The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 13

He stuck his hand under the seat and came out with a Slim Jim and unwrapped it.

I looked out at the Pacific Ocean.

-What was that about the guild?

Po Sin c.o.c.ked an eyebrow.

-What?

-The guild. That deputy you bribed mentioned a guild guild and something about and something about aftershocks aftershocks or something? or something?

-Don't worry about it. It's not your problem.

I threw my hands up.

-s.h.i.t, man, I know it's not my problem, I'm just curious. I'm just trying to make conversation. I'm not allowed to ask about the d.a.m.n girl back there. Fine. You don't want to talk about the business. Fine. So let's talk about the diet you're supposed to be on and how that's going. How are your cholesterol numbers looking? Triglycerides? How's the blood pressure? Your wife know you're munching sticks of pig a.s.s seasoned with MSG?

He bit a hunk off the Slim Jim, chewed it once, and swallowed.

-Soledad.

-Say what?

-Her name is Soledad. And here's a tip, it means solitude solitude in Spanish. As in, in Spanish. As in, Leave me the f.u.c.k alone. Leave me the f.u.c.k alone.

I held my arm out the window and felt the sun burning it red.

-She didn't pick her own name.

-Drop me over here.

Po Sin looked around.

-We're only in Santa Monica. How the h.e.l.l you gonna get home from here?

-I'll get a ride.

-A ride. Chev gonna drive out here to pick you up? Chev gonna drive out here to pick you up?

-I'll get a ride. Pull over, pull over here, man.

He pulled the van to the curb on Ocean, just past the pier.

-Tell you one thing, you get stuck out here, I won't be coming to get you.

I opened the door and started to get out and he grabbed the tail of my old Mobil gas station shirt.

-Web.

I looked at him.

-You get stuck out here, you're gonna be riding the bus.

I tugged free.

-I can get a ride.

He held up his hands.

-As you wish.

I climbed out and pushed the door closed.

-That's the idea.

He pushed a b.u.t.ton on his armrest and the pa.s.senger window slid down.

-Listen, there's no job tomorrow. You want to make some more cash, you can help clean the shop.

I shrugged.

-Sure. Sure. Sounds good.

-OK.

The window rolled back up and he drove off toward the 10 West.

I stood there for a minute and looked at the causeway to the pier and thought about walking out past the bars and the fried-food stands and the Ferris wheel all the way to the end so I could stand there and stare at the water. But instead I turned around and trotted across the street and walked into the late-afternoon darkness inside Chez Jay.

Dark, the only light coming in through the open upper half of the split front door and three portholes cut behind the bar. Fishing nets, life preservers and a ship's anchor on the walls, a tattered American flag hung in a single billow over the bar. I took a seat on the corner. The bartender looked down from the TV where he was watching a rerun of Charlie's Angels. Charlie's Angels.

He came over.

-I was always a Kate Jackson man. You?

I glanced at the TV.

-Never watched it.

He stops in his tracks.

-Naw?

-Didn't have a TV growing up.

-No kidding. One of those.

-Yeah. One of those. No early childhood brain cancer to r.e.t.a.r.d my emotional development.

-That's not funny.

-Not supposed to be.

He looked back up at the TV.

-Well I like the show.

-Yeah, I rest my case.

-Huh?

-Can I have a beer, please?

-What kind?

-Whatever.

He took a mug from behind the bar and drew a Heineken and set it in front of me.

-Four.

-I got that.

I looked at the old man tucked into the angle where the bar met the wall. Hunched over an open book, a stack of several more books at his elbow, thick plastic-rimmed gla.s.ses on the end of his swollen nose, a sweating gla.s.s of beer in front of him paired with a half-full shot gla.s.s.

He nudged a few dollars out of the pile of bills next to his drinks.

-That bother you, that no-TV thing?

I lifted my gla.s.s and took a sip.

-No. Not really. I read a lot.

The bartender took the money and went back down the bar.

-Well I like TV.

The old man gestured at his back.

-And here he is, tending bar.

I shrugged.

-It's a job.

The old man sc.r.a.ped his fingernails over his whiskers.

-It's a s.h.i.tty job.

The bartender turned up the volume on the TV.

The old man dog-eared the corner of the page he was reading and closed the book.

-You still read a lot?

-Yeah.

He started going through the stack. He found what he was looking for and pulled it from the pile and offered it to me.

-Ever read this one?

I took the book and looked at the cover.

A Fan's Notes.

-Yeah, I read it.

He took the book back.

-That's a good book.

I took a sip of beer.

-It's good, I like it, but it's not that great.

He put the book on top of the stack.

-Did I say it was great? I said it was good. Try listening.

-Whatever.

He pulled at the collar of his red flannel shirt, the skin beneath beach-b.u.m rough and brick red.

-A great book is a rare thing. What have you read lately that's great?

-Nothing.

-See what I mean.

He held up the book he was reading when I came in.

-Anna Karenina. A great book. Indisputably. A great book. Indisputably.

-Indisputably great trashy fiction.

He set the book down.

-Are you trying to upset me?