The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

—It's just a little piece. He has hundreds of them.

  Po Sin folded the piece in his hand.

  —And they're all equally precious to him. Just like the two of you are equally precious to us. We wouldn't want to lose either of you, no matter how much we love the other one.

  —But he has so many.

  —That doesn't matter, honey.

  He turned and walked to his son.

  —That doesn't matter at all.

  He squatted and opened his hand in front of Yong's face. Yong looked at the piece, started to reach for it, stopped. Po Sin nodded, set the piece on the floor. Yong snatched it up, opened a zipper on the side of his backpack, dropped the piece inside, and zipped it back up.

  Po Sin held out his index finger again.

  —Now can I have a real hug?

  Yong nodded, wrapped his little hand around Po Sin's finger, squeezed, and let go.

  Po Sin looked over his shoulder at us.

  —There, all better.

  —Today was a bad day.

  I walked with Lei to her car.

  —Usually he's more interactive. But when something gets out of sequence, or lost, he gets untracked, his mind, and he can't focus on anything else. Emotions don't make much sense to him, so he has to concentrate very hard to read signs he's been taught to recognize. When he can't, he gets confused and scared. He withdraws. And touch is difficult. He doesn't like too much contact. Random contact. It's hard to explain. He loves being sandwiched. We have these pads at home we can put him between and apply pressure over his whole body, and somehow that comforts him, makes it easier to think. But generally, he needs a task to focus. The Legos.

  She opened the driver's door of her tiny yellow Scion.

  —Those kits? The impossibly difficult ones? Cities, trains, huge airliners. He opens the box, glances at the instructions, and builds them without ever making a mistake. You can take thousands of pieces, mix them all up, pull out one and show it to him, and he'll know exactly what kit it's from, where it goes, even what page it's on in the instructions, and its code number. The other kids know he's different, but they're young enough to think it's cool that he knows so much about Legos.

  She shaded her eyes from the sun to look up at my face, smiling.

  —They come to him with all their Lego dilemmas. He's like their shaman. Treasured for his oddness. For now, anyway.

  A big sigh.

  —We'll see in a couple of years how they deal with him.

  —Um, Lei.

  —Yes?

  —Speaking of touch, could I have my hand back.

  She looked at the hand she'd not released since she first took hold of it, laughed, let it go.

  —Sorry. Sorry. Poor Yong hates to be touched, and his mother is so touchy-feely I have to struggle not to hold his hand or rub his neck. And then it gets bottled up sometimes, next thing I know I'm stroking the cheek of someone I met five minutes ago.

  She raised and dropped her shoulders and climbed into the car.

  —I've invaded the personal space of every checkout person at our Ralph's. The tellers at the bank, they're lucky they have those Plexiglas shields to hide behind or I'd be hugging them every time I go in.

  I pushed the door closed and she rolled down the window.

  —Nice to meet you, Web. Glad we finally did. When I didn't see you last year, at the memorial, I was disappointed. I'd wanted to thank you. I was going to track you down, but then Po Sin said he ran into you at your friend's shop. I figured it was a matter of time before he got you over for dinner or something. And then time kept passing. I stopped thinking about it as much. I guess I got lazy about finding you and telling you how grateful we were of you sitting with Xing. Taking her off the bus. Her teacher told us she wouldn't get out from under her seat for him or any of the police. And I know how. You must have been very. Upset is a lame word. But. So to go back on the bus and help get her off and sit with her and help settle her. That was special. It meant a lot when we heard about it.

  She reached out the window and grabbed my hand and squeezed.

  —So there. I said it without crying, and you didn't even run away.

  She let me go.

  —Hope I didn't freak you out too much, Web.

  I showed her the hand she'd held.

  —Nothing a bar of Ivory won't cure.

  She laughed.

  —Takes more than that to get me off.

  She put the car in reverse, started to roll.

  —Hey keep an eye on Po Sin for me. Don't let him eat crap. If he has a stroke and dies on me I'll be stuck alone with Xing, and I just know she'll kill me in my sleep one night.

