The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

  —Can you tell me if any doors or windows were open? Can you tell me how many?

  2 doors.

  —Uh-huh. No. Well, it's pretty much impossible to give an estimate on the phone. Sure. What we'll do is, we'll come out, tonight or in the morning, whichever you prefer, and we'll take a look and we'll do an assessment and we'll tell you just how much time it will take and how much it will cost. No, free of charge, we do that free of charge.

  He talked a little more, wrote down an address in Malibu and a phone number, and hung up and dropped the phone in his pocket. He picked up the last of his cheeseburger and put it in his mouth.

  —Nine millimeter in the mouth. Gonna be an earner, that one.

  Gabe nodded.

  —The bigger the gun, the bigger the mess.

  I knew that already. That bit of wisdom about guns and the messes that they make.

  TILL HIS NEIGHBORS SMELLED HIM

  After lunch we brought the last of the boxes down to the bin, followed by the few pieces of spavined furniture. With the floor cleared throughout, the one-bedroom apartment didn't look half big enough to have contained all that we had hauled out of it, and the stench seemed worse than ever.

  I pointed at a stain on the carpet that seemed to be the epicenter of stink.

  —What the fuck is that?

  Po Sin came over, holding the mask to his face.

  —That's where the decomp was.

  —Huh?

  —The guy who lived here, that's where he died and rotted till one of his neighbors smelled him.

  I stared at the stain.

  —What's the? Why's there a stain?

  —Fluids, Web. A body dies, sits in a hot room in L.A. in July, you get a lot of fluids coming off it.

  I stared, and the stain's Rorschach shape arranged itself into sprawled limbs and a bloated trunk.

  —What's that black stuff?

  Po Sin took a collapsible pointer from the pocket of his Tyvek, snapped his wrist and it shot open and he put it to use.

  —Blood here. All this. A body decomposes, it starts to swell up, fills with gases. Eventually, it's gonna pop. Blood comes out of that, it's like dirty motor oil. Same color and consistency. This yellow, that's where the fat has started separating, that's tallow.

  I squatted to look at something and the reek slapped me in the face. I turned my head and stood and took a couple steps back.

  —Jesus.

  —Yeah, he was ripe.

  I pointed at the little lines wiggling off the stain; traceries, like veins under the skin.

  —What are those?

  —Maggot trails. They hatch in the corpse then go looking for a better life. All those little black things are the dry maggot shells.

  He slapped his palm over the end of the pointer, collapsing it, dropped it in his pocket, and pulled out a carpet knife.

  —Let's get this shit up off the floor.

  We began cutting, peeling away flat industrial weave patterned in precise geometries of grime that outlined where boxes had once been stacked. And on the wood floor, just under the stain left by the decomp, a larger stain. More abstract. And in need of scrubbing.

  So I scrubbed.

  The apartment stripped and bare, cockroaches fleeing through every crack, seeking refuge in the neighboring apartments, Gabe brought up an ozone generator and plugged it in.

  Po Sin took off his mask and wiped his forehead and pointed at the machine.

  —It'll bond oxygen to oxygen. Essentially purify the air. Eliminate the odor, not just mask it.

  I was looking at the stain on the floor. Fainter now, but there was no way to get rid of the entire smear of the man's death.

  Po Sin followed Gabe to the door, leaving the ozone generator behind to do its job. He stopped and looked at me.

  —You OK?

  I scuffed at the stain with the toe of my paper-covered boot.

  —Sure.

  —Never seen that one in a horror movie before, huh?

  I stood there for another moment before following them out.

  I hadn't. I hadn't seen that kind of thing before.

  Not exactly.

  —He does accommodations at night.

  My head was out the window of the moving van, blowing some of the stink out of my hair. I pulled back inside to hear better.

  —Accommodates what?

  —Bodies. For the coroner. He picks them up. It's what they call it. Accommodations.

  —No shit?

