The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

  He nodded, worked a hand into his pocket.

  —Cool.

  He took his hand from his pocket.

  —So why don't you start by telling me where you took my truck.

  He opened his hand and showed me the nine-millimeter bullet inside.

  —And how this got in there.

  —The phone?

  —Yeah.

  —Jesus. I think we need to get rid of it.

  We both sat on the couch, staring at the phone in the middle of the livingroom floor.

  I nodded.

  —Yeah. Without a doubt.

  He pointed at the kitchen table.

  —There was stuff on it?

  —Um, yeah.

  —Lots?

  —Not really.

  —On the top?

  —Yeah.

  He shook his head.

  —We got to get rid of it.

  He put his face in his hands.

  —With the fucking phone. That is so. Oh man.

  He took his face from his hands and looked at me.

  —Was the guy a dick?

  —Chev, he beat his nephew to death with a fucking phone! Yes, he was a dick.

  —No, the nephew, was he a?

  —I don't know. Probably. Why do you?

  He stood up.

  —I don't know. I'm just trying to deal and. Jesus. With the phone. Awwww, man. I used it after that. Awwww, shit!

  He sat back down.

  —That's fucked.

  —Sorry.

  —What sorry? Fucked up inbred kills someone with the phone, what are you sorry about?

  —I don't know. Feels like it's my fault.

  We stared at the phone.

  Chev cupped his chin in his hand, clicked his thumb ring against one of his earrings.

  —No way I can look at that kitchen every day.

  He stood.

  —We got to move out of here, man.

  I nodded.

  —Do you think?

  He looked at me.

  —Are you being a smartass? Are you being a smartass about a guy getting bludgeoned with a phone in my apartment?

  I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

  —Little bit?

  He shook his head.

  —Looks like someone's feeling better.

  He started for the door.

  —Long as you're all chipper, you call the landlady and tell her we're out at the end of the month.

  I stood.

  —Where you going?

  —The shop.

  —Hang on, I'll come with.

  He opened the door.

  —Uh-uh, fuckwit, you have some disturbing shit to dispose of before I get home.

  He pointed at the phone and the table.

  —Those. Gone. And anything else that got. Stuff on it.

  He looked at the kitchen.

  —Telling you, Web, a weaker man than me, he'd have quit your shit long ago.

  I shrugged.

  —Must be my abundant charm.

  SECRET SKELETONS

  —So what now?

  —I don't know for sure.

  Po Sin stirred the ice cubes at the bottom of his glass.

  —You gonna go back to teaching?

  I thought about the classroom. The kids. How much fun they could be. How much of a pain. I thought about trying to walk back in there and be a normal teacher. Be a person without all these things clinging to him. Deaths like barnacles. They felt visible. And a burden. I didn't want to have them around kids.

  And there were other things.

  —I don't think I can really teach anymore.

  —So?

  —So I.

  —Round two.

  Gabe came back from the bar with two bottles of beer and another gin and juice for Po Sin.

  I took my beer.

  —Thanks.

  Gabe nodded.

  We all drank.

  —Po Sin.

  —My name. Means Grandfather Elephant. Speak it and I will answer.

  —Po Sin.

  I drank again.

  —What'd you do with them?

  Po Sin stared into his glass.

  —Web, in all honesty, I have no idea what you're talking about.

  I nodded.

  —Sure, I get that. But. I called you. And I think, I think I need to know. I'm trying, this is new for me, but I'm trying to be kind of a grown-up. But, hey not too many examples of that in my life, so I'm flying a little blind. Anyway. Part of. I think I need to know what I'm responsible for. What things I do that make other things happen.

  I picked at my beer label.

  —I think I really need to know what you did to them.

  Po Sin looked at Gabe.

  Gabe lifted his bottle, took a drink.

  —It doesn't work like that, Web.

  —I know. But.

  —I said, It doesn't work like that, Web.

  I looked at him.

  He nodded.

  —This is how it works. You ask someone for a favor.

  He pointed at himself and Po Sin.

  —And they come and do you a favor.

  He moved his beer over the surface of the table, leaving a smear of moisture.

  —They swing their weight behind you and give your actions gravity. They do things.

  He wiped the smear away with the edge of his hand.

  —You left the room. You could have stayed. You chose not to. Now you have to live with the consequences of leaving that room. The biggest of those is, you don't know what happened. After you leave the room, it's no longer your business. You want to know what price is paid in this world, you need to be there when the deal goes down.

  He trained his lenses on me.

  —That shit, whatever it is we may think we're taking about, it never even happened.

  He got up.

  —I'm gonna go shoot a rack.

  He walked to the pool table at the back of the Monday night empty bar and started dropping quarters in.

  Po Sin rattled the ice in his glass.

  —He has a way of summing shit up.

  He sipped, swallowed, looked over his shoulder at Gabe, and leaned close.

  —Shit needs to be done sometimes, Web. I'm not saying it's the way the world should be, not saying it's the world I want my kids to be in, but this life we're in, you don't end up doing this kind of work because everything went the way it was supposed to. You're doing work like we do, it's because some shit got fucked up. That means things behind you, you don't always want them coming to the light. Further you go into this kind of job, more people you meet, more of them you find just like you. Secrets. Skeletons. Coworkers. Competitors. Clients. Secrets start cropping up. Know what I mean?

