
Elvis' grimace quickly disappeared, as did his tight grip on the steering wheel. When he realized he'd blown the transmission he put the car in neutral and let the car coast. He guided it to the side of the road.
Later, when the tow truck appeared, Elvis was no longer in a blind rage. He felt stupid. Now, in addition to a failing business and an adulterous girlfriend, he also had no car. Luckily, he had a friend who was a mechanic. He did the work for half price and estimated the car would be ready in a week.
Next stop for Elvis was the car rental. Since he was on a budget, Elvis managed to get a Dodge Neon that was a step above his beat up Chevy. In fact, it was in such terrible condition that if one were to hit something, the car rental probably wouldn't notice the damage. Which is exactly what happened.
On the day his car was ready to take home, Elvis was on his way to return the rental when he saw a familiar face crossing the street. It was Craig.
Before he knew what he was doing, Elvis' foot had the pedal to metal once again. The rage came back in full force. The instant before he slammed into 'the other man'�, Craig looked up in terror. Elvis' eyes met his and he came back to his senses. He hit the brakes but it was too late. Craig's body was flung over the length of the car.
Elvis put the car in park and ran to Craig's corpse. Even without checking for a pulse, Elvis knew he was dead. Feeling a bit panicky, Elvis ran back to the car and trying to pretend nothing had happened, he kept his appointment with the car rental. Although he didn't know it, that wouldn't be the last time he saw Craig.

That night, Marie called. She was sobbing hysterically.
'Craig died today!'� She blurted the moment he answered.
'What happened?'� Elvis feigned concern hoping he didn't sound too nervous.
'I'm not sure. The police say it was a hit and run,'� She cried.
'I'm sorry Marie. That's'�horrible,'� he winced as he spoke.
'I didn't know who else to call Elvis. I'm sorry for what happened. I need you right now. I can't stand to be alone.'�
'What do you ' '�
'Please come over, Elvis.'�
'Now?'�
'Please.'�
'I'll be right over.'�

Before knocking on her door, Elvis paused in front of the apartment reflecting on the fact that the last time he'd stood there he felt much the same way he did now. Sick, nervous, anxious and a little nauseous.
Marie opened the door unexpectedly and caught him by surprise.
'What are you doing?'� She asked.
'Nothing,'� he said.
'Ok. Well, come in.'�
She took his hand and led him inside.
'Are you hungry?'�
'No, thank you.'�
They sat on her couch and remained silent for a minute. Elvis was unsure of what to say. Marie sat motionless staring at him expectantly. She wasn't taking the lead like he'd hoped she would so he repeated his earlier sentiments.
'I'm really very sorry for your loss, Marie.'�
'Are you really Elvis?'� Her tears were suddenly gone.
'What do you mean?'�
'C'mon Elvis, I'm not stupid. I know you hated him. Me.'�
'I wouldn't say that. I mean I was upset but - '�
'Upset enough to kill him?'�
The words hit him like a sucker punch in the gut. He couldn't read her expression. Did she know something or was she grasping at straws, unleashing her pain in any way she could?
'No! How could you even'�I would never'�'�
'Elvis! Stop it! I saw you!'�
Elvis coiled back on the couch as she leaned forward.
'That's not true I '�'�
'I SAW YOU KILL HIM!'� She was shrieking at the top of her lungs. 'YOU RAN HIM OVER YOU CRAZY BASTARD! I'M REPORTING YOU TO THE COPS AND YOU'RE GOING TO JAIL FOR LIFE!'� Marie's face was inches from his. Her face was flush, her eyes crimson and she was crying through the rage.
'In fact, I'm calling them right now. I want to see them drag your ass away. And don't try and run, they'll find you.'�
Marie stood up and walked to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall. Elvis held his face in his hands. His eyes bulged from his head.
What am I going to do? I can't go to jail'�momma'�the business'�
Marie didn't see Elvis glide behind her. He wasn't sure himself what he was doing until he had the phone cord wrapped around Marie's neck.
She gasped and clawed at his face but he remained steadfast. She was changing colors as the blood was cut off from her head. Her rasps fell to inaudibility except for the gurgling surfacing from her throat.
Elvis kept his eyes closed until she went limp in his arms. Once she quit struggling, he dropped her body and back away from it as if she were going to spring back to life and attack.
He was now responsible for two murders, he thought.
'I am not going to jail,'� he whispered. There was only one thing to do.

It didn't take long to set up Marie's suicide. Elvis carried her body to her apartment's balcony. Her apartment was located seven floors up. It was more than enough room to operate. He tied a thick nylon rope he'd unearthed from the trunk of his car and made a noose on one end and tied the other to the railing of the balcony. After sliding the noose over her head and tightening it around her neck, he regretfully said goodbye to Marie and pushed her body over.
It was late at night, with most of Marie's neighbors fast asleep. Elvis had made sure of that first. No witnesses. The sounds of Marie's neck snapping and the metal railing groaning came simultaneously.
Not usually squeamish considering his profession, Elvis flinched uneasily. With that done, he ran back inside and wrote a brief suicide note. He'd taken a grocery list from her fridge as a reference for his amateur foray into forgery. When he was done, he leaned back and closely compared the note with the list. It wasn't perfect but it was believable.
It read:
'To my family,
'I love you all. Forgive me. I can't go on without Craig.
