Bosco kneeled beside her, whispering something in her ear. Tom didn’t hear what it was, but she hugged Bosco and began to cry on his shoulder. Tom took that moment to get back in the van, covertly checking out the damage to his face.
His lower lip was split, bleeding, and he felt nauseous from the rush of adrenaline. He hated to see anyone in so much pain, and he hung his head down, fighting against the heat stinging his eyes.
Fuck, sometimes his job really sucked.
Even as he nursed his bleeding lip with a napkin from the glove compartment, he knew the worst part of his day wasn’t over yet.
After all, he still had a drug deal to make tonight.
“You okay?” Bosco asked as he got back behind the wheel.
“I’m fine,” Tom muttered.
Bosco seemed to accept his blatant lie and began driving back to the funeral home. He flipped through the radio before settling on a rap station.
That made Tom smile. “He liked rap, huh?”
“Supa Dupa Flywas on top of this stack of CD’s next to the TV,” Bosco explained. He offered a rare smile and turned the volume up.
It was one of those little things Bosco liked to do. He’d try to figure out what sort of music the deceased liked so they could listen to it on the way back. Most of the time he guessed. It wasn’t part of the normal set of questions one would ask a family when their loved one just died.
The effort, however, Tom always found very sweet.
When they returned to the funeral home, Bosco let Tom get out to go through the flower door to open up the garage bay. Bosco backed the van in so they could then unload Mr. Dresser discreetly.
Tom punched in the key code for the hallway door and propped it open, pushing the stretcher with Mr. Dresser inside. Behind him, Bosco was already loading up another stretcher to replace the one they’d used.
“Hey,” Bosco grunted.
“What?”
“I’ll handle the paperwork after I move the van,” Bosco said. “Go get cleaned up.”
“Thanks.” Tom closed the hallway door and left young Mr. Dresser by the cooler. His lip was still throbbing. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone, making a beeline for the employee bathrooms next to the break room.
As he rounded the corner to dash inside the men’s room, he nearly smacked right into Earl, who was coming out. “Shit! Hey!”
“Jesus blessed Christmas, Tom!” Earl snapped, clutching his chest. He was obviously quite startled. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not half as sorry as the piss running down my leg! My God!” Earl complained.
“Are you okay?” Tom patted his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Earl.”
“I’ll send you my therapy bill,” Earl quipped, narrowing his eyes suddenly. “What the hell happened to you?”
“The Dresser removal. The mom… she did not take it very well.”
“It looks like she took it out on your face.” Earl reached into his pocket, offering a handkerchief. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Tom brushed by Earl and quickly locked himself in the tiny bathroom. He studied his reflection, grimacing at the crusty blood that had dried on his chin.
He could still hear Mrs. Dresser’s screaming, feel the desperation in her voice, and the anguish washed over him like a tidal wave. He took a few deep breaths until it passed and splashed some water on his face.
Carefully, he wet Earl’s handkerchief and scrubbed off the blood. He saw a drop had made it down onto his white dress shirt, resolving to find some hydrogen peroxide later before the stain set in.
At least it was his blood this time. It usually wasn’t with his line of work.
