The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

  Back in my room I opened the FedEx envelope and shook out the bills and an assortment of change.

  $567.89. And, true to form, no note. Not that I'd asked for one.

  Under certain circumstances, the odd amount would mean Mom had sent whatever was lying around, but that wasn't the case here.

  Five hundred.

  Sixty.

  And seven dollars.

  Eighty.

  And nine cents.

  Five six seven eight nine, an ascending numerical sequence. Sent specifically to bring me luck, to raise my spirits, to lift my fortunes.

  I'm lucky there wasn't a crystal pyramid in the envelope.

  Five hundred sixty-seven and eighty-nine cents. Enough to cover the new phone, buy some groceries and pay off some of the IOUs on the fridge.

  I thought about what I'd do the next day. Sleep in. Have some coffee. Pick up around the place, clean the tub. Go do some grocery shopping. Maybe hit the bookstore for a few novels. Get the latest issue of Femmes Fatale. Stop by the shop. Have lunch. Buy a couple DVDs. Come home and have some dinner. Watch a movie. And in bed by seven. Just like pretty much every day this last year. Any day when I had money, that is.

  I thought about it. How nice and mellow it would be. A day to myself after having to be around people and be at Po Sin's beck and call and hear all his shit.

  Yeah, a me day as a reward for all that hard work.

  I picked up the handset from the phone I'd brought into the bedroom.

  —Clean Team.

  —Hey it's Web.

  —Yeah?

  —You find anyone for tomorrow?

  —Why?

  —Nothing.

  —Didn't get any money from mommy today?

  —No.

  —Well, you want to work, all you got to do is say so.

  —I want to work.

  PIPE BOMB IN THE ASS

  There was a lot of blood at the Malibu beach house. And it was everywhere. Really everywhere.

  Gabe studied the thick maroon blotch at the center of a lighter red eruption splashed over the wall and headboard, all of it studded with gray and yellow and pink gobbets of dangling matter.

  He fingered a strip of yellow tape, marked like a yardstick, that ran up the edge of the wall. Near the top it intersected with another piece that ran horizontally just over the highest point of the mess. He looked at that point.

  —That wasn't a nine.

  The deputy coughed in the doorway.

  —Yeah, what we thought. But it was. He did it with a mouth full of water.

  Gabe looked again at the dry blood.

  —That would do it.

  I thought about high school science classes. How shock waves travel through water. I thought about what would happen if you filled a soda can with water and stuck the barrel of a gun in the hole and pulled the trigger. And then the deputy filled in the gaps in my imagination.

  —The water shredded his cheeks. Crushed his nasal passages and ripped his nose off. Some of it was forced down his throat and it turned his tongue inside out and punched a hole in the bottom of his stomach. Goes without saying it took the whole back of his head off. Everything behind the ears.

  He rapped his knuckle on the wall opposite the bed.

  —Created so much pressure in his sinuses, his eyes popped out. We found one of them over here.

  I looked through the open door that led to the master bath. Blood spackled the white tile and porcelain and bath towels. My reflection in the mirror over the twin sinks was glazed with dried streaks of red. Beyond, through a door at the far end of the bathroom, and let me just say that it was a really big fucking bathroom, I could see more blood spattering the carpet, chair and desk in what looked to be a small den. Small by the standards of this house, that is.

  But those rooms were nothing compared with the bedroom. The bed-room looked painted in blood, but not well painted, mind you. Painted, in point of fact, by a collection of one-armed troglodytes employing bundles of reeds rather than brushes and rollers. Painted in dripping and splotchy reds, maroons and purples punctuated by bits and clots of gray and white and black, and the occasional twisted knot of tendon.

  —This is unfuckingbelievable.

  Gabe and the deputy looked at me.

  I held out my arms, bugging my eyes.

  —What? Am I wrong? I mean, this is unfuckingreal. This is. Water in the mouth? Water in the mouth gets you this? Myfuckinggod.

  The deputy looked at Gabe.