Marie'�
Elvis thought himself to be pretty clever for concocting such a simple heartbroken motive. He left the note on the kitchen table and posted up the shopping list back in its spot. He looked around once more ensuring there were no other signs of his presence and then left.

Around ten a.m. the next day, Elvis was once again pouring over bills he had no money for at his desk, when an older couple stepped through the front doors of the funeral home.
He approached them with some hesitation. They were a pair of rich looking old Yankees, well dressed and illuminated by expensive jewelry. Unfortunately, neither of them looked terminally ill.
'Welcome to Feinstein's funeral home. How may I assist you today?'� Elvis said in a bored voice. He was confident they needed directions to somewhere luxurious far away from his small town.
They looked at each other and then the old man said:
'We've come to bury our son. We hear you're the only parlor in town.'�
Customers! Elvis' sprits lifted immediately. He tried not to show his joy and eagerness. Instead, he stiffened and entered his 'we're-here-for-you'� comforting friend mode.
'Of course. I am very sorry for your loss. My name is Elvis Feinstein. I'm the owner of this fine business. Please have a seat.'�
He led the couple to a pair of brown leather chairs stationed in front of his desk.
'Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?'�
Elvis took out a legal pad and pen from a drawer.
'My name is Hank,'� the man said. 'This is my wife Eileen. We're from Connecticut but our son lived here. We wanted to bring him home but'�'� Hanks voice faltered. He was about to start crying. His wife continued for him.
'But Craig loved it here. He kept saying ' '�
Elvis abruptly raised his hand and stopped her. His heart was racing.
'I'm sorry, what did you say your son's name was?'�
'Craig. Craig Henderson. Did you know him?'�
'Oh'�no. Not at all. Just, uh, needed to write it in my notes.'�
Elvis was having a hard time staying in character. He willed himself to remain calm.
'Please continue,'� he said.
'Well, it's just that Craig had made his own life here. Last time we spoke, he told us that he had found the place he wanted to stay for the rest of his life. He'd just bought his first house. He even met a nice girl. He was thinking about'�about'�oh'�'�
It was the old woman's turn to break down.
Hank picked where she left off after ample time to compose himself.
'He was going to ask her to marry him. Marie I think was her name.'�
There it was. Elvis swallowed hard. He couldn't escape the irony. It was flashing a neon sign in his eyes. The guilty weight of what he had done was breaking his back.
'We want to bury him in the town he loved so much. We want only the best for him. We want the most expensive casket and enough flowers to empty the shops. Can you provide?'�
Suddenly, the guilt disappeared. Elvis was gleeful inside once more. With his most mournful and thoughtful acting to date he said:
'Absolutely. Nothing but the best for Craig.'�
He held their hands sympathetically.

The funeral took place just a few days later. Relatives from all over the country came to pay their respects. The entire event was lavish, from the food to the decorations. It was also lucrative. Elvis had outdone himself. His small parlor had never seen such an event but he was well compensated.
After expenses, Feinstein's had raked in a small fortune. Elvis poured himself a drink and toasted the air.
'Craig, to you. You wealthy, girlfriend stealing son of a bitch.'�
He downed multiple drinks before the celebration was cut short. Someone was at the door again. This time it was the sheriff.
'Good afternoon, Sheriff Rivera. To what do I owe this pleasure?'�
'Elvis.'� The sheriff tipped his hat. 'Everything go well with that group of yanks?'�
'Smooth sailing sheriff. Smooth sailing.'� Elvis grinned stupidly. The whiskey was making him extra cheery.
'Uh huh. You been drinking'?'�
'Like a fish, sir.'�
'Well, I need you sober for a moment. Then again maybe it's better if you're not. I have some bad news'�Marie is dead.'�
Elvis again instinctively shifted into a role. This time it was the shocked/concerned boyfriend character.
'No. Not Marie. What happened?'�
'So far as we can tell, she committed suicide.'�
'As far as you can tell? What does that mean? Did she or not?'�
'Maybe. But with unnatural deaths, we have to examine the situation from every angle. We're still in the preliminary stage of gathering evidence. You never know. Either way, it's a shame. Nice girl.'�
'Did she leave a note?'� Elvis said and then almost laughed but restrained himself.
'Yes, but I'm not at liberty to reveal anything just yet. We just found the body today. The coroner presumes that she may have been dead for a couple days now. I'll let you know more soon. You need anything?'�
Elvis pretended to be distracted, lost in thought.
'Hmm? Oh, no. Thank you. Please keep me informed.'�
Sheriff Rivera tipped his hat once more and left.

Marie arrived two days later. This time, when he spoke to the deceased's parents, he didn't have to feign sorrow. He was truly sorry about Marie's death. More sorry than they knew. As the three of them made preparations for her funeral, Elvis had to continuously remind himself that it was out of necessity what had done. She'd left him no choice.
Marie's funeral didn't break the bank so to speak. It was modest in comparison to Craig's but it did pay well. Elvis took great personal care into preparing her body. He carefully applied her make up. He wanted her to leave this world and enter the next at her loveliest. He even appeared at the viewing, something he never did with clients. But she wasn't just a client.
When he approached the casket he had tenderly placed her in, he bent over her face and whispered:
'Please forgive me.'�
Then he kissed her forehead. In the back of the room, Sheriff Rivera stood observing Elvis intently.

