The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 29

I looked back at Gabe, standing at the rear of the Cruiser with the window rolled down and the gate dropped. He reached in and pulled the gurney halfway out.

-Give me a hand with this.

Again I found myself in a dead man's bedroom while someone else did the paperwork elsewhere.

-Do you like this one?

I looked at the purple suit the old woman had draped over the corpse on the bed.

-It's a nice color.

She fingered the material.

-Yes, it is. He liked to be seen, Wally Whatever Wally once liked, it didn't matter now. And being seen wasn't something he was going to be doing much more of. Judging by the suit, he'd been built on a scale that might have had him approaching Po Sin's rarefied air, but the withered thing lost in the bedclothes could be swaddled in just the vest.

The woman sat on the edge of the bed, the suit overflowing her lap.

-Such a nice suit. Will they cut the back out of it to get him in?

I looked down the hall and longed for Gabe to get the f.u.c.k back in there.

-I'm not certain, ma'am. I think so. But I can't. I'm new to the job.

She took the corpse's hand in hers.

-Really? And do you like it so far?

I ran my eyes over the bedpan and oxygen tank and wheelchair and rows of pill bottles, all the other accoutrements of a long and miserable death that littered the room.

-It's OK.

-Must be sobering work for such a young man. Not very exciting.

I considered the last forty-eight hours of my life.

-Ma'am, there is never a dull moment.

She looked at the dead man again.

-Well, I suppose it must be very different. Each time. Wally is the second husband I've outlived. We were only married fifteen years. My first, we were married thirty. Cancer got him, too.

She arranged the suit over him again, resting her hand on his chest.

-f.u.c.king cancer.

-Thanks for this, Gabe.

He pointed at the catch near my hand.

-Squeeze there.

I squeezed and the gurney's legs collapsed and we lowered the impossibly weightless corpse.

-No, seriously, thanks for this. The fair warning and all is what I particularly appreciate.

-Lift.

We lifted and slid the gurney into the back of the Cruiser and Gabe leaned in and flipped the levers that locked the wheels in place.

I loosened my tie.

-If it wasn't for that, I'd have walked into that situation totally unprepared for what I was going to be dealing with. Never would have been ready to chat with a grieving widow and help her to pick out a burial suit for her second dead husband. So thanks. I would have truly been out of my depth without your aid and a.s.sistance.

He swung the gate up and the black-tinted window rolled closed.

-Let's go.

I walked around and got in.

-Sure, let's go. But only if we can do this again right now. That was such a walk in the park, I can't wait to repeat it.

He put the key in the ignition.

I clapped both hands to my cheeks.

-Such a lovely, life-affirming experience, Mr. Gabe. That just put everything into perspective. That just made me realize how sweet my life is and how I need to live it to its fullest before it slips away.

He turned the ignition.

-Glad to hear all that, Web. Glad I could help.

I dropped my hands and settled into my seat, becoming aware that sarcasm and irony had no place in whatever laconic universe Gabe lived in.

-So what now, drop him at Woodlawn or someplace?

He put the car in gear.

-Just a quick errand first.

He looked at me.

-Don't worry, we don't have to bury him ourselves.

He pulled from the curb.

I looked over my shoulder at the body under the sheet.

-Wouldn't have surprised me at this point.

-Isn't Woodlawn west?

By way of answer Gabe continued east on Olympic.

-Please tell me we're not picking up another body.

He gestured at the back of the station wagon.

-There's only room for one.

I continued rolling up my sleeves.

-Thank G.o.d, I thought I was gonna have to put my jacket on again.

Just past the 3 Day Suit Broker he took a right on Federal, cruised slow, and pulled to the curb beyond Lasky Coachworks. I looked out at the auto shops and A-American Self Storage.

-Nice spot. Looking to get lucky?

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned and pulled a red fuel bottle from one of the camping gear milk crates behind his seat.

-Hand me that jug we bought.

I picked up one of the bags from the Goodwill and pulled out the little clay moons.h.i.+ne jug with a cartoon of a drunken hillbilly stenciled on the side.

-Gloves. Gloves.

I looked at the black leather gloves Gabe was slipping onto his hands.

-Didn't I tell you to bring gloves?

-There's a dead body in the vehicle.

Gabe finished filling the jug with camp fuel and handed me the red bottle.

-Hold that between your legs.

I placed the bottle between my thighs, the fumes strong in my face.

-A dead body, Gabe. And I'm virtually certain you're preparing to do something extremely illegal. Wouldn't it be best if whatever that is were done in the absence of a corpse?

He held out a hand.

-Get that glider out.

I took the Styrofoam glider from the Goodwill bag.

-Yes, let's play with this. Let's play with this and talk about the sudden attack of crazy you are suffering from.

-Break it up into pieces. Little ones. No, smaller. Small enough to fit in the jug. Good.

He took the pieces I handed him and dropped them down the neck of the jug.

-Now the cork.

I handed him the cork and watched as he worked it into the jug, using the heel of his palm to pound it snug, flush to the lip.

I dropped the mauled remains of the glider back in the bag.

-OK, so we're not going to toss the glider around. But. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k, Gabe. What the f.u.c.k are we doing here?

-That baggie of junk jewelry in there.

I dug it out.

He shook his head.

-No, dump out the jewelry, just give me the bag. And that bandanna, stuff it down into the fuel bottle.

I used my index finger to stuff the Bon Jovi bandanna he'd bought into the fuel bottle.

-This is f.u.c.ked up, man.

-Now pull it out, carefully, and put it in here.

He held the baggie open right next to the fuel bottle. I pulled the bandanna free, and dropped it in the baggie, a little fuel dribbling my thighs.

-Now seal that bottle and put it away and tear off a strip of duct tape from that roll.

I screwed the cap back onto the bottle, put it in its milk crate, found the silver roll of tape and tore off a strip and handed it to him and watched as he used the tape to attach the sealed baggie to the side of the jug.

-Hold this.

He offered me the bomb.

I measured the distance I had traveled down this road I was on. I tried really f.u.c.king hard to figure out how I got from sprawling on the couch in Chev's tattoo parlor to the moment when a stoic ex-g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger corpse fetcher was asking me to take possession of his jumbo Molotov c.o.c.ktail. I measured and weighed the consequences of my actions in the next few minutes.

Sort of.

-f.u.c.k it. Give me that thing.

I held it while Gabe spilled rubbing alcohol from his first-aid kit onto a rag and carefully wiped down the jug, s.h.i.+fting my grip so he could get every surface.

Done with the fingerprint wipe, he nodded and patted his pockets.

-Don't suppose you have a light?

I brightened significantly.

-What? h.e.l.l no! I don't smoke! Wow, too bad, guess that means we have to delay the big firebombing.