  —Where'd you find him?

  Gabe picked at something imbedded in the wall, his fingernails rimmed with dry yellow paint.

  —Po Sin knows him.

  —You tell him about the pipe bomb?

  Gabe took a Leatherman from the nylon case on his belt and unfolded it into pliers.

  —Be my guest.

  The deputy put his hands on his hips.

  —Guy was ex-military

  He looked at Gabe.

  —Right?

  Gabe closed the tips of the pliers over whatever was in the wall.

  —I think so, yeah.

  The deputy looked back at me.

  —OK, ex-military guy wanted to off himself. So he made a pipe bomb.

  I put my hand to my forehead.

  —No.

  —Yeah. And to do it, what he did was, he sat on it. And I don't mean sat on it, I mean he sat on it. Full insertion.

  I put my other hand on my forehead.

  —Oh no.

  He nodded.

  —Yeah. Pipe bomb in the ass. And, here we go, he does this while seated on his water bed.

  —Oh shit.

  —You'd think. But here's what happened. The, what, the internal dynamics of a bomb in the rectal passage were such that the force of the explosion went straight up. Not only did the bed not burst, but by giving slightly while still offering resistance, it helped to focus the blast upward. Thing went off, it scoured his viscera, guts, lungs, everything, shot them up through his head and out the top of his skull. Like a fountain. The whole room got sprayed, but other than looking a little bloated, and, you know, his head being gone from the eyebrows up, he was intact. And the bed was peachy.

  He made pistol fingers and pointed at me.

  —That was a fucking mess.

  Gabe twisted the pliers and pulled something free of the wall and inspected it.

  —Yeah. It was a big job.

  He dropped the object in his palm and walked to the deputy, folding the Leatherman away.

  —You need this for anything?

  I walked over and looked at the large silver-filled molar he was showing the deputy.

  The deputy shook his head.

  —No. We finished in here. No way to fake a scene like this. Don't need teeth in the wall to tell us what happened. He made it easy. Note. All that.

  I walked to the door and looked down the hall. I could see Po Sin on the couch next to the girl who'd let us in. The two of them going over papers on a clipboard, the girl signing her name. Po Sin taking a travel pack of Kleenex from his breast pocket and handing it to her as she set the clipboard aside and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  I looked back in the room.

  —So why'd he do it?

  The deputy looked at me.

  —Brain tumor.

  He pointed at what had been a head, now gored all over the wall.

  —Guess he showed it who was boss.

  In the driveway Gabe and I put on our Tyveks and I watched Po Sin palm the deputy a fifty.

  —Thanks for the referral, Mercer. Hope we can do some more business over here.

  Mercer pocketed the cash.

  —No problem.

  He opened the door of his patrol car.

  —Far as I'm concerned, Aftershock's off the referral list. Last job I put them onto, a teenager did her wrists in the bathtub, right. Found out she was pregnant or something. Anyway, door closed. Hardly any splatter at all. Plastic shower curtain. Couple towels. Easy a
s hell. A month after they were in there, the girl's brother uses the tub for the first time, to wash the family dog, right. Has Fido in there, running the water to get it warm how his best little friend likes it. What happens is, the water starts backing up, starts filling the tub, and it's fucking red. Drain was choked with dry blood and feces from the girl. Those Aftershock rocket scientists, they poured some Drano in there and called it a day. Little boy is already traumatized from his sister having to take a real long nap, and now bloody water's gushing up from the drain and his dog is spazzing out. Family calls Aftershock, pretty justifiably upset, and Morton tells them it's not his problem. Tells them he did his job and they signed off on the work. He'll be happy to send someone over, but he'll have to draw up a new invoice. Fucking prick. And guess who gets the next call? They have my fucking card ’cause I was first on the scene. Want to know why the people I suggested to them to clean up after their tragedy won't take care of their responsibilities? Want to know what I can do about it, right? Well, last thing I need is these people getting upset with me and putting in a call to the Civil Litigation Unit and end up with those fuckers asking me what the hell I'm doing giving referrals for private contractors. So I call fucking Morton and tell him to get his ass over there and take care of it before I call a friend in Parking Enforcement and see that his fucking van has a ticket on it every time it's on the street.