'How are you holding up?'�
Elvis was back in his office. Marie's funeral had just ended. He was filing paperwork when sheriff Rivera's voice caught him by surprise. The sheriff was seated in a chair usually reserved for grieving relatives.
'Oh. Sheriff. Fine, thank you. Considering the circumstances.'�
'Terrible tragedy,'� Sheriff Rivera lamented. 'No one I've spoken to would have ever suspected she was suicidal.'�
'I agree.'�
'But, she did have a reason. Did you happen to know a man named Craig Henderson?'�
'No. Not really.'�
'But he was just buried here wasn't he? You handled that account, correct?'�
'Oh, yes. Of course.'�
Elvis felt sweat beads on his temples.
'I just meant I didn't know him when he was alive,'� Elvis said.
'Another tragedy that one. Hit and run,'� Sheriff Rivera said.
'I think I heard about that. Found the culprit yet?'�
'Nope. We're having a hard time tracing or locating the vehicle that hit him. But I have faith in my officers. We'll have our man soon.'�
Elvis said nothing. His throat was dry. All he could've managed at the point would've been a crackle. He simply nodded and sat down at his desk with his hands folded.
'Did Marie ever mention Craig to you?'� The sheriff moved closer to the desk as he spoke. 'Did she say anything at all?'�
'No. Why would she?'�
'Well, it seems they may have been something of an item. In fact, according to his folks, they were almost engaged.'�
'Really? I'�had no idea. This is shocking. I'm not sure I believe you sheriff. Marie was always faithful.'�
'It's true Elvis. You know it is. I can show you her suicide note if you like.'�
'No. I don't think I could handle that.'�
Sheriff Rivera leaned on the desk and crowded Elvis.
'Elvis, isn't it odd that this healthy young couple suddenly each suffer tragic and suspicious deaths within days of each other?'�
'I hardly see what's so suspicious. An auto accident and a suicide.'�
'True. Maybe. But what's stranger is that they were both connected to you. I could very well understand a man's rage at finding his one an only being unfaithful.'�
Elvis rose from his chair and feigned indignation.
'Sheriff Rivera, are you insinuating something? That maybe I had something to do with their deaths?'�
Sheriff Rivera didn't move from his seat. He viewed Elvis through calm lazy eyes. He merely shrugged his shoulders as if to say, maybe.
'Please leave sheriff.'�
Rivera stood. He adjusted his belt and brushed off microscopic lint from his sleeve. His head was tilted down so only his mouth was visible under his hat.
'Are you sure there isn't anything to want to get off your chest Elvis?'�
'Out.'� Elvis pointed at the door.
'Good day then.'� Sheriff Rivera strolled out of Elvis' office.

Sheriff Rivera's visit wasn't wholly unexpected but it still rattled Elvis. They were bound to suspect him but now he had some decisions to make. After cleaning up the funeral parlor, Elvis drove home. His mother sat in an antique armchair that hadn't been antique when his father had purchased it. In her lap sat an open book. In her hand she was holding a teacup filled with green tea. The back of the chair was facing the front entrance of the house. When Elvis closed the door, he couldn't see her head but heard her say:
'How was the funeral, child?'�
'It was good. She had lots of friends and family. She looked pretty too.'�
'I'm sure she did. You dressed her up and you're the best. You're even better than your daddy. God rest his soul.'�
'How are you mama?'� Elvis sat in the armchair opposite to hers; His mother looked frail in her eighty odd something year old frame. She had only light wisps of hair remaining on her liver spotted scalp. Yet, despite her age and all appearances, she had energy that fifty-year-old women were jealous of. She wore no glasses and had nearly perfect vision; another rarity for someone in her twilight years.
'Surviving.'�
'How's the bookstore?'�
'It's fine. All the children are coming in now looking for the same books. We've been very busy. You had a visitor today by the way.'�
'Who?'�
'Sheriff Rivera. Such a handsome man, even for a Spanish boy. Good thing about him is that he doesn't look Mexican.'�
'Mama, I think he's Puerto Rican.'�
'Oh, same thing. Anyways, he asked me some questions about you and Marie. Were you two having problems dear?'�
'Nothing to worry about. Standard police investigation stuff.'�
'Ok. The bank called today too.'�
'What now?'�
'Well, they say you haven't paid the mortgage in two months. Is that true Elvis?'�
'No. I did pay but I'm still catching up. Business has been slow. I'm sorry about that. If the bank calls here again don't answer. I don't want you burdened with that.'�
'Baby,'� Elvis' mother took his hand. 'Do you need more money? I can help you.'�
'No! Mama I don't like you having a job to start with. I'll be fine.'�
'But they said something about foreclosure and seizing the property.'�
Damn it. Why did they have to tell her all that?
'I know this is horrible to say, but there just aren't enough people dying.'�
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Elvis' mind reflected on his last two customers'�and the money they'd brought in.
'I'm sure you'll think of something,'� she said.
'Yeah,'� I think I have, he said silently.

With a bit of luck and ingenuity, Elvis made death more profitable than ever. With sheriff Rivera watching his every move, Elvis restricted himself mostly to his house and business. He only went out late at night to setup the following days death.
A loose stovepipe slowly leaking gas into the house of an elderly couple netted him his first two customers. After that, a grandmother across town accidentally took her grandchild's ADD medication instead of her daily heart medicine and died of a severe heart attack. A week later a retired schoolteacher fell into a canal while taking his morning walk. In sixty-two years of life he'd never learned to swim.
