The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 2

Chev looked at the number on the face of his vibrating cell.

-Yeah, don't got to tell me. Small business owners of the world unite.

He hooked a thumb at me where I'd sprawled back on the couch with my magazine.

-Wish you could teach some economics to the freeloader over there.

I didn't look away from the magazine.

-Indentured servant is more like it.

He ignored me, answering the phone and flipping open the appointment book on the counter at the front of the shop.

-Yeah, what did you want?

He rolled his eyes.

-A dolphin? In the small of your back?

He stuck a finger in his open mouth.

-Yeah, no problem. How about tomorrow afternoon?

Po Sin came over and peeked at my magazine.

-That guy got toes for eyes?

-Yeah. Cool, huh?

-He a monster?

-Nah, just a guy gets all f.u.c.ked up by a psycho.

-What you see in that s.h.i.t, man?

-I don't know.

-Doesn't bother you, all that gore?

-Why should it?

He looked at Chev.

-Why should it?

He always been like that?

Chev put his hand over the phone.

-Actually, no. The taste for horror is kind of a new thing.

I looked up from the magazine.

-Hey is there a problem here I'm unaware of? Am I not allowed to develop new interests and tastes? So I never really got into horror before, so it's a new thing, is that supposed to mean mean something? I mean, f.u.c.k, it's just fun is all. something? I mean, f.u.c.k, it's just fun is all.

Po Sin grunted.

-People getting hacked up and tortured and mutilated is fun. s.h.i.t's disgusting.

I put the magazine in front of my face.

-Says the man with a van full of b.l.o.o.d.y rags and dirty needles and s.h.i.t-stained sheets and used condoms and wads of tampons.

He pulled the magazine from my hands and flipped through it, looking at the pictures.

-Some nasty stuff in here.

-Doesn't bother me.

He looked at me, nodded, and kicked the side of the biohazard canister.

-Give me a hand with this. Come out and get the empty.

I rolled off the couch.

-Like I'm everyone's slave today.

Chev was scribbling in the appointment book, back on the phone.

-With a sunset behind it, yeah, sure.

I followed Po Sin out the door.

-Ask her if she wants the dolphin snagged in a gill net or drowning in an oil spill.

Chev showed me his middle finger.

Outside, Po Sin was at the back of the Clean Team van, opening the doors. I set the canister on the edge of the curb.

He waved me closer.

-Bring it here.

I picked it back up.

-Maaan.

I brought it over to him and caught a face-full of the reek pouring out of the sun-baked rear of the van.

-Holy Jesus! Motherf.u.c.k.

He took the canister from me and snugged it in with several others and snapped a bungee cord around them to keep them from shifting.

-How's that for a gross-out?

I waved a hand in front of my face.

-Dude, that's some nasty s.h.i.t.

He took an empty canister from a rack and pa.s.sed it to me.

-Things are supposed to be airtight.

-They're not.

-No s.h.i.t.

He slammed the doors closed and leaned his back against them, the polarized lenses of his gla.s.ses darkening.

-So. Still no work.

I lifted the empty canister.

-Working plenty.

Chev came out of the shop and lit up.

-Don't listen to him, he ain't worked in over a year.

Po Sin looked up at the sky.

-Been that long?

I spat in the gutter.

-It's been awhile.

I pointed at Chev.

-And don't listen to his bulls.h.i.t. I work all the time. I mean, who's been doing the laundry? Cleaning the dishes? Cooking? Who's been running all your errands and fetching lunch and taking your truck to be washed?

Chev knocked ash from his smoke.

-Yeah, and who's been paying your rent and covering the groceries and the PG&E and the cable and the water and the gas and every other little thing that comes up?

-I've been kicking in.

Chev watched a couple Korean girls in midi tank tops walk out of the French cafe up Melrose.

-Mean your mom's been kicking in.

-Any of your business?

The girls disappeared into a shoe store and he looked back at me.

-Only that she's not gonna carry you forever and you need to get a f.u.c.king job because the IOUs are piling up on the fridge.

-I'll get a job.

Po Sin tugged the end of his thin drooping moustache.

-Can't believe you can't get a job the way the schools need teachers.

Chev flicked his b.u.t.t.

-He can get a job, they call him all the time. He could sub five days a week. He could go full-time again whenever he wants.

-Only I don't want to, a.s.shole.

-You want to make a couple bucks, I got some work for a guy with a strong stomach for messed up s.h.i.t.

I looked at Po Sin and squinted.

-What kind of work?

He looked at Chev and pointed at me.

-Know why he doesn't have a job? Because he's the kind of guy you offer him one and he asks what the work is.

He started for the cab of the van.

-He don't want to work.

I followed him around the van.

-I didn't say I don't want to work, I just asked what the job is.

Asking what the job was, that was actually a really smart idea. If I'd pursued that line of questioning a bit further, things would have been considerably less complicated. Dug a little deeper into that line of inquiry, and I might have avoided the whole Who's the a.s.shole in the Motel Room Who's the a.s.shole in the Motel Room contest that would crop up later. contest that would crop up later.

But Po Sin wasn't interested in filling in blanks.

He stopped and faced me.

-It's cleaning s.h.i.t up, is what it is. We got a packrat gig and one of my sets of hands is flaking on me and there's a load of s.h.i.t to haul.

I squinted again.

-You mean literal s.h.i.t?