  Did I know what he meant? Shit yes. I was hip deep in what he meant.

  Which he already knew.

  So he kept talking without me giving an answer.

  —What no one wants is for the secrets to start coming out into the open. Guys like we were just talking about, they can make things come to light. Just by being around and getting involved in your life, they can cause all kinds of shit to unnecessarily become unhinged. So we did what we do.

  He gulped the last of his drink.

  —We cleaned shit up.

  He set the empty glass in front of me.

  —Like the man said, you wanted to know, all you had to do was stay in the room.

  I looked at the glass.

  —That's the thing.

  I looked at him.

  —I don't want to leave the room. Po Sin, man, honestly, even if I did want to, I'm not sure I could find the door. But. That doesn't even matter. Because.

  I shook my head.

  —I love this shit.

  I raised a hand.

  —I liked teaching. I did. But I love this shit. It's like, man, it's like I found my calling. It's like if I took one of those employment placement tests we gave the kids in junior high. You should be a scientist,
an insurance adjuster, a flight attendant. When I took that test, it said I should be a structural engineer. But this, this is like if that test said, You shall be a crime scene cleaner, Webster Fillmore Goodhue, and you shall like it well. It just fits. It fits me. This is what I want to do, man.

  I lifted my beer.

  —I want to clean up after dead people.

  —Hey yo.

  We looked at the bartender.

  —You guys come over in that van?

  Po Sin started to rise.

  —It getting a ticket?

  —No.

  Po Sin started to sit.

  —Good. That would have been a pisser.

  The bartender pointed out the swinging saloon door.

  —But looks like it's on fire.

  The Lost and Found is in a strip mall at the corner of National and South Barrington. That far west, that close to their place of business, it was probably a provocation. But that wasn't the kind of thing I could be expected to know. Po Sin and Gabe, I guess they just wanted to go to one of their favorite bars.

  We came out the swinging door into a small parking lot illuminated by the flames pouring from the shattered windows of the van. Morton's crew was already piling back into a silver Pathfinder. Morton was on the sidewalk with an ax handle. Dingbang just behind him, jumping up and down, jabbing a finger at us as we came out.

  —'Bout that shit? Huh, motherfuckers? 'Bout that shit?

  Morton raised the ax handle and pointed it at Po Sin.

  —Had it coming. We were under truce, you pulled that shit. Had this coming.

  Gabe started across the lot.

  Po Sin grabbed him.

  —Cool it. He's right.

  He pulled Gabe back to his side.

  —Deal with this later.

  Dingbang bounced higher.

  —'Bout that? Fuck with the best, get fucked in the ass like the rest.

  Po Sin raised his voice over the flames.

  —Shut up, Dingbang.

  —Bang! Bang!

  Morton raised the ax handle over his head.

  —You are done, Chinaman. You and your nigger. Gonna squeeze you right out of business.

  Dingbang pumped a fist.

  —Right out of business!

  —Motherfucker!

  Po Sin started toward them.

  —You're a disgrace, Dingbang!

  —Bang!

  —A wart. Your dad is a jailbird, but at least he has half a brain. At least he never let himself get used against his own family by some whiteass motherfucker.

  He pointed at Morton.

  —Fuck this midget. I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna take the stain off my family. If I got dead ancestors watching, they are gonna be laughing their asses off tonight. I'm gonna improve the gene pool, Dingbang.

  —Bangbangbang!

  —Motherfuckermotherfuckermotherfucker!

  He charged, Morton and Dingbang reeling back from him as his shadow fell over them.

  Then he stopped, a monster in silhouette against the fire, and his hand came up and he grabbed his left shoulder.

  —Oh. Motherfucker.

  And he was falling.

  Gabe got there first. Then me. Then Dingbang. The Pathfinder squealed away.

  Dingbang kneeled and cried.

  —Uncle. Uncleuncleuncle.

  Sirens on National Boulevard.

  EPILOGUE

  The ghetto birds are buzzing over Hollywood.

  I look up from under the hood and watch two of them as they cut diagonals against the grid of streets below. I set the socket wrench on the fender and walk down to the foot of the driveway and shade my eyes.

  One of the LAPD copters freezes. The other tilts slightly into the wind and zips west. Sirens break out on Highland. Glancing down the street, I can see two squad cars run the light several blocks away. I take my new cell from my pocket and make sure it's on. More sirens on Sunset. I look up to where the first copter hovers. Not too far away, no more than a mile. I think about walking over, take out my wallet and look inside and find I have no cards. Crap. I walk back up the driveway. If it's something I should know about, I'll get a call. Deputy Mercer will give me a ring and give the victims a referral. Right now the starter is more important than drumming up business.

  I get my head back under the hood and pull the last plug and wipe it clean. I squat and find the gapper in Chev's toolbox and fit the proper hoop of steel into the plug's spark gap. Too wide. Like the others. I press the top of the plug against the pavement, closing the gap, and check it again. The gapper passes in and out of the gap with a slight tug. I rise and replace the plug.