Elvis chose his victims with a sort of random but not quite method. He knew the town and its inhabitants well. Not well enough to consider them friends but well enough to know their names, ages and addresses. He'd decided to target elderly people for several reasons. First of all, quite simply they were easy targets. They were usually in poor health, weak, alone and since relatives for the most part dreaded having to visit them or care for them they instead paid for someone else to care so that they wouldn't have to do anything physically.
Secondly, many were already set up to die. Funeral arrangements had long ago been accounted for. The money was there. It was just waiting to be collected.
Lastly, it was their time. Elvis thought they'd lived long enough. There was nothing more for them to do or experience. In fact, he felt he was doing them a favor. Some were wallowing daily in pain and suffering. He was their merciful executioner.
He did most of his research from home. His mother knew all of the victims. She was his prime resource. He gathered as much information as he could from her on all the old folks she knew in town. He sifted through her address books, skimmed her photo albums and quite often listened in on her conversations over the phone. This netted him the real nuggets of intelligence he needed. Old people's conversations usually consist of gossip, their plans for the day and the type of medication they need to stay alive; All very useful information for concocting the best way to kill a particular person if you know their schedule and their weaknesses.
For the next six months, the bodies rolled in and so did the money. Elvis spaced them out at three or four every couple of weeks so as not to draw too much interest from any nosy police officers and also so as not to overwhelm himself.
Within a few months he was able to tell mama to quit her job.
To overcome the guilt he occasionally felt when he wasn't working, Elvis spent more and more time with his mother. Yes, he sometimes accidentally received helpful clues as to who he should target next when she would go on about so and so's health problems, family problems, money problems, etc. But that wasn't the main reason for the quality time he shared with her. And the guilt he felt wasn't over the actual killing. It was because he felt he might be robbing his mother of friends. She had less people to talk to everyday, especially since she wasn't working anymore. He felt obligated to spend time with her and she couldn't have been happier. He was glad he and his mama were doing well. He knew his father would be proud. As long people kept dying his world would be all right.
Then one day a burly sweaty man in a tight coat paid him an unexpected and unwelcome visit.
Elvis was quietly plotting how best to poison Tanya Wilcox's afternoon tea when a loud obnoxious rap echoed from the front door. It was heavy and persistent. Elvis ran to the door not from any sort of anticipation but in order stop the noise. He flung the door open and answered rudely.
'What!'� he said.
'Goooooood morning Mr. Feinstien. Pleasure to meet you,'� the fat man shot his hand out and grabbed Elvis' hand shaking it vigorously without so much as letting Elvis decide whether or not he wanted to shake hands. It was forced upon him and he couldn't pull away. 'Name's Edward Jasper. You can call me Big Eddie, that's what all my friends call me and that's what I want to be with you Elvis, don't mind if I call you that do ya? Yes sir, more than friends in fact, partners actually. Mind if I step inside? You can get me some water and I'll explain everything.'�
Before Elvis could say no, Big Eddie shoved his way in and sat in Elvis' chair. He pulled out a yellowed handkerchief Elvis imagined had once been white and wiped away the perspiration from the top of his bald head. Elvis closed the door behind him and walked slowly back to his desk.
'Damn it! It's hotter than a whore's cunt dipped in holy water!'�
'I'm sorry,'� Elvis said, 'who the hell are you and why are you here?'�
'I told you Elvis, my name is Big Eddie and I want to be your new partner.'�
'Partner for what?'�
'In the death business dummy! Ha! Such a successful business thought you'd be brighter. See, I own a chain of parlors in Texas and I'm looking to expand right here in Florida. My friend, this is God's waiting room. But I'm sure you already know that.'�
'Listen, Big Eddie, I don't need a partner. I've been doing just fine on my own for a while now.'�
'Oh, c'mon now Mr. Feinstein, we both know you haven't. Hey, what's this?'�
Big Eddie was looking at Elvis' outline to kill Tanya Wilcox. '6am, wakes up, showers, maybe could slip?'�
Elvis felt a twinge of panic. He bolted to the desk and grabbed the sheet of paper.
'That is none of your business. And what did you mean by what you said before? How do you know how I've been? I just met you two seconds ago.'�
'Elvis, do you really think that I would just walk in here without knowing a little bit about you? I told you, I want to make you my partner. You think I'm not going to research a potential partner first? I know you've been having some financial difficulties, I know your girlfriend died recently and I know the police have been keeping an eye on you. Plus, you've got your sweet old mama to take care of.'�
'Don't talk about my mama. Ever. How the hell do you know so much?'�
'I've got friends Elvis. For instance, I have friends in the police department; one mutual friend in particular if you catch my meaning. I live in Florida off and on and I make friends all the time, everywhere I go.'�
Elvis knew what he meant. Sheriff Rivera couldn't get anything solid on him so had someone that operated outside the lines to come at him from a different angle. What was he hoping to get out of this? Why the desperate, risky move?
'But that's not the point. The point is, if anything should ever happen to you, like maybe the police decide that you may have had something to do with the death of that cheating bitch of yours, then what would happen to this place? All the years your father spent building it up, all his hard work, gone? And your mama, who's going to take care of her? Elvis, I can make sure that never happens. I've got enough money to keep this place going for the next hundred years if heaven and hell close shop and no one can die.'�
'Listen, I don't know what your 'friends' have told you, but the police have never charged me with anything because I haven't done anything. And for your information my business has been booming lately. Look, I can tell you've done this sort of thing before, it's probably why you have a chain of parlors instead of just one, but you're not going to do it to me. I think you need to leave.'�
'Don't you even want to hear my offer?"
