The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

  —Oh, lucky fucking me, breaking new ground.

  He raised his hand and a waiter materialized from the gloom and placed a check on the table.

  —I'm guessing that was my prick nephew at work.

  I took the ice from my forehead.

  —You're guessing? Man, I already told you it was him.

  He placed some money on the check.

  —I'm saying that was probably his own thing. Like he was pissed about being fired, went running to Aftershock. I know Morton, he was more than happy to hire the punk. See what kind of dirt he can dig up on how we go about our business. Maybe find out we cut some corner he can go to the Better Business Bureau about. Fortunately, the kid knows fuckall. But he probably took it personal you were working his old job. Probably decided he'd show his value to his new employer by going the extra yard.

  He took his glasses off and rubbed his face up and down.

  —So now we have to sort it out, make sure things don't get out of hand.

  —Yes, yes, do that, sort it out before it gets out of hand, before, I don't know, before someone gets beaten up or something.

  He put his glasses back on.

  —You know, Web, you don't want to be involved in any of this, you don't have to be. It's as easy as saying you're done with the job.

  I took a chip from the basket and broke it in half.

  —I know.

  He took one of his empty plates by the rim and rotated it a few degrees, back and forth.

  —So are you? Done with it?

  I thought about that; not liking it much when someone pounds on me, I thought about it pretty hard. I thought about chilling out, like I had been for a year. I thought about hanging at the apartment. Sleeping. A lot. I thought about the slender thread dangling my friendship with Chev. And what would happen when it broke. And how much strain I'd already put on it.

  I thought about the things I'd thought about most that last year, and how little I'd thought about them the last couple days when I'd actually had something to do.

  I crushed the chip and watched the crumbs fall into the basket.

  —No, I'm not done with it.

  He pushed the table away, making room to rise.

  —So let's go then.

  I got up and trailed them to the door.

  —Where are we going?

  Gabe opened the door on the relative brightness of Ventura Boulevard at night. Po Sin went out and passed his parking ticket to the valet.

  —We're going to a sit-down with Morton and his Aftershock captains. Make sure we all understand there's limits here. Things we can't be doing without causing trouble for everyone.

  I waved my hand.

  —I don't want to meet those assholes. I sure as shit don't want to see Dingbang.

  The valet drove up in the van and Po Sin slipped him a couple bucks.

  —Not to worry, you're not invited.

  —OK, so who's taking me home?

  He stood aside from the van and gestured at the open door.

  —You're not going home, you're going to my shop.

  —What? I thought you said I could clean it tomorrow.

  —I did. You can. Or you can start tonight. I just need you there.

  The valet parked Gabe's Cruiser behind the van and Gabe got behind the wheel.

  Po Sin held up a finger to him and looked at me.

  —Dingbang has keys to the shop.

  —So let him clean it tonight.

  —Web, Dingbang has keys to the shop and I haven't had the locks changed yet.

  It took a second. I like to think I'm smart, but still it took a second. Then I got it.

  —Fuck that!

  He ran a knuckle over his moustache.

  —Listen. Listen up here. We're gonna go talk to these guys. Have a couple beers at a place not far from here. It's nothing. It's exactly what they say it is. A negotiation to make sure no one gets carried away. But Gabe, he's a little more cautious than I am, a little less trusting, and he thinks they could use this as a way to be sure the shop is empty. Go in there and mess shit up.

  —I know, I get it. That's why I said fuck that.

  —It's not gonna happen. OK? All you do is go in, turn on all the lights and hang out. Clean if you want, or watch the TV in the office. Dick around on the computer. Nothing is going to happen.

  —Then I don't have to be there.

  He looked over at Gabe, back at me.

  —I know, you're right, but it will give Gabe a little peace of mind. And one of the things I pay him for is so he has peace of mind. Because when he has peace of mind, I know everything is cool with everything. Make sense?

  I shrugged.

  —Sure, makes sense. I'm still not gonna sit there and wait for Dingbang to show and kick my ass again.

  —Dingbang will be at the sit-down. To be disciplined. That was part of the deal. And even if someone comes by, the second they see the lights on, see someone in there, they'll take off. No one is looking to hurt anyone. What happened to you was the exception.

  —Maaaaan. Crap.

  He took me by the elbow.

  —Web, this isn't a regular job. This is not nine to five. We clean blood and brains. We scrub shit. We vacuum maggot shells. We inhale gas from rotting corpses. This is not a regular job. And you will rarely be asked to do regular shit if you hang around. Sitting watch on the shop for the night, that's about as normal as it gets. Make sense?

  I looked at Gabe, waiting to roll. I looked at the valet, waiting for us to get the fuck out of the way so he could bring the next car around. I looked at Po Sin, waiting for me to do or be something I didn't quite get.

  I nodded.

  —Makes sense.

  He let go of my elbow.

  —Then get in the van and get over there.

  I got in the van.

  —Web!

  I looked out the window, he stood in the open passenger door of the Cruiser.

  —Anything does happen, call nine one one.

  I shook my head.

  —Yeah, that I can manage.

