The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 49

He put his hand to the side of his mouth.

-Althea, dear b.i.t.c.h, get out of the boy's head, he's sufficiently f.u.c.ked up now, we need neither of us endure in the effort.

He wiped his brow.

-There. With luck that will transmit to her and she will desist in dispensing her opinions about how I live my life, through my own flesh and blood. However misbegotten said flesh and blood may be.

He took a full bottle of Seagram's from the carton and held it to the light.

-Drink?

I shook my head.

-No thanks.

He shrugged, picked up a gla.s.s, sloshed the dregs at its bottom over the edge of the deck into the toyon, chaparral, coast oak and walnut growing up from the hillside, and poured himself a double.

-I'll have one for the both of us.

I moved some books from another chair and took a seat.

-Was there any doubt?

He saluted me with the gla.s.s.

-In your mind? Apparently none.

He downed the whiskey.

-But I generally don't drink alone.

I looked back into the dark house, the moonlight glinting off all the empty bottles.

-Been having a lot of company, have you?

He swung his arm in an arc, indicating his ma.s.sed library.

-My oldest friends. My enduring companions. Those that stand by me.

I picked at the wax on the table.

-And experiencing the delights of Renaissance technology, as well, I see.

He topped off his gla.s.s, sipped this time.

-The electric bills. They send them, G.o.d knows they're here somewhere, I just never quite find the time to deal with them.

I looked up at the sky, remembered that same sky projected inside the Griffith Observatory planetarium, how the stars would swim and race down the horizon as the view s.h.i.+fted, season by season, between the hemispheres. L.L. providing commentary, whispering in my ear.

-You could always get someone to take care of that s.h.i.+t for you.

-I have an ex-wife, my boy, I don't need another.

-I was thinking more in the way of an a.s.sistant. Or a business manager. Didn't you used to have one?

He opened his book, turned a page, ignored the implication that he might once have been in the kind of business that would require a manager.

-L.L.

-Yes, I attend.

-Has it ever occurred to you, all these books, the alcohol, open flames?

He turned a page.

-Has it ever occurred to you, mother's son that you are, to mind your own business?

I snapped a stalact.i.te of wax from the edge of the table.

-L.L.

-Web.

-I don't want you to die.

He pressed the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth and closed his book.

-I'm choked up, filled with emotion. Imagine, my son not wanting wanting me to die. How many fathers can say the same? me to die. How many fathers can say the same?

-Shut the f.u.c.k up, Dad.

He turned his head, looked at me through the candlelight, and waited.

I threw the spear of wax over the rail.

-I don't want you to die. I don't mean just that I don't actively wish wish that you would die, I mean that I don't want you to die that you would die, I mean that I don't want you to die at all. at all. I don't want you to trip and fall over that rail one night and break your neck. I don't want you to pa.s.s out on your back and vomit and choke to death. I don't want one of these candles to tip into a puddle of 101 and ignite a copy of I don't want you to trip and fall over that rail one night and break your neck. I don't want you to pa.s.s out on your back and vomit and choke to death. I don't want one of these candles to tip into a puddle of 101 and ignite a copy of Madame Bovary Madame Bovary and incinerate you. and incinerate you.

He touched his throat.

-I loathe Bovary. Bovary. Wouldn't be caught dead with a copy in the house. Wouldn't be caught dead with a copy in the house.

I stretched my arm and slapped the side of his head.

He looked at me through skewed gla.s.ses.

-You have my attention.

I stood up.

-You're a f.u.c.ker, L.L. The champion f.u.c.ker of the world. I'm never gonna take the crown from you. I concede, you have the throne all to yourself.

I showed my middle finger to him.

-But f.u.c.ker that you are, that doesn't mean you can get rid of me, you pathetic misanthropic s.h.i.+t. I mean, I'm not saying you don't grow old after about the first five minutes I'm with you, but I can f.u.c.king take it. G.o.d knows I've had the practice. So.

I hooked a thumb at the house.

-I'll be here next week with a truck to start hauling away some of this s.h.i.+t and to get the lights turned on. And. Whatever.

He straightened his gla.s.ses.

-What's the matter, Web?

-f.u.c.k you.

He stood up.

-What happened? What's been happening? What's this about?

I put a hand on his chest as he approached me.

-L.L., all this is about is how I don't want to get a call one day from someone, and find out your corpse has been rotting up here for five weeks and I have to come and smell it and see the stain where you melted into the carpet. I don't want to clean up after you when you're dead.

He nodded.

-Well, I didn't want to clean up after you when you were a baby. So I guess that's fair.

I nodded.

-King f.u.c.ker, L.L., that's you.

He dropped back into his chair.

-You hold your own, Web, you hold your own just fine.

-I have skills.

He turned his back, put his feet on the lower rail of the deck and picked up his book.

-Make the most of them.

I stood there.

-I'll be back next week with the truck.

He tugged a stained handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in the air.

-As you wish.

I went to the door.

-I found the money in Karenina. Karenina.

-Did you read the book?

-Man, I know all I need to know about unhappy families.

He wiped his nose with the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.

-I guess you would.

I scratched my head.

-But I could use some more money.

He opened his book.

-Yes, I saw that you are wearing a towel in lieu of actual pants. One suspects you might need the odd dollar or two. As I said earlier, it's in the jar.

-I need a lot. For a f.u.c.kup I know. Someone pathetic enough to need help from someone like me.

He picked up his gla.s.s and toasted the sky.

-Help yourself. If you need more than what's there, let me know.

I started into the house.

L.L. called after.

-Delightful to see you, Web. Nothing like a visit from the fruit of the old loins to make a man feel his mortality creeping up from behind. Ah, all this gloriously morbid talk. Just what a lion in winter requires on a chill evening. Thanks and thanks again. We must do it again soonest.

I listened to him as I negotiated the books and bottles in the kitchen and found the rooster-shaped cookie jar from my childhood and took off the lid and began sorting through the wads of bills stuffed inside.

Sparing a look at L.L. as I headed out the front door, the book back on his stomach, head dropped forward, shoulders rising and falling, King f.u.c.ker of the world at rest.

The light was on in our apartment when I parked the Apache in its spot.

I stared up at the light.

-What night is it?

Soledad had to think about that one.

-Sunday?

-c.r.a.p.

I opened the truck door and looked around the cab.