The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

  I adjusted the silver pen-and-pencil set on the desk and lined it up with the antique in-and-out box and an absurdly detailed model of a freight vessel, its deck stacked with tiny cargo containers, Chinese characters on their sides.

  She tossed the almond in her mouth and chewed.

  —Makes sense as only a person making their head explode can make sense, I mean.

  I walked to the section of bookcase that was in line with the open bathroom door.

  —He had some nice books.

  She watched me.

  —Yeah. He loved his books. Well, he loved having a den with lots of books on the walls anyway. He never actually read them. He loved how they looked, but if it wasn't business-related or on the topic of fishing, Dad didn't have time to read much.

  She dropped her voice an octave.

  —Too much to do, sweetheart. Why bother reading about some made-up life when you can live it yourself?

  She brushed curly dark hair from her forehead, bit her lip.

  —Is that bad, that it kind of makes sense to me? What he did? Should I be worried?

  I misted the spines of the books and watched white speckles appear over dozens of them.

  —Fuck do I know. I just work here.

  —Right, I forgot, you're the retard who doesn't know how to say the right thing.

  She picked up another almond, moved it toward her mouth, stopped.

  —Should I be eating these things?

  I looked at the bowl of nuts, well out of line with the bathroom door.

  —Um. Truth?

  —No, lie to me, that would make me feel so much better.

  I wiped my cheek on my shoulder.

  —I doubt they could get hit with anything over there.

  She started to put the nut in her mouth.

  I turned back to the bookcase.

  —But then again, this is my second day on the job and I'm the same lame fucker who made fun of how your dad wasted himself. So you might not want to listen to someone so clearly retarded.

  She dropped the nut back in the bowl.

  —Yeah, you got a point.

  She got off the chair and walked over to me and looked at the books.

  I misted them again and she reached out and touched the tip of her finger to a white spot that had appeared on a photograph on one of the shelves: a sunburned man with a thick moustache, large arms and shoulders, standing on a dock next to a striped marlin, well over 200 pounds, hanging from a tackle rig.

  —Damnit. Goddamn it.

  —What the fuck are you doing?

  I helped Po Sin muscle the bagged and gutted mattress down the hall to the front door.

  —Working.

  He stopped, pausing in front of the door that led into the den, watching the girl as she took several books down from the shelves and boxed them.

  —Looks to me like she's working.

  He looked at me again, shook his head, and backed toward the front door and out into the sun.

  We leaned the mattress against the van and I pointed back at the house.

  —She wanted to go through them herself. She said she didn't want to keep the fabric-covered ones because she could see some of the marks.

  Po Sin rested his ass in the open back door of the van and it dropped on its shocks.

  —Fuck that. I mean, what are you doing talking with her?

  I raised my hands over my head.

  —You said talk to her!

  —I said apologize, I didn't say engage in a damn tête-à-tête with her.

  —She wanted to talk, man. What am I supposed to say? Oh, miss, so sorry, my boss is a total prick and will freak out if I have a conversation with you in your own house while you're grieving the loss of your father who just killed himself. Maybe you should take this dime and go call someone who's allowed to give a fuck.

  Po Sin turned his head and looked through the ranked cedars to the clogged traffic on the PCH.

  —Gonna take forever to get home.

  I kicked a rock.

  —Yeah.

  He pushed himself up, the van bounced, free of ballast.

  —Giving a fuck, Web, that's not exactly the MO you've been working under for some time now.

  I watched traffic.

  Po Sin watched it, too.

  —And people in her situation, they are prone to acting in ways they would not under normal circumstances. Start doing shit like talking to the help about their personal tragedies. Situation like that can become quickly awkward. People can all of a sudden realize they are not acting like themselves and freak out on everyone around them. And people employed to eliminate evidence that their loved ones ever existed can make attractive targets when they lash out. And that can make the job much more difficult than it needs to be. And this is my livelihood here. My business that I built from the ground up. And I don't need to have it getting all fucked up because some shell-shocked young woman mistakes your disinterest in pretty much anything for some kind of blasé charm, and ends up getting more deeply injured than she already is and has an inevitable emotional detonation and refuses to pay her fucking bill. I have enough problems, thank you.

  —Don't worry, I know he's a disaffected asshole. No danger of me getting sucked into his emotional black hole or anything.

  We turned from the traffic.

  She stood at the top of the driveway, wind blowing her hair across her face and rippling the hem of her knee-length black jersey dress, a box of books in her arms.

  —So you guys want to look and see if you want any of these?

  …

  —You sure?

  —Yeah, of course. No, wait.

  I stood away from the box of books I was sliding into the back of the van and she reached in and pulled one out.

  —Not this one.

  I looked at the title.

  —You like that?

  She looked at it herself.

  —No, I'm keeping it because I think it sucks.

  —Well that makes sense then, because it really does suck.

  She bit her lip.

  —My dad loved Sister Carrie.

  —Oh fuck, I'm sorry, I.