Elvis raised his arm and pointed at the door.
'Get out.'�
'What about my water? It's the least you could do.'�
'Out.'�
'Very well then.'� Big Eddie rose from the desk chair and stuffed his handkerchief back into his jacket. 'Have it your way. Maybe I'll just open up my own parlor across the way. Or maybe I'll just wait until the police lock you up. Then I'll just buy this place outright. When that happens, I bet the first customer I get is your mama.'�
Elvis reached into his pocket and gripped the pen he had there tightly and momentarily had the urge to stab Big Eddie in the jugular but held back. He had a better idea. As Big Eddie slowly made his way to the exit Elvis called out to him.
'How much?'�
Big Eddie stopped. He turned to face Elvis. He had a big smile on his face.
'How much for what Elvis?'� he said knowing full well what the question meant.
'How much would you loan me to help keep business going?'�
'$500,000 to begin with. Oh, and it wouldn't be a loan. The money would be yours pretty much free and clear. The only stipulation is that you sign a small percentage of ownership over to me.'�
'How small?'�
'90 percent.'�
Elvis swallowed hard.
'I fail to see how that qualifies as small.'�
'It doesn't really matter does it Elvis? Point is you'll never have to worry again. C'mon buddy. I see it in your face. You're thinking about it.'�
Elvis was busy thinking hard all right but not about how to give his business away. He lowered his head and slumped his shoulders. He made it as obvious as possible to the gorilla-sized bastard in front of him that he was defeated.
'Fine. Come in the back with me so we can look over some paperwork. I'm assuming you have the money with you now? You can write the check in front of me?'�
'Ha! Check! You're a riot Elvis. Try cash. And don't ask where it came from. You don't want to know.'�
It suddenly became clear what Big Eddie's real business was.
'You don't have any real interest in my 'business' at all do you? Your just going to use me to launder your dirty money aren't you?'�
Big Eddie smiled again. He paused before saying:
'Let's just get this done.'�
'Right this way.'�
Elvis led him down a dimly lit corridor that led to several viewing rooms, the cold chamber and a small office that was hardly ever used. But the office wasn't his destination. Coming up on the left was an embalming machine Elvis had failed to put away after his last customer. Elvis hoped there was still embalming fluid left inside.
He stealthily slid his hand over the large needle of the machine, palmed it and hit the switch of the quiet machine to turn it on. Then with the quickness of a jungle cat he attacked Big Eddie. In one swift movement he grabbed Big Eddie's tie, yanked him close and thrust the needle into the main artery in his neck. Big Eddie made a short choking sound and his face turned bright red. He reached into his waistline and clumsily pulled out a gun.
'I'll'�fucking'�kill'�'� Big Eddie grunted.
Big Eddie pointed it at Elvis' chest. Just before he fired it, Elvis swiped at it and sidestepped. The gun went off and Elvis felt a sharp sting in his left shoulder. Elvis cringed but didn't stop struggling with Big Eddie. He still had one hand around his necktie and the other around Big Eddies fat perspiring arm keeping the barrel of the gun just out of range. Elvis brought up his right knee violently and crushed Big Eddie's groin, which made him drop the gun. After that, he gradually grew weaker and weaker and Big Eddie's breaths grew shorter and raspier. His heart was beginning to fail, as the blood it was pumping was now a toxic poison.
Big Eddie suddenly crashed to the floor. The needle is his neck broke off and the embalming machine tumbled off its perch. The embalming fluid mix of formaldehyde, methanol and ethanol leaked onto the parlor's dark carpet. Big Eddie's eyes were half shut and blood drizzled from his nostrils.
Big Eddie ceased breathing or fighting.
Elvis checked his shoulder. The bullet had grazed it but it wasn't serious. He looked back at Bid Eddie and the mess on the floor. He was hoping the embalming fluid would've worked faster. He thought it might have made for a cleaner death but he'd been wrong. There was a lot to clean up. There was a body to dispose of, an embalming machine to fix (maybe even replace), a bullet hole to repair and probably a car to make disappear. If Elvis was lucky, it was a rental and all he would have to do was drop it off. Dumping cars in lakes or setting them on fire was so time consuming. Plus, it was always obvious that someone was trying to keep something secret.
Elvis changed into his mortician scrubs. He reset the embalming machine in its place and set towels over the spilt fluid. He dug the bullet out of some plaster in the wall and pocketed the gun. Then he attended to Big Eddie's body. Dead weight wasn't just a phrase to Elvis like it was to people who used it to describe a burden. It was a reality to him. Big Eddie was damn near immovable. It took a Herculean effort by Elvis to drag him across the carpet that seemed to dig its claws into the body and not let go. Fortunately, the cold chamber was nearby.
He had Big Eddie halfway through the entrance of the negative temperature cold chamber when for the second time that day he was interrupted by a loud obnoxious knocking on his front door. Elvis guessed that it wasn't a customer with an emergency. In fact, he had a good idea of who it would be.
Sheriff Rivera stood at the front entrance with a most impatient expression on his face.
'Hello Sheriff,'� Elvis said cordially, 'how can I help you today?'�
'Hello Elvis, have any visitors today?'� Sheriff Rivera said, smirking.