  —Sure. Some wino goes stiff on Skid Row, who ya gonna call? His buddies gonna take up a collection, get him a nice casket, a mausoleum at Hollywood Forever? Damon Runyon don't live here no more, man. Once they grab his last can of Sterno and his shoes, if he's got any, they walk away. Sooner or later, someone at the mission or one of the treatment centers, or a cop cruising by because he took the wrong fucking turn, will see the body. Sometime after that, the coroner gets a call. They have a service they call to do the pickup. Gabe works for one of those services. It's his night job.

  He took a bite out of a Slim Jim he got from the box beneath the driver's seat.

  —That's why he can't drive you home.

  —So what's up with him? Know he keeps a sap in his glove box? And what's with all that camping gear?

  —Gabe's between places of residence just now.

  —What, he's homeless?

  —He prefers to have no fixed address at this time.

  —Uh-huh.

  I tapped my cheekbone.

  —And that tattoo, that tear under his eye, that's gang shit, right? He some reformed O.G. or something?

  He shoved that last six inches of the Slim Jim in his mouth.

  —Don't talk shit you don't know shit about, Web. 'Sides, you got a problem with him if he has a history? You don't want to ride with him? You'd rather ride the bus?

  We rolled on Beverly, the street bending east at the ramps to the 101.

  —I don't ride the bus.

  He crumpled the empty wrapper and threw it under his seat.

  —I know.

  Traffic crawled to a full stop for no visible reason. It being in the nature of all LA. drivers to be suddenly seized en masse by retardation and start hitting the brake pedal when every light in the immediate vicinity is a nice bright green.

  Po Sin, taking advantage of the respite, removed his hands from the wheel, stretched, looked at me.

  —But you should, you know, ride the bus. Might be good for you.

  I stared up at the giant red sign for the Ambassador Dog & Cat Hospital. A beacon for wounded animals everywhere. Or something. I mean, there has to be a reason why the sign is so fucking tall, right? I always picture some old lady out walking her Maltese when a sharp pain starts radiating down its left front leg. She crouches next to the stricken dog, screaming for help, cars passing by, no other pedestrians in sight. Desperate, she looks to heaven, and there it is, visible from a mile away, the Ambassador. Thank Jesus for that fucking sign!

  —You listening?

  I looked at him.

  —Yeah. I'm just failing to hear anything that has anything to do with anything I give a shit about.

  Traffic moved. Po Sin drove.

  —You give a shit alright.

  —Says you.

  He adjusted the rearview.

  —Xing's back on the bus.

  —How proud you must be of her.

  He grunted, a phlegmy and no doubt Slim Jim flavored sound that was meant, I suppose, to indicate his disgust.

  We passed Jollibee. I stared at the red and yellow fiberglass Jolly Bee out front.

  —What's with the paint on the van?

  Po Sin flicked on the headlights.

  —Nothing. Just business.

  —Just business? Paint bombs?

  —There's some competition out there. Trauma scene and waste cleaning is a growth industry.

  —Competition for cleaning shit. I'm trying to make that work in my head. What kind of people are drawn to that
kind of work and fight for the honor?

  He reached over and punched me lightly in the shoulder. Lightly for Po Sin being sufficient to slam me into the door and leave me rubbing both shoulders.

  He jabbed me with his forefinger, each jab deepening the shade of purple that would no doubt be spreading across my shoulder in the next hour, if it survived his onslaught.

  —Kind of people who are fighting over cleaning shit and blood and assorted bodily fluids are people who need a job. People who need money. Now I don't know about you, but I know a few people who fit that profile. You know anyone like that? Ring any bells?

  I pulled out of his range.

  —Yeah, yeah, I get it. Sure, I'm no better than anyone else. I'm just saying, seems weird to be fighting over who gets to pick up the shit.

  He took a right on Highland.

  —There's money to be made, people will fight. And seeing as this is a nasty area of commerce to be involved in, it sometimes attracts a pile of assholes.

  —Like your nephew.

  He took advantage of another halt in the traffic to stare at me.