  He took his hat off and tossed it inside the car.

  —So fuck them and fuck the guild. From now on, you're top of the list west as well as east side. And I'll spread the word.

  Po Sin gave him a thumbs-up.

  —Much appreciated.

  —My pleasure. I refer you guys, you get the job done. And you've never stiffed me.

  He got in the car and pulled down the short drive to the PCH, waited for a hole in the traffic, and headed south.

  Po Sin came over to the van, stripping off his Clean Team shirt and reaching for the Tyvek Gabe held out to him.

  —To protect and to serve, Web, to protect and to serve.

  I scooped brains.

  I scooped them with a wide plastic paint scraper from a ninety-nine-cent store, and I wiped them onto blue industrial paper towels, I dropped the towels in red biohazard bags and dropped the bags in a fifty-gallon plastic garbage can with a Clean Team sticker on the side.

  Po Sin watched.

  —Spray some more up there.

  I took the spray bottle from tool belt and sprayed some hydrogen peroxide, and specks of blood and brain I'd missed on the counter foamed white.

  Po Sin nodded, pursed his lips.

  —See, you miss stuff. No matter how close you look, there's always more.

  He took a step toward the bedroom where he and Gabe were dealing with the real environmental disaster.

  —And stop taking off your mask.

  I blew out my cheeks.

  —What, it doesn't smell or anything, there aren't any cockroaches trying to crawl in my mouth.

  —No, but there's dry blood, and it will flake and go airborne and you'll inhale it.

  I pointed at the fogger in the bedroom.

  —I thought the Microban killed everything.

  —It does. It should. But it's still considered a bad idea to breathe other people's dry blood. Trust me on that one.

  —Fine, fine.

  I put the mask over my mouth and went back to scraping and wiping. Cleaning the blood and brains. Throwing away the ruined terry-cloth towels and bathmat and a thick robe that had been draped over the shower rod, and the fuzzy cover on the toilet seat. Opening the cabinet doors and looking inside and spraying hydrogen peroxide, in case one of them had been open when the guy did it. Doing the same with the drawers. Checking the back of the shower curtain liner. Peeling the liner from the curtain and looking between them. Finding spots of blood in the grout between tiles and getting down on my knees and working at it with a toothbrush, trying to scrub it from the porous material. Spinning the roll of toilet paper on its spindle and finding a dry pink blot soaked through dozens of layers. Tossing the roll in with the other hazards. Finishing. Standing in the middle of the huge bathroom and turning in place, finding no sign that death came here.

  And liking that feeling. Things back as they had been. Better than they had been. Like nothing had ever gone wrong.

  Clean. Blank. New.

  I nodded to myself.

  —Never know the stupid fucker was too lame to just eat some pills or stick his head in a plastic bag or some shit like normal losers.

  —Oh my God.

  I looked over at the open door of the den, and found the girl who had signed the contract with Po Sin standing there.

  She stared at me, both hands covering her mouth.

  —Oh. Oh, my Gaaawd!

  She turned, shoulders shaking, and ran.

  I looked up where heaven is supposed to be kept.

  —Crap.

  Po Sin appeared at the other door.

  —What? What the hell was that? Who was that?

  I pointed at the den.

  —The girl. I didn't know she was. She snuck up on me.

  From the den we could hear muffled, choked sobs.

  He stepped into the bathroom, pulling his mask from his face, hissing.

  —What the fuck, Web? What did you do?

  —Nothing, man. I was talking to myself. I was. I didn't know she was there.

  He stared at me, looked at the door the girl had stood in, tiptoed to it and peeked in the den. He looked over his shoulder and waved me over. I crept to his side and looked in the room. The girl was standing in the corner where two walls of bookcases converged, her back to us, shoulders jerking, sounds hitching in her throat.