'No. I haven't. Should I be expecting someone?'�
'You haven't had any visitors today? I find that hard to believe.'�
'No. Been all day alone catching up on some work.'�
'Elvis, please don't play stupid with me. You've managed to convince every one else that you're a simple harmless mortician. I know you're up to more than that. Now, tell me, where is Edward Jasper?'�
'Don't know who you're talking about. I've never met anyone by that name.'�
'You are really trying my patience. I know for a fact that Edward Jasper came to see you. He goes by the name Big Eddie. He called me right before he came over. He's a friend of mine and I sent him over here to check you out.'�
'So, now your sending civilians to spy on me? Is that legal, Sheriff?'�
'It was because the two of you had similar business interests. Don't turn this around on me smart guy. If you haven't seen him, then who's car is that parked at the end of the curb?'�
Elvis followed Sheriff Rivera's gaze and outstretched pointer finger. There was a green Ford Taurus sitting right where he described. There were no other cars around except for Elvis'. It of course had to be Big Eddie's.
'I'm sorry Sheriff. I can't help you with that. Now, please, if you'll excuse me, I really have to get going.'�
'What are you up to in there?'�
Sheriff Rivera started to push his way in but Elvis stood his ground and put his hand up.
'I'm sorry, I can't let you in. I'm very busy.'�
'Doing what?'�
'I told you. Working.'�
'I think I should have a look around Elvis.'�
'I don't think so. Maybe if you get a search warrant you could but I see your hands are empty so goodbye for now.
Sheriff Rivera hesitated. He seemed to want to say something else but bit his tongue. He backed away from the doorjamb and walked back to his patrol car. He turned his head and glared at Elvis.
'Yeah. For now Elvis. Play it cool for now, but I'll be back.'�
Elvis smiled and waved. When Sheriff Rivera's car was out of sight, he closed the door and locked it tight. He collapsed to the floor and loosened the scrubs. He was sweating profusely underneath and he felt as if he were going to suffocate. Sheriff Rivera said he was playing it cool. Elvis had to laugh to himself. He'd just barely kept his composure. He looked at his hands and they shook. If the sheriff had arrived merely ten minutes earlier, Elvis would've been caught.

Elvis stripped Big Eddie of anything potentially valuable or interesting. He skimmed through his wallet and I.D. Big Eddie was who he'd said he was. The only thing he found worth holding on to was Big Eddie's car keys. Elvis' luck continued to hold up. The green Taurus outside was a rental. The car keys had a plastic key chain with the car rentals address and phone number. Elvis tossed the rest of his belongings into the incinerator. Elvis waited a good half hour before he pulled Big Eddie's body out of the cold chamber. He didn't want Sheriff Rivera pulling another surprise visit. Plus, he needed to allow the crematorium to reach the correct temperature.
This time, Elvis pulled out two giant meat hooks that he'd employed in the past to move heavy customers. The living relatives had never and would never know about it of course because to them t would have seemed barbaric but the truth was, it helped tremendously especially with a heavy frozen body. It was easier to get a grip on the carcass.
Elvis dragged Big Eddie into the cremation room. On the floor was a cardboard box with one end marked 'head'�. It was in this flimsy coffin Big Eddie would errantly exit this world. Elvis was exhausted from dragging Big Eddie but he had more to go so he collected himself. He rolled the body into the bottom half of the box. The momentum of the body tipped the box over and Big Eddie rolled out on the other side. Elvis sighed, took a deep breath and tried it again. This time the body rocked back and forth for a moment before coming to a rest. Elvis put the top on and slid the box toward the entrance of the retort. He opened the door and a great hot wind slapped him in the face.
He grabbed the bottom of the cardboard coffin and stood it up. Then he pushed it forward and tipped it in to the 1800-degree oven. He gave the box one last heave and shut the door quickly to not let any more heat out. All he had left to do was return the car and he would be done with Big Eddie. He hoped.
As usual, the street that ran parallel to his funeral home was devoid of any movement. Across from him sat an enclosed trailer park. Eight-foot high shrubs surrounded the property, which prevented anyone from seeing what was happening on the other side and vice versa. Not that there was anything particularly interesting happening in the trailer park. Elvis knew this for a fact since at least a third of his customers had been from this area. He supposed that at this very moment, there were at least half a dozen couples having sex in dirty beds. They'd all be wearing wedding rings but coincidentally weren't married to the person grunting and sweating on top of them.
Elvis casually strode to the Taurus, keys in hand and occasionally looking over his shoulders for any surprises or any witnesses. Once he was satisfied he was alone, he started the car and drove towards the car rental place.
He was halfway there when he saw a police car following him in the rearview mirror. He squinted his eyes and peered into his side view mirror trying to make out the face. It wasn't Rivera, just one of his patrolmen, but nonetheless, he was sure the tail had been Rivera's idea. Elvis frantically searched the buildings he drove by for a place to hide and lose the cop.
Elvis was approaching a light. It was green but shortly would turn red. Elvis drove slowly and entered the turning lane. There was a gray pickup truck to his right with its blinkers on trying to enter his lane. But, since he was creeping along, the truck couldn't get in. Elvis hit the gas suddenly and put enough distance between himself and the cop that the gray pickup took advantage and moved in between them. Elvis saw the light ahead turn yellow and he gunned it. Only he made it leaving the pickup and more importantly the cop behind.