  He waved and got in the car. Gabe nodded at me through the windshield, and tossed me a slight salute.

  The man paid to have peace of mind.

  Where do I get that fucking job?

  NO WOMAN'S TOOL

  North of Ventura Boulevard, on a street off Burbank Boulevard near the 170 on the edge of North Hollywood, there's a strip of light industrial zoning. Cinder-block buildings that work sheet metal, rent construction equipment, rebuild tractor motors, salvage copper wiring from scavenged conduit, or simply seem to provide nothing but a center point around which to wrap chain link and concertina wire for large barking dogs to patrol without cease. Beat-to-hell late-model pickups, the same ones seen circling West Hollywood loaded with leaf blowers and weed whackers on weekday mornings, line the curbs. Telephone poles drop power lines to the corrugated roofs of the buildings.

  In the middle of this glory I perched on a workbench and stared at a row of three coffin freezers stuffed full of rags, bits of bedding, carpet, sofa cushions, paper towels, and all the other debris soaked in every effluvium of the human body that gets removed from trauma scenes. Biohazardous material awaiting transfer to Saniwaste, then to be trucked to Utah, where such things are burned en masse.

  Or so I read in the Saniwaste brochure I'd found on a rack in the office. It was that or the back issues of Entertainment Weekly in the john. Is it a shock the brochures won out?

  I slid off the edge of the bench and walked around. I poked at a machine that, according to another brochure, recycled formalin. I wondered what they did with the specimens they removed from the formalin before they processed it. The eyeballs, biopsy tissues, amputations, perforated intestine and whatever that had been preserved in jars of the stuff, the material the brochure referred to as -pathology. I wandered to the window and looked across the street at one of the large dogs patrolling its patch of asphalt. Well, that would be one way of getting rid of the stuf
f. But they probably ship it to Utah with the rest of the waste.

  I went back in the office and turned the TV on and flipped a couple channels and turned it off. I moved the mouse around on the computer, thought about looking at some porn, imagined the implications of jerking off in that particular environment, and discarded the idea. All I needed was another disturbing mental image running around my brain banging at the walls.

  Thinking about disturbing mental images made me think about disturbing mental images.

  That sucked.

  I sat on the edge of the twin bed that was parked in the corner of the office doing duty as a cot. A regular cot being, one assumes, out of the question for Po Sin's needs. I looked at the clock. It was just after midnight. I tried to remember the last time I'd been up that late. Crap, I tried to remember the last time I'd been up past nine PM. It'd been awhile.

  It's not like it's a mystery or anything, all the sleep.

  Sleeping was just easier than being awake.

  So why fight it?

  I curled up and stopped fighting. A daily ritual of the last year. Giving up.

  Hello, you've reached Clean Team. We're currently out of the office on a job. If you have an emergency we can help you with, please call 1-888-256-8326. That's 1-888-CLN-TEAM. We'll be there for you.

  Beeeeeep.

  —Um, hi, this is, uh, this is Soledad Nye. The woman in Malibu. You cleaned my dad's mess? I mean, oh fuck, that was horrible. You cleaned the house. Anyway. I was hoping I could get in touch with one of your employees. Web. I wanted to talk to him about … anyway. My number, well, he should call me on my cell. The number. Hang on.

  I didn't quite kill myself when I jerked out of sleep and slammed my already damaged head into the shelf that hung too low over the bed, but I came close enough that I had to crawl across the floor to answer the phone on the office desk.

  —Hello? Hello? Crap! Crap!

  —Uh, Web?

  —Yeah, yeah, it's me. Oh fucking crap! Jesus.

  —Are you OK?

  —Yeah, I just kind of, crap, banged my head really hard.

  I sat on the floor, back against the side of the desk, phone to my ear, hand clapped over the brand-new lump rising from my head.

  —Do you need some ice?

  —Sure, yeah, that would be great.

  There was some silence.

  She cleared her throat.

  —Web, you know I'm not there to actually get you the ice, right?

  I blinked my eyes a few times, tried to bring the face of the liquid crystal clock on the wall into focus.

  —Yeah, I know that. I was being funny.

  —Or not.

  —Yes, well, being not funny is more my forte.

  —I noticed.

  The clock straightened out for me. 12:32 AM.

  —Yes, it's good of you to call my place of work to leave a message that, I can only assume, would have been meant to make clear my lack of humorousness. I'm flattered by the attention. Is there anything else I can do for you now that you have not laughed at me.

  —Oh, I've laughed at you.

  I took my hand from my head and looked at it. No blood. What luck. —At me. Just not with me.

  —You never know, stranger things have happened.

  —Indeed.

  I sat there and held the phone. She, I imagine, did the same. I have, I also imagine, less patience than she. Less patience, it's safe to say than most normal people. Therefore, I cracked first.

  —So, Soledad.

  Note that the first time I spoke her name out loud I did it without stuttering or squeaking into a register higher than Tiny Tim's. A memory I treasure with some pride. A lesser man would have embarrassed himself with some verbal tic. Not I.

  —So, Soledad. Why the fuck are you calling?

  —Um, right. Well, I'd like to say I'm calling to ask if you want to go grab a coffee or something traditionally ambiguous and noncommittal.

