The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 18

See, as was often the case with L.L., it wasn't so much the f.u.c.ked up s.h.i.+t he did, as the fact that he had to talk about the f.u.c.ked up s.h.i.+t he did.

So I understand Chev getting p.i.s.sed at me for having L.L.'s money in my pocket. Cuz we're not supposed to take his money. Ever. For anything. It was an oath we swore. Nineteen, Chev dropped out of college because he didn't want anything to do with the trust L.L. had set up for him; didn't want his money, and didn't want the education L.L. had told him his mom and dad would want him to have. Didn't want anything to do with anything L.L. touched, said, or thought. And I joined him. Skipped out on UCLA and enrolled at LACC. Having kind of figured out by then that if push came to shove, I'd be better off with Chev in my corner than with L.L. My rare moment of wisdom, recognizing that blood is not in fact thicker than water.

That oath may have kind of been broken by not stuffing L.L.'s money down the garbage disposal the minute Dot showed it to me. But I was too busy being a d.i.c.k to her to be bothered with that.

c.r.a.p.

So I thought about that kind of stuff, the kind of stuff where your dad is kind of responsible for the deaths of your best friend's parents, while I stood next to the payphone at the gas station on the corner of La Brea and Melrose waiting for Po Sin to come and pick me up.

Again, c.r.a.p.

AS NORMAL AS IT GETS.

-Motherf.u.c.ker!

-So is this covered by workmen's comp?

-Motherf.u.c.ker!

-I mean, if I get beat to c.r.a.p by the compet.i.tion, are my medical expenses taken care of? Missed wages? All that s.h.i.+t?

Po Sin drove one-handed, hammering his fist against the roof of the van.

-Mother! f.u.c.ker!

He pulled the van into the lot of a two-story strip mall, put it in park, got out and walked into a liquor store stationed between a nail salon and a Pilates studio, just under an auto insurance office. I watched him through the gla.s.s as he walked to the snack rack and started grabbing things, his lips ceaselessly moving.

Motherf.u.c.ker! Motherf.u.c.ker! Motherf.u.c.ker!

He came out a moment later, got in the van, dropped a sack full of junk food between our seats, ripped open a bag of puffy Cheetos, put it in his lap and started shoving them in his mouth as we pulled back onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

-Moferfuther!

Orange crumbs sprayed the inside of the winds.h.i.+eld.

-Mofufer!

I poked a finger in the sack of chips and beef sticks and snack cakes.

-Feeling a little anxious, Po Sin?

He wiped orange dust from his finger onto his pants.

-f.u.c.k you, Web. And, yes, I am. I am a stress eater, OK. When I am stressed I lose composure and self-control and I eat compulsively. That's what happens. You've seen me, right? You see how f.u.c.king fat I am, right? You think this s.h.i.+t just happens? It doesn't. I don't have a f.u.c.king thyroid problem here, I eat too much and I eat junk food. And I eat more when stressed. And I'm stressed right now. OK? OK? OK?

I leaned away from the crumbs and the spittle filling the air between us.

-Yeah, OK, I get it. You're stressed. You got a right to be. I understand. Hey I'm stressed, too. Which, you know, I think makes a lot of sense in this scenario. Seeing as I was the one who got his face beaten in by your G.o.dd.a.m.n nephew. Oh, and by the way, I couldn't help but notice that the van he and his friends took off in had been recently vandalized in the same shade of yellow paint that Gabe had under his fingernails this morning. Not that I think the two things are related or anything. Not that I think I've landed in the middle of some kind of dead-body-cleanup range war or anything like that.

He hammered the roof again.

-f.u.c.king Morton! f.u.c.king guild!

-Yes, the guild, interesting that you should mention that. So happens that Bang brought that up while we were chatting. I must confess that I was at something of a loss when the topic came about. Somewhat in the dark, as it were. Perhaps you might f.u.c.king enlighten my a.s.s.

He jerked the van to a stop at a red light and turned to me.

-His name is Dingbang, not Bang. It was his grandfather's name. Ding-bang, not Bang.

I folded my arms and put my feet on the dash.

-As long as he doesn't beat me up anymore, he can call himself whatever he wants.

Po Sin snapped his fingers.

-Feet, feet.

-Yes, they are, right there at the bottoms of my legs.

-Off the dash.

I shook my head.

-Uh-uh. Consider it getting my a.s.s kicked for the job tax.

He put more Cheetos in his mouth.

The light changed and we moved forward and I looked at the road ahead.

-Hey hey. Hey where are we going?

-Sherman Oaks.

I took my feet off the dash and pointed at the road.

-But why are we going this way?

-Because it's fastest. Why do you care?

-No, Highland to the 101 is faster.

-No it's not. Not where we're headed.