He didn't let up off the gas until found a dark alley with a garbage dumpster at the end of it to hid in. He entered the alley in reverse and eased his way into the buildings shadow. He wanted to be facing the street so he could watch for the cop to drive past him. He waited silently for two minutes with the radio down for the patrolman to pass. When he finally did, Elvis stayed put waiting another ten just to be sure he'd completely lost the tail. Once he felt secure again he slammed the gas again in a desperate hurry to get rid of the two-ton evidence he was driving around in. The car took off and he felt an abrupt and violent hit from the rear of the car. He looked around confused and then down at the gearshift. He'd forgotten to take the car off of reverse.
Elvis exited the car angrily slamming shut the door. He approached the unharmed garbage dumpster and found the trunk of the car had popped open. He went to shut it when something caught his eye. He lifted the trunk completely open and pulled out a silver briefcase. He tried opening it but it was locked. He fumbled through Big Eddie's keys and tried three of them before he found the right one. He unlocked it and stood motionless for a second trying to comprehend what he was seeing when he opened it.
Big Eddie hadn't been lying about having the $500,000 at his disposal. He did fail to mention that he had a lot more than that to offer. Elvis wasn't especially adept at math but he could tell from an initial look that there was much more than that in the briefcase. There was also something else. A simple plain envelope sat on top of the stacks of hundreds. It was marked in blue pen 'Rivera'�. Elvis peeked inside and found several more of Mr. Benjamin's portraits inside. Elvis quickly realized that things might get a lot worse. Sheriff Rivera wasn't only tenacious because of his civic and professional duty, he also had a stake in the business proposition Big Eddie had come so far to pitch. The bastard wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He was planning on putting Elvis away and making a profit off of that.
Elvis quickly shut the case, almost protectively as if someone were watching him at that very moment, closed the trunk and sped off in the car. He reached the car rental without any further incident and graciously denied the car rental's offer to chauffeur him free of charge to his next destination. Instead, he called a taxi. He felt he could splurge this one time.
He had the cab drop him off at the funeral home. He locked up the building, jumped into his own car and drove home. When he got there, his mother was waiting for him in a chair facing the door. She wasn't reading anything this time or even sewing, she was patiently, sternly watching the door. Waiting for him to get home.
'Son, we need to talk.'� It was a tone that suggested grave matters at hand. She hadn't ever been so tense. Elvis' mother was always the most aloof in any crowd. There was nothing jovial in her voice this time.
Elvis wasn't sure exactly what it was that she had on her mind but on the drive home he had reservedly decided to tell her that there was a chance that he might be going to jail or worse. He had to prepare her for any eventuality. He responded shortly with:
'Yes. Yes we do.'�
He still had the suitcase in hand. He set it down next to the chair opposite from his mothers'. He sat himself and sank into the plush cushion. Elvis rubbed his temples and leaned forward. He began to speak but his mother cut him off.
'Mama, I have something to tell you'�'�
'Why did that spic come by the house again?'� She interrupted abruptly. Elvis was unaccustomed to such verbal atrocities and was unsure of whom she meant.
'Who would that be mama?'�
'Rivera. Sheriff Rivera. What have you done Elvis? Why does he keep coming by the house? I had to endure him for a full hour today. I didn't know what to tell him and he wouldn't leave me alone. Like I had something to hide from him. Why is he harassing us Elvis? Tell me now.'�
Her harshness had gotten stronger. Elvis was confused and somewhat frightened. He'd never seen his mother in this state and it was alien to him in a way he never could have imagined. Something inside him broke and he decided it was best to confess everything.
'Mama, I've done some things that you may not be proud of and I can't say that I am either.'�
'What are you talking about?'�
Elvis took a deep breath and stared at the floor. He began telling his tale.
'Sheriff Rivera thinks I did something.'�
'Look at me,'� She snarled.
Elvis immediately picked up his head. He continued.
'Sheriff Rivera is investigating me for several deaths. Including Marie's.'�
He searched for some reaction in her face but she stared at him intensely, unwaveringly.
'He also thinks I had something to do with Craig's death. Mama I just want to say that I'm sorry for all this. I never ''
'Did you do it?'�
The question caught him off guard. Elvis swallowed hard and looked into his mother's kind, old eyes.
'Don't lie to me.'� She said.
Elvis knew he couldn't. A million different truths raced through his mind. Ultimately he settled on telling her the most obvious one.
'Yes.'�
He lowered his face and started to sob. He breathed in long deep gasps and tried valiantly to compose himself. Once he felt he was able to, he lifted his face and looked at his mother again. Her expression hadn't changed.
'Mama? Did you hear what I said? I killed two people. In fact, more than that. I'm probably going to jail. Don't you care?'�
Elvis' mother blinked once and then stood up never taking her gaze off of him. She began running her hands through his hair and said:
'I knew you had honey. I just needed to hear it from you.'�
Elvis wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.
'You did? How?'�
'It's in your blood Elvis. That's how.'�
She petted his head some more. He felt a soft tingling sensation running down the back of his neck and spine. He was safe in her company.
'But mama, doesn't that upset you? I feel terrible about it myself. The guilt destroys me daily.'� Elvis started to sob again.