  Observe how I remain aloof and calm.

  —But that's not the case?

  —Nooo.

  —The case is?

  —The case is. I need a favor.

  A favor? She's in need? And yet, not a tremor in my voice.

  —The favor is?

  —The favor is, well, I need something cleaned.

  But of course. Was there ever any doubt. My janitorial expertise is required. L.L. would be so proud.

  But I'm no woman's flunky.

  —What needs to be cleaned, when?

  —A room. Now.

  I looked at the clock again. 12:35 AM. Clean a room? At 12:35 AM. Is she out of her fucking mind? Does she think I'm an absolute tool?

  —Where are you?

  Where she was, of course, was that motel. What was in the room, of course, was that blood. Who was with her, of course, was the guy trying to out-asshole me.

  A title I was ready to relinquish in light of the butterfly knife he flashed at me.

  If that all rings a bell.

  HOW BREATHING WORKS

  The guy with the fauxhawk showed me his blade, a slight crust of dry blood gummed at the hilt.

  —Say that again? Say it. About to go Bruce Lee on your ass here, you keep talking about my moms.

  I put my back to the door and shifted the carrier of cleaning gear so that I held it in front of me.

  —Hey no, all done, I'm not saying anything.

  He took a step, twirled the knife.

  —I fucking thought not, asshole.

  —Did it hurt?

  He stopped walking, the knife stopped twirling.

  —What?

  I spoke very slowly.

  —When. You. Thought. Did it hurt? Like because you're not good at it, I mean.

  He slammed his forearm across my throat, pinning me to the door, the point of the knife poking my cheek.

  —Asshole! I said shut the fuck up! I said it was a wrap!

  I thought about bringing up the carrier and shoving it into his gut, but the last time I'd fought anyone other than Chev was in junior high. And that was scrawny Dillard Hayes who'd made some lame joke about Chev not having a mom and I'd gone whacko about it. And I got the shit kicked out of me. And Dillard didn't have a knife.

  So I tried diplomacy instead.

  —No, you didn't actually tell me to shut the fuck up. And you certainly didn't say anything as lame as—GAH!

  No, he didn't say GAH! I said GAH! Or, rather, I kind of barked GAH when he drove his knee into what was meant to be my balls, but was actually the carrier, which then hit my balls.

  —GAH! GAH!

  He did it twice more. If that didn't communicate.

  The bathroom door swung open and Soledad came out toweling her hands dry.

  —Jaime!

  This seemingly directed at the fauxhawk dude about to put his knee on the money for the fourth time.

  He let go of me and turned.

  —What! What!

  I dropped to the floor and tried to figure out how breathing worked.

  Soledad came and kneeled next to me.

  —What the hell, Jaime?

  Jaime waved his knife.

  —He was being an asshole, just like you said he would be!

  She put a hand on the side of my face.

  —I said he might act like an asshole and you needed to be chill.

  He pointed the knife at me.

  —Why do I have to be chill when he's being the asshole?

  She shook her head, looked at me, her face all but hid in the long curls of hair falling around it.

  —You OK?

  I squirted more tears and kept my hands jammed in my crotch by way of an answer.

  Jaime came and leaned over her and looked down at me.

  —Besides, he deserved it for being an asshole at your house today.

  She looked up at him.

  —He wasn't. Fuck, Jaime, he was trying to make me laugh.

  He raised his hands over his head.

  —See! That's sick,
man. Your dad offs himself, blows his fucking brains all over, and this asshole tries to make it funny? That's sick shit.

  She stared at him, shook her head.

  He raised his shoulders.

  —What? What did I say? He's the one made jokes about your dad eating a bullet. Why'm I getting bitch looks?

  She looked at the floor.

  —Just shut up. Shut up and have a drink.

  —What'd I do?

  She put fingertips to her forehead.

  —Please, Jaime. Just. Chill and have a drink. Please.

  He reversed the gesture with his wrist and thumb, folding the knife and tucking it back in its sheath.

  —Fine. Whatever. Just want people to remember, this whole production, it's my deal. We got a schedule to keep to here and I don't like falling behind.

  He walked to the room's lone chair, almonds popping under the heels of his chrome-studded ankle boots, took a seat, and picked up a white plastic shopping bag from the floor.

  —So you just get the asshole up to speed and on set. I want to roll this thing and wrap.

  He reached in the bag and pulled out an airline bottle of Malibu rum.

  —Incidentals keep popping up and throwing my budget to shit.

  I pointed at him.

  —Let me guess, you're an actor, but what you really want to do is direct?

  He drained the bottle and threw it across the room and it bounced off my forehead.

  —Fuck you, asshole, I'm a fucking producer.

  Soledad closed her eyes, shook her head, opened her eyes, and looked at me.

  —Web, meet my brother Jaime.

  —It's not as bad as it looks.

  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, the plastic bag of ice she got from the machine by the motel office resting between my thighs.

  —See, the funny thing about that statement is the fact that it looks so very very bad, that there is ample room for it to be not as bad as it looks and still be chronically fucked up.