Sherry's Story

A Mob Funeral

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything to do with the Sin City franchise, etc, etc.

lll

In the morning, I got a call from John Hardigan. “I know the funeral is today, but if you could come down for questioning, I’d appreciate it.” He paused for a moment. “We found something at Kershaw’s estate that you should see.”

“What is it? Is it something bad?”

“I’d rather not tell you over the phone, Sherry. So will you swing by?”

I saw no point in delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later, I would have to do it, and I learned a long time ago that it was best to face something unpleasant and get it over with as quickly as possible. Besides, I was a bit curious about what it was that John didn’t want to tell me over the phone.

“Sure, we’ll be there.” After I hung up, I told Ben what was in the wind.

“What did he mean by he’s found ‘something’?” Ben asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Is there some chance you might have missed something?”

Ben shook his head firmly. “I didn’t miss nothin,’ I’m sure of it.” He was trying to be reassuring but I saw doubt in his pale blue eyes. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

He helped me on with my coat and we left the apartment. “Don’t worry about it, babe. If whatever he found was serious, or proved you did it, he woulda been at our door with guns drawn. Aw, shit. I didn’t mean it like that.”

As Ben was still a member of Don Battaglio’s crew, he had to attend the funeral. I was torn over whether or not I should go as well, but, Ben was my husband, and my place was at his side. Although, I knew Ben well enough that if I refused to attend, he wouldn’t have insisted or pressured me.

lll

The funeral was a real who’s who event in Sin City; the governor and mayor was there, even Senator Roarke attended, a son flanking him on either side. The funeral cortege was nothing like residents had ever seen before—twenty limousines filled with immediate family, business associates, and the elite of the Mob underworld were followed by an endless group of expensive dark sedans slowly made its way through the city streets, snarling traffic to no end.

The citizens of Basin City knew very well who was being buried—Richard’s murder had been the banner headline in all the state’s newspapers since the moment of his death. If there were any who were pissed with being stuck in traffic for hours, they wisely kept their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves. However, the upheaval of their usual routines on this drab and dark fall day, the resilient, long-suffering citizens of Sin City received an unexpected reward—they enjoyed several hours of crime-free streets, as most of the criminals, petty or underworld, were attending the funeral.

Most churches had a coat check area, but only at a Mob funeral would this be turned into one specifically for guns. On the table inside the well-guarded vestibule were there were enough handguns to equip every cop in the city with two or three, at least. It would have been a good thing if that happened—the caliber of the weapons on the table was greater than any police-issued revolver.

Two sentinels in black suits who were checking all the men who came in and put the gun’s owner’s name on a tag and he would collect it after the service. The women were only subjected to a brief purse inspection before we could enter. I suppose it never occurred to them to check our garters—I knew many women in my old profession who concealed blades on their person that way and knew how to use them.

The church was standing room only; only those who were expressly invited by either Richard’s surviving family or who had Mob contacts were allowed to sit in the pews. Ben and I were one of those, although we certainly did not want to be. We were seated close to the front and my eyes were riveted on the polished mahogany casket that rested on a flower-bedecked trolley. It dominated my entire view and the only way I could get any peace was to lower my eyes and stare at my clasped hands in my lap. Ben’s arm was on my shoulders and I was grateful for his strength.

Even now, I could not hate Richard Kershaw and what he had done to me. In my early days of prostitution, he had been a friend and more when I needed one. Father figure, friend, lover, he had been all three and left a lasting impression on my memories and feelings that I would never get over. Now he was dead.

My nose was running and I searched in my handbag for a tissue.

“You okay, babe?” Ben whispered.

I shook my head. I could not speak because of the lump in my throat.

“This thing’s winding down, thank God. We’ll be outta here soon. Hang in there.”

Swell, I thought. Once we leave, I have to go to the police station and be given the third degree. Everyone knew that from the governor on down, Basin City Police Department was under intense pressure to solve the case and put Sin City’s most famous shyster’s murderer behind bars.

The eulogy was coming to a close, although I hadn’t digested a word of it. It was surreal; sitting in that packed church watching the funeral service of a man I cared for very deeply.

To give myself something to do, I scanned the crowd and spotted many of Richard’s enemies seated at the back of the church, most of them were either staring at the ceiling or broadly smirking when they thought no one was watching them. In front of them were scores of Mafiosos from other parts of the state to Sin City’s own. The capos, or captains, were older men who preferred to dress in somber colours. The younger men, who made up the crews, were also dressed in dark colours but had showy ties and artfully folded silk handkerchiefs that peeked from their blazer pockets. Next to them were the bull-necked men, affectionately dubbed “the enforcers” who constantly tugged at their shirt collars; they were used to wearing brass knuckles and open-necked shirts than a suit and tie.

