The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 12

-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 a.s.s in the open back door of the van and it dropped on its shocks.

-f.u.c.k that. that. I mean, what are you doing I mean, what are you doing talking talking with her? with her?

I raised my hands over my head.

-You said talk to her!

-I said apologize, I didn't say engage in a d.a.m.n tete-a-tete tete-a-tete with her. with her.

-She wanted to talk, man. What am I supposed to say? Oh, miss, so sorry, my boss is a total p.r.i.c.k 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 f.u.c.k. Oh, miss, so sorry, my boss is a total p.r.i.c.k 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 f.u.c.k.

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 f.u.c.k, 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 p.r.o.ne to acting in ways they would not under normal circ.u.mstances. Start doing s.h.i.t 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 f.u.c.ked up because some sh.e.l.l-shocked young woman mistakes your disinterest in pretty much anything for some kind of blase charm, and ends up getting more deeply injured than she already is and has an inevitable emotional detonation and refuses to pay her f.u.c.king bill. I have enough problems, thank you.

-Don't worry, I know he's a disaffected a.s.shole. 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 t.i.tle.

-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. Sister Carrie.

-Oh f.u.c.k, 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 f.u.c.k with me some more, I like it so much when you make me feel like an a.s.shole. 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 a.s.shole 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 to do that.

She signed her name and put her initials next to several ballpoint X 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 b.i.t.c.h HE RAISED.

b.u.mper to b.u.mper 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 a.s.sume. I eyeballed the clipboard on the dash in front of Po Sin, and he caught me and shook his head.

-No f.u.c.king 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 trusted employee. You are a ten buck an hour f.u.c.kup day laborer who is not allowed to cherry pick the phone numbers of attractive female clients so that you can hara.s.s them and get me sued. employee. You are a ten buck an hour f.u.c.kup day laborer who is not allowed to cherry pick the phone numbers of attractive female clients so that you can hara.s.s them and get me sued.

I leaned back in my seat and folded my arms.

-Fine. Whatever you say jefe. jefe.