-Here, turn here!

He kept going straight.

-f.u.c.k, Po Sin, you needed to turn there.

He crumpled the empty Cheetos bag and dropped it in the grocery sack.

-Chill out, Web, this is the way to go. What's your f.u.c.king problem?

-Nothing. I just think my way is faster.

He pulled a tube of Pringles from the sack.

-Well you're wrong. Laurel Canyon is the way to go.

I didn't say anything, just put another mark down on the tally sheet, one more point scored by G.o.d in our ongoing game of Who's the Bigger d.i.c.k. Who's the Bigger d.i.c.k.

And we twisted up through the canyon of my childhood, pa.s.sing the curve, the decisive landmark in Chev's life, me fingering the hundred-dollar bills in my pocket.

Casa Vega is dark as h.e.l.l.

I'm only guessing about that, mind you, but I'm pretty certain that combination of blackness, dimly illuminated by red gla.s.s-filtered candlelight, is the precise effect that would really go in Hades.

Except I doubt they have nachos and margaritas there.

We felt our way past the bar and into the dining room, Po Sin apparently guided by second sight, or an interior compa.s.s that always reads true to hot ceramic platters heaped with chili relleno. At the back, under one of the nicer bullfighters on black velvet I've come across, we found Gabe in a red leather booth, his black jacket on against the blasting AC, tie knotted, sungla.s.ses on his face.

We slipped into the booth and he gestured at the food.

-I ordered.

Po Sin grabbed a fork and started digging into a beef-stuffed bell pepper covered in melted cheese.

-Thanks.

Gabe looked at me.

-Eat something. It's good.

I pointed at my face.

-Yeah, I'm sure it is, but aside from the fact that chewing sounds like a bad idea right now, I just don't like eating in an environment where I can't see my fork coming at my face. This crazy fear of stabbing myself in the eye.

Po Sin grabbed my plate and pulled it in front of him.

-Fine by me.

I took a chip from the basket on the table and tried nibbling the corner and the salt got in the cut inside my mouth and I winced and picked up one of the margaritas Gabe had got for us and took a big swallow, but I didn't see the salt all over the rim because it was so f.u.c.king dark and that really hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h.

-Son of a b.i.t.c.h!

Gabe pushed a water gla.s.s my way.

-Sorry about that. Didn't know if you liked them with or without.

I filled my mouth with cold water and swished it around, and that hurt, too.

-c.r.a.p.

I looked at Po Sin as he mopped his first plate with a tortilla.

-So look, man, I don't want to be ungrateful for the dinner I can't eat or anything, but are we at the part where I get to know what the f.u.c.k, or what?

He scooped guacamole onto a chip.

-Yeah, we're there. We're there.

He ate the chip. And then a couple more. Gabe sat behind his sungla.s.ses.

I slapped the table.

-So what the f.u.c.k then? What's the deal? What the h.e.l.l is the guild? Whatwhatwhat?

Po Sin wiped his lips with a red napkin.

-Aftershock.

-Huh?

-Aftershock is the name of another trauma cleaner. They have a lot of contracts, mostly on the west side. Hotels, office buildings, property management. And they get most of the law enforcement referrals over there. Cops, sheriff's deputies, they're at the scene of a violent crime, someone asks them, How do I clean this up? My baby Huey, my little boy was shot here, how do I clean it up? How do I clean this up? My baby Huey, my little boy was shot here, how do I clean it up? Baby Huey, mind you, is six and a half feet and over three hundred pounds and he's bled all over the house after getting shot on the porch by the guy who used to be his best friend before one of them f.u.c.ked the other one's baby mama or some such c.r.a.p. So the law officer suggests a reliable trauma cleaner who will come in and take care of the situation. Baby Huey, mind you, is six and a half feet and over three hundred pounds and he's bled all over the house after getting shot on the porch by the guy who used to be his best friend before one of them f.u.c.ked the other one's baby mama or some such c.r.a.p. So the law officer suggests a reliable trauma cleaner who will come in and take care of the situation.

I found a paper-wrapped straw on the table and unpeeled it.

-And he gets a bribe for doing it.

Po Sin waved a finger in the air.

-It's not a bribe. It's a referral fee.

-It's illegal as h.e.l.l.

-It is that, but it is not a bribe.

I dipped the straw in my margarita and took a sip.

-And the guild?

He lined up the second plate of chili relleno.

-The guild is a racket. Guy who owns Aftershock, Morton, is trying to get all the cleaners to join a guild. Guild will distribute jobs and contracts. Set prices. Broker health coverage, that kind of s.h.i.+t. The more cleaners he can get to sign on, the more pressure he can put on the remaining independents. They don't join, they're gonna have to find a way to live off the sc.r.a.ps of jobs that don't go through the guild.