Quite a few of the men attending had a scantily dressed and overly made up young woman beside them. I shook my head as some of own memories came to mind. Most of the women I recognized--there wasn’t a prostitute in Sin City always knew didn’t know who her competition was. All of the whores here would be very well paid to provide horizontal comfort before they returned to their brothel of origin--but that wouldn’t happen for hours yet. I knew from experience that after a widely attended occasion such as this, there were going to be many private get-togethers afterward. The men would catch up on business and gossip, renew acquaintances, smoke cigars, and drink enough brandy to sink a battleship before they were ready to close the day with a good hard fuck.

Judging by what I saw, the brothels must have been emptied to supply these men with “escorts.” Whorehouses always did a brisk business on important occasions like these, when any self-respecting mobster would never be caught dead coming alone. Parties and weddings were the only time a crime lord and his underlings brought their wives anywhere—their place was at home, minding the children and remaining blissfully ignorant of how their husbands really earned their money.

I turned my attention back to the casket and cringed. It must have been difficult for the mortuary to squeeze Richard’s body in there. Richard had been a large man; I wouldn’t say he was obese, but he would have had an incredible physique if he were forty pounds lighter. As a result, his weight required his pallbearers be a group of strapping younger men. With a collective grunt, six of the Mob’s brawniest heavies hefted the heavy casket onto their shoulders and slowly made their way to the cemetery. Jones was among them; for once, he was not wearing his dark glasses and I saw the tears that sparkled in his eyes. This tempered his usual stoic expression and made him appear like a man, not an automaton. To Jones, Richard had been more than an employer--he had been a friend and a close confidant.

The casket was lowered into the ground and I heard a woman cry out. I turned my head in time to see Francesca, Richard’s stout and stately Italian mother, fall to her knees on the ground. She wept, and the sound of her lament could be heard from one end of the churchyard to the other. Her keening moans of overwhelming grief tore at my soul. At the time, I could not imagine what it was like for a mother to see her only child put into the cold earth.

It would be nearly fifty years until I comprehended the scope of the despair she was enduring.

The priest said a few more words and the service was over. Ben left me, saying he was going off to meet someone but didn’t invite me to tag along. While I waited until he returned, I pretended to busy myself with reading the fading names on the century-old tombstones until I saw the dates of their deaths. I was saddened to see how many children were buried here; many had died before their fifth birthday. It should be a sin for mothers to have to bury their children, I thought.

I straightened up and groaned when I saw Jones and Don Battaglio coming towards me. To my surprise, Sin City’s most powerful mobster gave me a kiss on each cheek and hugged me. To anyone watching us, it looked as if he was murmuring condolences in my ear but he was not.

“I know you killed him, Sherry. I don’t know how you accomplished that, but I give you my word that I will not rest until you are tried for his murder.”

“The police never found one scrap of evidence against me,” I hissed.

“Just because they didn’t find any evidence, does not mean that there was no evidence to be found. Evidence can be destroyed or hidden—I’ve done it many times. Richard Kershaw was a made man. Because of you, my men now have a bigger chance of going to prison.”

I was furious and too damn angry to be cautious. “They should all be in jail, especially you! How many good cops are lying in their graves because of your organization?”

“All things considered, not nearly enough,” sneered the Don.

“Bastard!” My hand lashed out and caught the fat Italian-American unawares. His jowly cheeks and wattle shook from the force of my slap.

“I will take great pleasure in making you pay for that.”

“Anytime, anywhere, asshole,” I said, tossing my head in what I hoped was an unconcerned gesture. In reality, I was scared shitless, but I was damned if I was going to let this gangster know that.

“I’ve learned that a good cop is someone who hasn’t received a large enough bribe. And as for my men who should be jailed for their crimes, your husband would rank among that number as well. Do you know how many serious crimes he’s committed since coming into my employ?”

I raised my hand to strike him again but Jones stepped forward and held my wrist in an iron grip. “Sherry, we are friends. And as your friend, I’m asking you to back off, OK?” he reached down and touched his sidearm. “Please?”

I clenched my hands so hard that my knuckles were white from strain. I knew that as long as I didn’t move toward the Don, Jones would not shoot me. But the leader of all criminal activity in Sin City had other ideas.

“You big oaf, don’t just stand there, shoot her!”

Jones turned his steely stoic gaze on his employer, intimidating him with his physical size and his deceptively mild tone of voice. “She is no threat to you, sir. I won’t shoot her.” Jones looked over at me. “I think it’s best if you leave, Sherry.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. Once we got in the car, Ben and I headed to the police station. From time to time, Ben reached over to squeeze my knee comfortingly, although he never said a word. He knew I had enough on my mind.