  She pulled into traffic and drove away.

  I went to the door and stood there and watched Po Sin on the floor, taking turns with Xing, handing Lego pieces one by one to Yong, who assembled them.

  I came into the room.

  —I like your wife.

  Po Sin rested a hand on his daughter's knee, handed a Lego to his son, never taking his eyes from them.

  —Yeah, me too.

  Xing looked over at me.

  —You were Tameka's teacher, weren't you?

  I stood there. Po Sin turned his head. Yong built his monstrous, hidden cave.

  I nodded.

  —Yeah, I was.

  She touched her head.

  —She had a cool hat.

  I nodded.

  —Yeah, she did.

  She smiled and went back to helping Yong.

  I walked into the shop, pulled on my gloves, and started scrubbing.

  ACQUISITIONS

  —Do you have any other clothes?

  I looked down at the T and blue jeans and sneakers I'd been wearing for over twenty-four hours.

  —My dinner jacket is at the cleaner's just now. But if you don't think it would be gauche, I could wear my morning coat.

  Gabe's expression remained immobile. Except maybe his eyes rolled around and around behind his shades without me knowing it.

  —Nothing else to wear.

  He extended his arm, shooting his wrist free of his jacket cuff, and looked at his watch.

  —OK.

  He steered us east on Burbank Boulevard.

  —Po Sin lock up?

  I pointed back in the direction of the shop.

  —What tipped you off? I mean, besides the fact he left me sitting outside waiting for you after he took the kids home? What the fuck, I can't be trusted now?

  Gabe drove, reserving comment. Reserving just about any indication that he was alive, as I was already learning, being a big specialty of his.

  I picked up the slack.

  —Really, man, I'm not trying to get off the hook for the van or anything, but I was supposed to watch the shop. I succeeded in that. Now, when Po Sin has to take the kids for dinner and you're late, I have to wait on the sidewalk? That, frankly, is bullshit.

  Gabe took a left onto Lankershim.

  —You tell Po Sin all this?

  I looked out the window.

  —Well. No.

  He pulled to the curb at a Goodwill and killed the engine.

  —That was probably a good idea.

  He climbed out and walked around the car and stopped on the sidewalk and looked back at me.

  —You coming?

  I got out and closed the door.

  —I didn't realize I was required.

  He pushed through the glass doors into the shop.

  —Certainly required if you want anything to fit.

  —Here, hold out your wrist.

  I held out my wrist and Gabe flipped open the knife blade on his Leatherman and cut the tag from the sleeve of my jacket.

  I fiddled with the stiff collar of the white button-down that was chafing my neck.

  —You know, when you said you needed help with business communications, I assumed that was like code for doing something illegal. I didn't realize I needed to actually dress in business attire.

  He slipped the Leatherman
away and started the Cruiser.

  —You have that other bag?

  I pointed at the two bags in the footwell, one containing my sneakers, stinking jeans and T and socks, the other holding the odds and ends he'd bought at the Goodwill.

  —Yeah.

  I clicked the heels of the worn loafers that were the only black shoes in the shop that fit me.

  —Hey are these technically work clothes? Can I write these off? I mean, with what I make, a twenty-five-dollar suit and six-dollar shoes are major deductions.

  We drove down a long boulevard of beige stucco apartment buildings and strip malls, the mission school architectural palette of Los Angeles as it had blossomed in all its late twentieth-century glory.

  Gabe shook his head.

  —I wouldn't know how to file a tax return.

  The ride west on the 101, and then south on the 405, was undertaken to the accompanying squawk of the police-band radio mounted under the dash, calling out numbered codes and responses that Gabe kept one ear cocked for. I was reminded of listening to a ball game with certain avid appreciators who have moved on from rooting for one team or the other, and became highly tuned appreciators of the game and its nuances. Gabe hemmed, grunted, clucked his tongue and, once, snorted in reaction to the story the radio was telling him.