  —Web, you know the one about the pot and the kettle and what one called the other and what that story is supposed to mean?

  —It's not a story, it's more of a saying. And yeah, I know that one. And what it means. Need an explanation?

  —No. My point is, shut the fuck up.

  In front of my building he counted twenties from his wallet.

  —Eighty bucks sound right?

  I looked at the driveway, Chev's ’58 Apache parked in front of my parts receptacle/car in our stacked parking slots under the building's overhanging upper story.

  —Sure, sounds fine.

  He held out the money and I took it and put it in my pocket.

  He folded his wallet.

  —Not gonna count it?

  I pulled open the door.

  —No.

  —What if I'm ripping you off?

  —You're not.

  —How do you know?

  I stepped out of the van.

  —Well, if you are, it's only money, man. How upset am I supposed to get?

  He stuffed the wallet deep in one of his front pockets.

  —I spent the day hauling crap, I'd be pretty pissed if someone tried to rip me off.

  I closed the door and leaned my forearms in the open window.

  —Yeah, but you're a money-grubbing pig.

  —You want to do some more work for the money-grubbing pig sometime?

  Tomorrow maybe?

  I looked at the rack of silver mailboxes riveted to the beige stucco wall at the base of the stairs.

  —Well, not really. But I got to buy Chev a new phone.

  He put the van in gear.

  —One of us will pick you up at seven.

  He started to pull out. I walked alongside as he backed into the street.

  —Yeah, but I was kind of thinking I might get a check today. And if I do. You know.

  He stopped the car.

  —Web, your mom sent you some money and you don't feel like working, that's fine. She didn't, and you want to work, call me in the next couple hours. I haven't found anyone else by then, you can work. Good night.

  And he drove away.

  I watched the van to the corner. Pulled the money from my pocket and counted it. Eighty bucks even, folded around a Clean Team business card. I let down the tailgate of the Apache and sat on it and dangled my legs, riffling the edge of the card along my knuckles, thinking about things.

  A truck drove slow down the middle of the narrow street, a windowless Dodge Ram van, freshly sanded and primered across the hood and down one side. It paused while some kids rode by on their bikes in the opposite direction, and then eased down the street while I watched the kids pedal to the corner and whip into the alley. I could hear the homeless couple screaming at each other down there, calling each other names.

  —Whore.

  —Asshole.

  —Bitch.

  —Fuckface.

  —Cocktease.

  —Cocksucker.

  —Cunt.

  —Shithead.

  The glorious spoken-word street poetry of Hollywood.

  I listened to them and looked at the Clean Team card and tried to remember the first time I met Po Sin. I could remember the first time I'd seen him. Dropping off his youngest, Xing, walking across the chain-link-enclosed playground, the kids stopping in their tracks to watch a leviathan amongst them, holding the hand of his round-faced daughter, her Sponge Bob backpack dangling from his free hand. He'd made an impression.

  But the first time I'd met him? School play maybe. Po Sin leaning against the back of the auditorium because the little folding chairs were too small. Me standing back there keeping an eye on the rowdy kids who like to sit as far from the front of a room as possible.

  I'd been one of those kids at the back. Spitballs. Whispering. Elbow digs. Giggles. Passed notes about boogers. But mostly sneaking a book out of my back pocket to hide in my lap and read, tuning out whatever was happening up on the stage at the front of the hall.

  Pretty much the same shit going on with the kids I was eyeballing. Except there was a greater chance that the notes being passed around would include the word fuck, and that anyone looking at something in their lap was going to be playing a Gameboy or PSP, not reading a book.

  Po Sin had smiled when Xing, an infamous back-stabbing two-faced queen-bee, universally hated by all the second-grade girls and the entire female faculty, came on stage as a fairy or a tree or a rainbow or something, and applauded after she got out her line.

  I'd leaned close and told him how cute she was, and he'd looked at me and shook his head.

  —She's a terror, an absolute bitch. But yeah, she's cute as hell.

