Partners in Crime

Hank had worked for my grandfather even longer than my daddy.

In addition to being a licensed funeral director, he acted as limousine and hearse driver, pall bearer and casket carrier, all around handyman and jack of all trades. He supervised the interns, did small repairs, cleaned up the morgue and was on call around the clock. If the power went out, the walk needed shoveling or the windows washing, you called Hank. If a car wouldn't start, the water heater sprung a leak, or the pipe organ needed repairing, you called Hank. If you needed to find my daddy, wherever he was, or needed a ride home from school, you called Hank. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, you called Hank.

He was a huge, bulky man with a perpetual scowl, a taciturn nature and an untamed mane of thick, silver hair that would never stay in place. His collars were always too tight and his vest buttons seemed to strain at the seams as if they might pop off at any moment. He stood well over six feet and was an imposing if slightly sinister figure at wakes and services, standing motionless and watchfully overseeing the proceedings from the shadows, ready to intervene at the first breach of etiquette or the first awkwardness. He was, my daddy said, an extra pair of hands, always thinking three steps ahead and prepared to handle the unexpected with polished skill and such efficiency that it was barely noticeable. Since he so rarely smiled or displayed emotion, it was easy to think him distant, certainly intimidating, even forbidding, when just the opposite was true. Despite his size and football player build, despite his gruffness and one word answers, despite his overall bearish-ness, his heart was breakable and kind.
When he grew a silvery mustache, he looked all the world like a combination of mafia knee breaker and Santa Claus- elegant, well dressed and manicured, but with a faint scent of menace mixed with his Old Spice.

It was said that on his rare nights off, he prowled the Boston clubs and the Cambridge underground, a lavish blonde on each arm. It was said that he was on speaking terms with gangsters as far away as Providence and with detectives as far away as New York. All anyone knew for certain was that he often did not return until the following morning and after a quick shave and shower, would go immediately back to work. He spoke to no one of his off time, he was wife-less and childless, worked most holidays and could level anyone curious enough to ask about his personal life with a level but icy glare. My daddy would smile at the speculation and rumors but never denied or confirmed a word. He minds his business, he told me once, and expects you to mind your's.

His blind side turned out to be a surprising and remarkable lack of foresight in the simplest of things. He grew tired and exasperated at the habit of the interns pocketing the company keys to the two hearses and limousines.
He tried making extra sets of keys without success. He tried dismantling the door locks without success. He tried dire threats and docking their pay without success. And finally he hit upon a foolproof scheme and spent an entire morning welding the keys to a length of chain and the chain to the dashboard of each vehicle. As if by engraved invitation, all four cars were promptly stolen.

He hit the Cambridge streets in a black mood and within 24 hours each vehicle was back in it's place, no questions asked, no damage done, no police reports filed. Sometimes, my daddy told me, not knowing whether to be furious or admiring, it pays to have friends in low places.