Two days had passed since the strange carnival. Billy wondered about plenty of weird stuff, as he and Skipper rode through the rusty iron filigreed gates of Mount Olivet Cemetery out New York Avenue extended, on a sultry morning. Their dubious chauffeur was none other than sergeant Phil Carlisle, Billy’s erstwhile arresting officer.
Their current “ride” was Cruiser 269 of the DC blue-and-whites fleet. As they joined the tail end of Elaine Clopton’s meager funeral procession, angry salsa music poured out an apartment window across Bladensburg Road from the boneyard. Officiating over the yawning grave was none other than Reverend Rand himself, of the Mission of Last Resort, back down the avenue. It appeared the joint was short a gravedigger– Macedonia Greene was wielding the main shovel, and had done a mighty job indeed, judging from the mud splattered on to her ample coveralls and helmet.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to remember the brief but joyful.. life of the deceased, Miss Elaine Clopton…” Rand glanced nervously about, tugged unnecessarily at his soiled white dinner jacket (with the wilted carnation in one lapel), and snuck a gulp from his little flat flask, nestled in its brown bag.
“He sure gets around,” muttered Billy to Skipper, in a dry stage whisper. She winked, and nudged Billy back.
“I’ve been meaning to do outreach with Rev’ Rand and his poor flock, I have,” she hissed softly.
“Well, I hope you do better’n I did when I was part of that flock one night- you couldn’t even get close to him–”
Skipper smiled patiently at Billy Luck. “Oh, don’t worry about a thing. Don’t you expect I know how to get to any man, even a wrung out padre like him?”
Sergeant Carlisle leaned in with a leer, saying, “I’ve got my eye on you two– better believe that!” Skipper pretended to ignore her onetime flame and pushed him back, jokingly.
(To be continued)