  As the 405 cut past the Veteran's Administration Healthcare Center, I pointed at the radio.

  —Anything good?

  He leaned forward, turned the volume up slightly, and tsked at whatever the cops were currently getting up to.

  I nodded.

  —Just tell me when someone wins.

  And I closed my eyes.

  —We're here.

  I opened my eyes on a residential neighborhood of fake Tudors and Georgians and haciendas with large front yards crawling with bougainvillea, gardenia bushes, and lemon trees in the midst of huge lawns and thick ficus sculpted into hedge. I looked around for a street sign and found one up at the corner. Butterfield and Manning.

  I rubbed sleep from my eyes.

  —West side, huh? No wonder I had to dress up.

  Gabe looked at the house we were parked in front of, a large stucco job done up adobe Pueblo style. Lots of terra-cotta tiles jutting over the eaves, long cone chimney, large wooden gate mounted in an arch in the garden wall.

  He took a notebook from inside his jacket and flipped it open and looked at the pencil marks on the page and checked them against the address numbers painted on the curb. Satisfied he'd not become suddenly dyslexic, he put the notebook away and looked me over.

  —Do up that top button and cinch that tie.

  I dabbed some sweat on my forehead.

  —Can't I do this business-casual? Kind of hot to be wearing this shit in the first place.

  He waited.

  I did up the top button and cinched the tie.

  —Better?

  He nodded.

  —Let's go.

  I got out of the car and looked for a bell or something.

  —Web.

  I looked back at Gabe, standing at the rear of the Cruiser with the window rolled down and the gate dropped. He reached in and pulled the gurney halfway out.

  —Give me a hand with this.

  Again I found myself in a dead man's bedroom while someone else did the paperwork elsewhere.

  —Do you like this one?

  I looked at the purple suit the old woman had draped over the corpse on the bed.

  —It's a nice color.

  She fingered the material.

  —Yes, it is. He liked to be seen, Wally

  Whatever Wally once liked, it didn't matter now. And being seen wasn't something he was going to be doing much more of. Judging by the suit, he'd been built on a scale that might have had him approaching Po Sin's rarefied air, but the withered thing lost in the bedclothes could be swaddled in just the vest.

  The woman sat on the edge of the bed, the suit overflowing her lap.

  —Such a nice suit. Will they cut the back out of it to get him in?

  I looked down the hall and longed for Gabe to get the fuck back in there.

  —I'm not certain, ma'am. I think so. But I can't. I'm new to the job.

  She took the corpse's hand in hers.

  —Really? And do you like it so far?

  I ran my eyes over the bedpan and oxygen tank and wheelchair and rows of pill bottles, all the other accoutrements of a long and miserable death that littered the room.

  —It's OK.

  —Must be sobering work for such a young man. Not very exciting.

  I considered the last forty-eight hours of my life.

  —Ma'am, there is never a dull moment.

  She looked at the dead man again.

  —Well, I suppose it must be very different. Each time. Wally is the second husband I've outlived. We were only married fifteen years. My first, we were married thirty. Cancer got him, too.

  She arranged the suit over him again, resting her hand on his chest.

  —Fucking cancer.

  —Thanks for this, Gabe.

  He pointed at the catch near my hand.

  —Squeeze there.

  I squeezed and the gurney's legs collapsed and we lowered the impossibly weightless corpse.

  —No, seriously, thanks for this. The fair warning and all is what I particularly appreciate.

  —Lift.

  We lifted and slid the gurney into the back of the Cruiser and Gabe leaned in and flipped the levers that locked the wheels in place.

  I loosened my tie.

  —If it wasn't for that, I'd have walked into that situation totally unprepared for what I was going to be dealing with. Never would have been ready to chat with a grieving widow and help her to pick out a burial suit for her second dead husband. So thanks. I would have truly been out of my depth without your aid and assistance.

  He swung the gate up and the black-tinted window rolled closed.

  —Let's go.

  I walked around and got in.

