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Author’s note: This was originally intended as a bridge in the novelette Charlie Stone: Undertaker. I couldn’t make it work so instead wrote it as a short story and finished the novel as two novelettes.

The life of an undertaker is a lonely one. Most women find it hard to be aroused by a man who plays with dead things for a living and it narrows a man’s choices in the dating world. Linda Campbell was not your ordinary woman, however, and as such had invited me to dinner at a place down town called Franc's. She did it not so much as a gesture of romantic interest but as a business proposition; she needed a story for her weekly column on the undead and as the head of the local funeral home I was the man she needed. Being the gentleman my grandfather had tried to teach me to be meant I had to pick her up at her place and, worst of all, dress for the occasion. When your standard attire is a black coverall with an undertaker’s badge and a side arm, a suit and tie can become uncomfortable.

I showed up at a quarter till seven at her front door, my three day beard freshly shaven and my shirt barely tucked into the only pair of decent dress slacks I owned. I was nervous and unsure of what to do. Her exact request had been something along the lines of asking me to dinner as part of an interview for her column and had somehow become a more extravagant affair. My bid for Tupee’s Cafeteria had been quickly shot down and replaced by the more upscale Franc’s in the downtown area near city hall. To that end she was dressed and ready to go when I arrived, looking far nicer than I had expected. Linda answered the door wearing a blue blouse, top buttons opened to show of her most ample assets and was complimented by a dark colored mini-skirt and silver necklace. She had curled her long black hair and colored her eyes a light blue to match the rest of her outfit.

And I looked like a used car salesman.

I ushered her down the narrow stairwell and into the parking lot where my old green Cutlass sat idling. I wasn’t really afraid of anyone stealing the twenty year old P.O.S. as it had more rust and body damage than half the vehicles at the local scrap yard. She smiled and gracefully slid onto the cracked vinyl seats as I held the door for her. She must have seen me looking her over and blushed a little.

"I don’t get around like I did in college so I thought I’d try and look decent tonight."

"You look great." I answered and blushed out of reflex. It was amazing how a pretty girl could turn any man into a bashful, uncertain teenager with her smile.

We made the trip in an awkward sort of silence arriving at Franc's before eight. I felt like I was sixteen all over again, inexperienced with the girl in third period riding beside me on our way to a show. Only this wasn't a date, it was an interview and I was supposed to be a professional. Then again, she didn't seem very professional either, fiddling with her purse and dodging my glances every time we made eye contact. We arrived a bit before eight at a small covered entrance where a man in a red vest greeted my car. I looked him over, found a name tag that read "Steve" in crooked letters and hesitantly handed him my keys.

"Should I park this or take it to the scrap yard for you?" he asked, thinking he was clever. He wasn’t.

"Just don't scratch it," I told him as he got in. "You won't like what happens to you if it comes back scratched."

A wild sort of fear filled his eyes as he drove off into the night with my car. I extended my arm to Linda who graciously accepted.

"So what happened to the last guy that scratched your car?" she asked as we climbed the stairs.

"He was a rotter." I answered, opening the door. "He smashed my windshield with a stick and knocked off my rearview mirror. It really pissed me off so I shot him. Pardon my French." I added the apology as an after thought; a thing I hadn’t done since I was a boy.

We were seated at a little table near the kitchen, a checkered table cloth and soothing candle light adding to the intimate atmosphere as people buzzed and talked about us.

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