  We talked a little during the cookies and punch segment of the evening. He'd told me his business. I'd mentioned that my roommate needed someone to dispose of his biowaste.

  He and Chev hit it off, and Chev would come home and give reports about what Po Sin was cleaning while I corrected papers. Tales of hand-scrubbing each piece of ballast along two hundred yards of rail bed after a train strike on a junkie, delivered as I put small red marks in the margins of phonics tests and What I Did for Kwanzaa essays.

  He looked me up after I quit. To say what, I don't know. I didn't answer the phone or listen to the message he left. Something about Xing, I imagine.

  Later, when he'd come by the shop to pick up Chev's waste, and see me hanging, he'd say some nice things. At first. Then he started making some suggestions about how I might want to, I don't know, get some help or some other kind of daytime talk show bullshit. When that weed didn't take root in me, he stopped talking about it. For a long time. Then he got used to the idea of me being a dick and started treating me like normal and telling me I was acting like an asshole fuckup, which was a whole hell of a lot easier on both of us.

  And now I was working for him. Acquiring new job skills. The mystic arts of erasing all signs of death. These things, these things you do to get by when need arises, they sometimes equip you for the rest of your life. However long that turns out to be.

  There was a rattle overhead. I looked up and watched a small flock of sparrows as they hopped and scratched across the fronds of a palm tree growing from the neighbor's dense yard, pecking at some kind of tidbit that had come to rest up there. A crow flapped down from the power line, scattering most of them, cawing, its action drawing the attention of several members of the murder that made the street home. I leaned over and picked up a rock and pitched it into the tree and watched the crows wing off to look for easier fodder in the alley dumpsters down the street. The sparrows came back.

  I got up and closed the tailgate and went upstairs, dragging my hand over the stucco wall of the complex as I walked down the second-floor exterior walkway, listening to stereos and TV shows and arguments and yip-ping dogs behind the doors of our neighbors. I unlocked the front door and walked in and loo
ked at the girl whose nipple I'd stretched the day before at the shop, sitting on the couch in her panties and Chev's favorite Misfits T, with one of my books open in her lap.

  She looked up.

  —Oh, it's the dick.

  Chev walked in, pulling on his boxers, tattoos scattered over his body, thickest at the ends of his limbs, thinning as they approached his torso.

  He hoisted a tallboy of Miller at me.

  —Hey it's the breadwinner.

  He dropped on the couch next to the girl.

  —This is Dot.

  Dot made room for him next to her.

  —Yeah, I already said hi.

  She held up the big purple and gold book she'd been flipping through.

  —So did you really teach over at Hollywoodland Elementary? These kids are so cute.

  I walked over and took the book from her and closed it and went to the shelf and found its space with the other yearbooks and slipped it in where it belonged and turned and stared at Chev.

  He rubbed his shoulder.

  —Sorry, man, I didn't know she was looking at that.

  Dot looked at him, at me.

  —What? I like kids. What?

  Chev got up and walked toward the kitchen.

  —Hey good news, working man, you got a FedEx package from Oregon. And it's not berries.

  He grabbed a FedEx envelope from the table and scaled it to me. I caught it and headed for my room.

  Dot smiled.

  —Sorry about looking at your book. I just finished my first year at UCLA in the education department. I was curious. I didn't know you were a teacher.

  Chev opened the fridge.

  —Told you she was eighteen.

  She made a face as I walked past her.

  —Oh. My. God. What the fuck is that smell?

  I took a long shower. A very long shower. And then I took another one. Longer this time. And then I splashed myself with some of Chev's Old Spice. And a little more. Then I went in my room and turned on my fan and opened my window and tried not to breathe through my nose and prayed that the stink wouldn't get into my bedding and the carpet. And after about a half hour I finally grew something resembling a brain and gathered my dirty clothes and bagged them and took them down to the laundry room, ignoring the various squeals and grunts coming from Chev's room as I passed his door.