  —Sure, let's go. But only if we can do this again right now. That was such a walk in the park, I can't wait to repeat it.

  He put the key in the ignition.

  I clapped both hands to my cheeks.

  —Such a lovely, life-affirming experience, Mr. Gabe. That just put everything into perspective. That just made me realize how sweet my life is and how I need to live it to its fullest before it slips away.

  He turned the ignition.

  —Glad to hear all that, Web. Glad I could help.

  I dropped my hands and settled into my seat, becoming aware that sarcasm and irony had no place in whatever laconic universe Gabe lived in.

  —So what now, drop him at Woodlawn or someplace?

  He put the car in gear.

  —Just a quick errand first.

  He looked at me.

  —Don't worry, we don't have to bury him ourselves.

  He pulled from the curb.

  I looked over my shoulder at the body under the sheet.

  —Wouldn't have surprised me at this point.

  —Isn't Woodlawn west?

  By way of answer Gabe continued east on Olympic.

  —Please tell me we're not picking up another body.

  He gestured at the back of the station wagon.

  —There's only room for one.

  I continued rolling up my sleeves.

  —Thank God, I thought I was gonna have to put my jacket on again.

  Just past the 3 Day Suit Broker he took a right on Federal, cruised slow, and pulled to the curb beyond Lasky Coachworks. I looked out at the auto shops and A-American Self Storage.

  —Nice spot. Looking to get lucky?

  He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned and pulled a red fuel bottle from one of the camping gear milk crates behind his seat.

  —Hand me that jug we bought.

  I picked up one of the bags from the Goodwill and pulled out the little clay moonshine jug with a cartoon of a drunken hillbilly stenciled on th
e side.

  —Gloves. Gloves.

  I looked at the black leather gloves Gabe was slipping onto his hands.

  —Didn't I tell you to bring gloves?

  —There's a dead body in the vehicle.

  Gabe finished filling the jug with camp fuel and handed me the red bottle.

  —Hold that between your legs.

  I placed the bottle between my thighs, the fumes strong in my face.

  —A dead body, Gabe. And I'm virtually certain you're preparing to do something extremely illegal. Wouldn't it be best if whatever that is were done in the absence of a corpse?

  He held out a hand.

  —Get that glider out.

  I took the Styrofoam glider from the Goodwill bag.

  —Yes, let's play with this. Let's play with this and talk about the sudden attack of crazy you are suffering from.

  —Break it up into pieces. Little ones. No, smaller. Small enough to fit in the jug. Good.

  He took the pieces I handed him and dropped them down the neck of the jug.

  —Now the cork.

  I handed him the cork and watched as he worked it into the jug, using the heel of his palm to pound it snug, flush to the lip.

  I dropped the mauled remains of the glider back in the bag.

  —OK, so we're not going to toss the glider around. But. Fuck. Fuck, Gabe. What the fuck are we doing here?

  —That baggie of junk jewelry in there.

  I dug it out.

  He shook his head.

  —No, dump out the jewelry, just give me the bag. And that bandanna, stuff it down into the fuel bottle.

  I used my index finger to stuff the Bon Jovi bandanna he'd bought into the fuel bottle.

  —This is fucked up, man.

  —Now pull it out, carefully, and put it in here.

  He held the baggie open right next to the fuel bottle. I pulled the bandanna free, and dropped it in the baggie, a little fuel dribbling my thighs.

  —Now seal that bottle and put it away and tear off a strip of duct tape from that roll.

  I screwed the cap back onto the bottle, put it in its milk crate, found the silver roll of tape and tore off a strip and handed it to him and watched as he used the tape to attach the sealed baggie to the side of the jug.

  —Hold this.

  He offered me the bomb.

  I measured the distance I had traveled down this road I was on. I tried really fucking hard to figure out how I got from sprawling on the couch in Chev's tattoo parlor to the moment when a stoic ex-gangbanger corpse fetcher was asking me to take possession of his jumbo Molotov cocktail. I measured and weighed the consequences of my actions in the next few minutes.