'Stop it Elvis,'� She said. Elvis' mother stooped over and hugged him. She started rubbing his back whispering comforting 'shh's'� into his ear. She breathed, 'It's ok,'� over and over again rocking him back and forth. Once Elvis pulled himself together again, she held his face and looked into his eyes. She said plainly:
'It's ok honey. You're father did the same thing. It's how the business took off in the first place.'�
Elvis didn't question it. He absorbed it. The business. She meant the funeral parlor. His father had done what was necessary to survive as well. No generation was innocent of last-ditch efforts. No matter how deplorable. He'd killed and somehow he lived long enough to have a son and pass it on. Elvis looked despairingly into his mother's eyes for more answers but there were none. All he needed to know had been revealed in these precious moments. The only real question lay with the present matters at hand.
'What do I do about Sheriff Rivera?'� he asked.
'Don't worry honey. A solution will present itself and everything will work out,'� his mother answered.

For the next two nights, a patrol car sat outside the funeral home. After work, it followed him where another relieved that car of its duty. This car watched his house all night; meanwhile, all night he watched it.
Then one morning, the cars were gone. There wasn't one sitting out front when he left to work, no tail and none waiting for him at the funeral home. Elvis felt no relief, there was something awry but he didn't know what. The answer came to him in that mornings mail at the parlor. He sifted amongst the usual rubble of junk mail and bills when he came across a folded yellow legal pad sheet of paper. He unfolded it. It was a note that read:
'Tonight.
Your place.
We need to talk about business.
We won't be bothered.'�
The mysterious note wasn't signed but it wasn't necessary. Elvis knew this was it. His future rested on that nights meeting with Rivera. He'd probably have to give him half the money to keep him off his back permanently.
Or did he?
What exactly did Rivera have on him? What evidence could he possibly hold over Elvis' head that would force anything out of him?
Elvis quit loitering outside his own business and went inside. He could still smell, only faintly, the odor of the embalming fluid that had spilt onto the carpet after the tussle with Big Eddie. He rubbed the note back and forth against his lips and leaned back in his office chair. He weighed his options but couldn't come up with a solid plan.
The bell of the front door rang and broke his concentration. He looked up into the face a solemn faced woman wearing black. It was a real customer; and one that he hadn't had to kill for.

Elvis's one customer kept him busy the rest of the day and he didn't have a chance to think of the night's meeting again until just before he closed up for the night. The woman had been the widow of one of the nearby beach towns' popular seaside restaurants. There may have been closer, more qualified funeral homes for her to choose from but the deceased had been Jewish. Elvis' surname still drew clientele every once in a great while.
When Elvis left for home, he still didn't have any idea of what to do about Rivera but it turned out that he didn't need to worry about it.
Elvis received a jarring surprise when he turned onto his block. The cop cars had returned in numbers. From his vantage point, there was a minimum of a dozen patrol cars with their reds and blues flashing. They were sprawled across his driveway, his front lawn and they spilled out into the street. His house was engulfed in the purple fire created by the multitude. Yellow caution tape encased the scene keeping at bay the neighbors who had crawled out of their holes to witness the human drama.
The police sentry immediately recognized his car and let him through the flimsy barrier. He put the car in park and jumped out leaving the door open. His only thought was to run to his mother and ensure her safety. A grizzly older policeman he remembered as one of his tails approached the car.
'Where is my mother?'� Elvis shouted frantically.
'She's fine. But there's been an accident,'� the officer replied.
'Is she hurt? What the hell happened?'�
'I told you, she's ok. You'd better go inside and talk to her and get your story straight.'�
A swarm of confusion filled Elvis' head. He exchanged a baffled look with the officer. Grizzly's face remained unreadable so Elvis left him behind and ran inside.
His mother was sitting in her favorite chair, hunched over, crying and murmuring something repeatedly. Elvis couldn't make it out until he got nearer. She was saying, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was an accident, I'm sorry.'� Elvis couldn't figure what she was sorry about. A pretty, dark skinned female officer was rubbing his mother's back trying to console her. She looked up. Her eyes met Elvis' confused ones and her head nodded to her left. Elvis whirled in that direction and almost fainted at the scene before him.
Lying spread eagle in a pool of his own blood was Sheriff Rivera. Elvis first thought was that he'd bled all over his mothers most prized area rug. Then he saw the shotgun at his feet. It was familiar to Elvis. It was familiar because it belonged to his father when he was still alive. Elvis looked back and forth between the body and the gun like it was a riveting tennis match. He saw the gun that Rivera held in his own hand and the spot where his face use to be but was now just a bloody mess.
He turned back to his mother and shooed away the lady cop.
'Please, give us a minute.'�
They were alone for a moment. Detectives stood at the door of his house whispering amongst themselves and photographer was reloading his camera by the dining room table. Elvis hugged his mother and held her face up to him. The instant he did, her tears dried up and that stoic look reappeared.
'Mama, what happened?'�
'It was dark and I thought he was a burglar so I took out my gun and shot him. I had no idea he was a police officer.'�
Elvis could tell she was lying. But, it was more than that; she was rehearsing. She was rehearsing for what she would say in her official statement.
'Sometimes,'� she continued, 'You have to do what is necessary to survive don't you dear?'�
'Yes, mama, I suppose you do.'�
'I hope one day, when you have children, you'll pass on all that you've learned in this life Elvis.'�
' I will mama, I promise I will.'�
Elvis hoped to pass on more than that. He hoped one day to pass on the family business.






The End

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