  The tone of the helicopter's chop shifts, and I look up again and watch it through a screen of ficus branches as it wheels and heads east toward K-town or Rampart or Boil Heights or Skid Row, where it no doubt has more pressing business than sitting watch on a Hollywood crime scene in the middle of the day.

  I mark its path, trace it back to where it had hovered.

  There's a ninety-nine-cent store over there. I could take a look. Stop at the store and pick up the stuff we'll need tonight.

  I bend and start picking up tools, making a mental shopping list as I go.

  Scotch-Brite pads.

  Wire brushes.

  Paint scrapers.

  Large sponges.

  And those little nylon scrubbies.

  Those are great, the ones that are like little wads of netting. Great for cracks and corners, perfect for snagging bits of skull and brain. Perfect for a shotgun job.

  Next day I take the Datsun over the Hollywood Hills.

  Just got it running and it's still a little balky, the way only a thirty-six-year-old 510 can be, but I'm not getting on any more fucking buses. Getting better is one thing, but there's a limit to how much healing I'm interested in doing. I was willing to deal with it. Too much to be done to wait for a ride all the time. But it was a white-knuckle job. Sweats. Nausea. Passed out once. That was charming. Passing out on public transportation is like begging the LAPD to give you all kinds of crap.

  But riding the bus, I did start to see certain things.

  Like the fact that I'm never going to be well. I'm never going to get over it. That there are things you don't get over. And why should you want to? I don't want to. Ride the bus enough, it might make me numb, but it won't make me better.

  I don't want to be numb.

  I drive up the Canyon, past the turnoff for L.L.'s place. Once every couple weeks over there is plenty. Place is clean enough now. Well, not clean, but not a death trap. As if L.L. gives a damn.

  By all means, Web, whatever form of therapy you wish to indulge in, feel free. Yes, yes, certainly, come to your father's house and take away all traces of individuality. Do what you must to abnegate his personality and create a new reality where that man no longer exists. I can't wait to see how you fare with this effort, sweet child. By the way, I had a call from the dear bitch. She seemed to think I wasn't at my best. I wonder where she may have gotten that idea. Asked if I'd like some pies. Suggested I should perhaps drink a little less. All of this accompanied by the gurgle of a hookah. I don't suppose, no, I must be wrong, but I don't suppose you had anything to do with that, you little fucker?

  My mistake.

  I hadn't meant to tell Mom anything about L.L., but she'd been lucid enough one evening to ask what I was up to, and kept asking more questions, and I kept answering. It took me a half hour to realize it was a hit of X that was making her so avid. I never expected her to remember enough of the conversation to act on it.

  She actually did send him a couple pies though.

  He refused to eat them.

  She'll have baked them full of hash. Or arsenic. In either case I don't care for the effects. Hand me that bottle, Web.

  I took them home to Chev. He liked them. So did Dot. That's still going on. God knows why.

  North of the Canyon, I hop on the Ventura going east and jump off in Burbank and drive to the far en
d of Flower and park in front of a long low house with a waist-high stucco wall closing off a yard that's half lawn and half patio.

  I get out of the car and walk over and swing my legs over the wall and start across the grass.

  Xing looks up from her dolls.

  —You have to use the gate and walk on the -path.

  —I'm in a hurry, Xing.

  She stands up and plants her fists on her hips and opens her mouth and emits a sustained shriek that just barely misses shattering every window in the neighborhood.

  —You have to use the gate and walk on the path!

  I go back out to the sidewalk, use the gate and walk on the path.

  —Better?

  She shakes her head at me.

  —You suck. You can't do anything right.

  I reach in the bag I'm carrying and show her the fuzzy white kitty I brought for her.

  —See this, Xing.

  She claps her hands and her eyes get big and she nods.

  —For me for me for me?

  I drop it back in the bag.

  —Nope. Not this trip. Maybe if you're nice next visit you can have it.

  I walk past her and she kicks me hard in the back of my leg.

  —You suck! Yousuckyousuckyousuck!

  I knock on the door and open it and walk in.

  Lei is coming down the hall.

  —You sure?

  —Yeah, but just two hours, right?

  —Yeah. Yes.

  She grabs her purse from a hook next to the door.

  —I'll be back. I just have to take Yong to his speech therapist or.

  —Yeah.

  —Yong!

  Yong wanders down the hall, zipping his backpack. I reach in the bag and take out a fire engine Lego set and hold it low where he can see it. It catches his eyes and he comes toward it in a daze.

  I shake the box.

  He looks up at me and I nod and he grabs the box and runs out the front door.

  Lei follows him.

  —Thanks. Back in two hours. Xing needs a bath and dinner then a half hour of TV and then bed.

  She squeezes Xing's shoulder as she goes by.

  —Try not to kill Web.

  Xing sticks her tongue out.

  I take the kitty from the bag and toss it out the open door and it hits her in the back of the head.

  She looks at it and turns up her nose.

  —I don't like kitties.

  I push the door closed.