  She clutched the book to her heart and threw her wrist across her forehead.

  —He treasured this book and called me his little Carrie. This book was a bond between us. A treasure we shared.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets.

  —Yes, please fuck with me some more, I like it so much when you make me feel like an asshole. And it's such an obvious challenge to you, I can see how you can't help yourself.

  She dropped her arms and smiled.

  —Sorry. You're just so funny when you try to apologize. You're so bad at it. You can't hide the fact that you don't think you should have to do it.

  —Again, I'm glad my being an asshole is a source of entertainment.

  —It is, it is.

  Gabe came out of the house, carrying the fogger and a half-empty jug of Microban. He walked between us and set them in the back of the truck.

  —All done.

  He looked at the box of books, the girl pointed at them.

  —Help yourself if you want.

  He shook his head and peeled his Tyvek off, stripping to his black slacks and white short sleeve.

  —No, thank you.

  He walked to his Cruiser.

  —See you around, Web.

  And he got in the car and rolled.

  The girl looked at me.

  —What's his story?

  —I'm not allowed to ask.

  Po Sin came from the house, the clipboard in his hand.

  —Ready for the walk-through?

  She looked up at the house.

  —No, it's fine. I looked. It's fine.

  She reached for the clipboard, but he held it away.

  —We should really do a walk-through. Have you look at everything on the invoice and check it off.

  She took the clipboard from him.

  —No, I don't want t
o do that.

  She signed her name and put her initials next to several ballpoint Xs on the contract.

  —It's fine.

  Po Sin raised his shoulders.

  —Just if there's a problem, something we might have missed, and you don't see it now. You know? The home owner's insurance can get tricky.

  She handed the clipboard back.

  —If there's a problem, I'll pay to have it taken care of.

  She looked at the house.

  —Or I'll light a match and burn the place down.

  Po Sin turned and slammed the rear doors of the van.

  —Just so you know what's what.

  She held out her hand.

  —I know what's what.

  He shook her hand, nodded, and started around the van.

  —Come on, Web, time to hit it.

  I looked at the girl, pointed at the van.

  —Well, I gotta. You gonna be? In there?

  She tapped me on the shoulder with her book.

  —Go on, Web. Sensitivity doesn't suit you.

  I scratched my head.

  —Yeah. And I thought I was doing so well with it.

  She smiled, turned, and wandered back toward the house, drifting from one side of the sandstone path to the other, slapping the book against her thigh as she went.

  In the van, I watched her as Po Sin jockeyed for an open spot in the traffic. I watched her go to the open door of the house, stand there, then turn away and sit on the edge of the porch and open the book and flip slowly through the pages till she found one she wanted to read.

  The last sight I'd have of her for some time, without bloodshed being involved anyway.

  Cherchez la femme.

  THE SON OF A BITCH HE RAISED

  Bumper to bumper down the Pacific Coast Highway. The feet of the Santa Monicas on our left dotted with custom luxury homes; losing bets placed against inevitable mud slides and quakes. The stilted houses on our right, overhanging the beach and the ocean, equally stupid money placed against the tides.

  But Jesus they have great views.

  I thought about the girl back at her father's beach house. Her beach house now, one could assume. I eyeballed the clipboard on the dash in front of Po Sin, and he caught me and shook his head.

  —No fucking way.

  —Why?

  —Because that is private information that a client has shared with me for the purpose of doing business and you are not allowed to look at it.

  I reached for the clipboard.

  —But I am an employee of the firm and should be trusted with this information if I am to do my job in an efficient manner.

  He placed a weighty fist on the clipboard.

  —But you are not a trusted employee. You are a ten buck an hour fuckup day laborer who is not allowed to cherry pick the phone numbers of attractive female clients so that you can harass them and get me sued.

  I leaned back in my seat and folded my arms.

  —Fine. Whatever you say jefe.

  He stuck his hand under the seat and came out with a Slim Jim and unwrapped it.

  I looked out at the Pacific Ocean.

  —What was that about the guild?

  Po Sin cocked an eyebrow.

  —What?

  —The guild. That deputy you bribed mentioned a guild and something about aftershocks or something?

  —Don't worry about it. It's not your problem.

  I threw my hands up.

  —Shit, man, I know it's not my problem, I'm just curious. I'm just trying to make conversation. I'm not allowed to ask about the damn girl back there. Fine. You don't want to talk about the business. Fine. So let's talk about the diet you're supposed to be on and how that's going. How are your cholesterol numbers looking? Triglycerides? How's the blood pressure? Your wife know you're munching sticks of pig ass seasoned with MSG?

  He bit a hunk off the Slim Jim, chewed it once, and swallowed.

  —Soledad.

  —Say what?

  —Her name is Soledad. And here's a tip, it means solitude in Spanish. As in, Leave me the fuck alone.

  I held my arm out the window and felt the sun burning it red.

  —She didn't pick her own name.

  —Drop me over here.

  Po Sin looked around.