  Po Sin stuck his index finger in my chest and then pointed at the girl.

  I shook my head.

  He balled his hand into a fist, put it close to my face, pointed at the girl again.

  I shook my head.

  He leaned down, put his mouth to my ear.

  —You get your ass in there and apologize for whatever asshole comment came out of your mouth right now or you will never work a day with me again.

  He straightened, glaring down at me, mouthing words.

  Grow the fuck up!

  And he turned and walked back into the bedroom, back to helping Gabe cut away the blood-soaked portions of the mattress so they could be bagged for disposal.

  I stood in the pristine bathroom. Cleaner now, no doubt, than it had been since the day the house was built. I looked at the gleam and shine on every surface. I looked at what I had done to make things look normal again. I thought about maybe being able to do that some more, make things the way they were.

  And then, for some reason, I thought of the Flying Dutchman bus I saw the other morning. Thought of it ghosting the streets.

  And shook it off.

  I looked at the girl's heaving back and shoulders.

  —Crap.

  I crossed the room, pulling the mask from my face, lifting the safety glasses to my forehead.

  —Um. Excuse. Um. I didn't mean any.

  Her shoulders shook harder.

  I peeled the rubber gloves from my hands and wiped sweat off my forehead.

  —Look. I really. I didn't mean anything personal. I didn't know you were there. I mean, I know that doesn't make it OK for me to say shit like. To say stuff like that, but I didn't mean anything by it, it was just. It's a little tense, doing … this. And I guess I have a fucked up … a lame sense of humor sometimes.

  —Oh God. Oh gaaawd! Stop! Stop. Ho, my God, stop, you're killing me.

  She turned, tears running down her face, gasping, waving a hand at me, trying to kill the laughter forcing its way up her throat.

  …

  —Oh, man, so completely inappropriate.

  —I said I was sorry.

  She shook out her match and dropped it off the deck to the sand below, watching it get caught in the wind and tumble into some rocks.

  —No
, it was just so perfect. Totally inappropriate. Exactly the kind of thing he would have said.

  She pushed her glasses a little higher on her nose.

  —Except he wouldn't have apologized.

  I looked over my shoulder through the open sliding glass door and caught a glimpse of Gabe coming back into the house with another pack of scrapers.

  I looked down at the tide as it washed over the rocks.

  —Well, left to my own devices, I wouldn't have apologized either.

  She choked on a lungful of smoke, more laughter combining with a few hacks.

  I watched for a second then gave her a couple light pats on the back.

  —You OK?

  She coughed into her fist.

  —Oh, sure, I'm fine.

  She wiped the damp corners of her eyes with one of the Kleenexes Po Sin gave her.

  —My dad killed himself in one of the more deliberate and grotesque manners imaginable and I'm laughing about it with one of the guys I'm paying to clean his brains off the wall. I'm doing great.

  I turned and leaned my back on the deck rail and shrugged.

  —Well, as long as you're OK then.

  She smiled.

  —Totally inappropriate.

  —At least he left a note.

  I didn't say anything, too occupied at the moment with working my Scotch-Brite pad over the speckles of blood on the surface of her dad's desk.

  She picked another almond from the large bowl of them on the table next to the wingback chair near the hallway door.

  —I mean, I knew he was sick. But. But I'm glad he left the note anyway. So I know for sure why he did it. Sort of.

  She dropped the almond back in the bowl, picked out another.

  —You think anyone would lie about that? I mean, no one would lie on their suicide note, would they?

  I replaced the lamp I'd taken from the desk, minus the silk shade that had been sprayed, and looked over at her.

  —You want to be a little more enigmatic with your questions? Seriously, if you try a little harder I might get curious or something.

  She studied the almond between her fingers, rotating it.

  —No. I don't mean anything. He was sick. He was going to die. Soon. Painfully. I know why he did it. I just never read a suicide note before. It made me wonder. I guess. But no. It all makes sense.