  —We're only in Santa Monica. How the hell you gonna get home from here?

  —I'll get a ride.

  —A ride. Chev gonna drive out here to pick you up?

  —I'll get a ride. Pull over, pull over here, man.

  He pulled the van to the curb on Ocean, just past the pier.

  —Tell you one thing, you get stuck out here, I won't be coming to get you.

  I opened the door and started to get out and he grabbed the tail of my old Mobil gas station shirt.

  —Web.

  I looked at him.

  —You get stuck out here, you're gonna be riding the bus.

  I tugged free.

  —I can get a ride.

  He held up his hands.

  —As you wish.

  I climbed out and pushed the door closed.

  —That's the idea.

  He pushed a button on his armrest and the passenger window slid down.

  —Listen, there's no job tomorrow. You want to make some more cash, you can help clean the shop.

  I shrugged.

  —Sure. Sure. Sounds good.

  —OK.

  The window rolled back up and he drove off toward the 10 West.

  I stood there for a minute and looked at the causeway to the pier and thought about walking out past the bars and the fried-food stands and the Ferris wheel all the way to the end so I could stand there and stare at the water. But instead I turned around and trotted across the street and walked into the late-afternoon darkness inside Chez Jay.

  Dark, the only light coming in through the open upper half of the split front door and three portholes cut behind the bar. Fishing nets, life preservers and a ship's anchor on the walls, a tattered American flag hung in a single billow over the bar. I took a seat on the corner. The bartender looked down from the TV where he was watching a rerun of Charlie's Angels.

  He came over.

  —I was always a Kate Jackson man. You?

  I glanced at the TV.

  —Never watched it.

  He stops in his tracks.

  —Naw?

  —Didn't have a TV growing up.

  —No kidding. One of those.

  —Yeah. One of those. No early childhood brain cancer to retard my emotional development.

  —That's not funny.

  —Not supposed to be.

  He looked back up at the TV.

  —Well I like the show.

  —Yeah, I rest my case.

  —Huh?

  —Can I have a beer, please?

  —What kind?

  —Whatever.

  He took a mug from behind the bar and drew a Heineken and set it in front of me.

  —Four.

  —I got that.

  I looked at the old man tucked into the angle where the bar met the wall. Hunched over an open book, a stack of several more books at his elbow, thick plastic-rimmed glasses on the end of his swollen nose, a sweating glass of beer in front of him paired with a half-full shot glass.

  He nudged a few dollars out of the pile of bills next to his drinks.

  —That bother you, that no-TV thing?

  I lifted my glass and took a sip.

  —No. Not really. I read a lot.

  The bartender took the money and went back down the bar.

  —Well I like TV.

  The old man gestured at his back.

  —And here he is, tending bar.

  I shrugged.

  —It's a job.

  The old man scraped his fingernails over his whiskers.

  —It's a shitty job.

  The bartender turned up the volume on the TV.

  The old man dog-eared the corner of the page he was reading and cl
osed the book.

  —You still read a lot?

  —Yeah.

  He started going through the stack. He found what he was looking for and pulled it from the pile and offered it to me.

  —Ever read this one?

  I took the book and looked at the cover.

  A Fan's Notes.

  —Yeah, I read it.

  He took the book back.

  —That's a good book.

  I took a sip of beer.

  —It's good, I like it, but it's not that great.

  He put the book on top of the stack.

  —Did I say it was great? I said it was good. Try listening.

  —Whatever.

  He pulled at the collar of his red flannel shirt, the skin beneath beach-bum rough and brick red.

  —A great book is a rare thing. What have you read lately that's great?

  —Nothing.

  —See what I mean.

  He held up the book he was reading when I came in.

  —Anna Karenina. A great book. Indisputably.

  —Indisputably great trashy fiction.

  He set the book down.

  —Are you trying to upset me?

  —No. I just think it's a great piece of popular melodrama, but not a great piece of art.

  He turned on his stool, faced me.

  —Who the hell? Where do you get off? This is one of the.

  He backhanded the air.

  —Why do I bother? You might as well have spent your childhood watching TV. Should have just wheeled one into your bedroom and plugged it into your eyes and let it brainwash you like the rest of society. You could be a bartender instead of a teacher. You could have a nice comfortable job pouring drinks and mopping vomit and watching TV. Wasted time. Wasted effort.

  He picked up his shot glass and drained it.

  —Wasted life.

  I stared at the beer in my glass.

  He knocked the base of the shot glass on the bar and the bartender came down with a bottle of Bushmills in his hand.

  He topped off the old man's shot glass.

  —L.L., how ’bout you take it easy on my customers. You buy the guy a drink, doesn't mean you have the right to browbeat him.

  I raised a hand.

  —It's cool, he's my dad.

  L.L. wrote a novel.

  It's on that shelf with the Nelson Algren and Bukowski and Kerouac at your local independent bookstore. If you have one of those. If not, you can find it on the Internet. But it will probably be the printing they did for the movie.