Charlie Huston - The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– Blood here. All this. A body decomposes, it starts to swell up, fills with gases. Eventually, it's gonna pop. Blood comes out of that, it's like dirty motor oil. Same color and consistency. This yellow, that's where the fat has started separating, that's tallow.

I squatted to look at something and the reek slapped me in the face. I turned my head and stood and took a couple steps back.

– Jesus.

– Yeah, he was ripe.

I pointed at the little lines wiggling off the stain; traceries, like veins under the skin.

– What are those?

– Maggot trails. They hatch in the corpse then go looking for a better life. All those little black things are the dry maggot shells.

He slapped his palm over the end of the pointer, collapsing it, dropped it in his pocket, and pulled out a carpet knife.

– Let's get this shit up off the floor.

We began cutting, peeling away flat industrial weave patterned in precise geometries of grime that outlined where boxes had once been stacked. And on the wood floor, just under the stain left by the decomp, a larger stain. More abstract. And in need of scrubbing.

So I scrubbed.

The apartment stripped and bare, cockroaches fleeing through every crack, seeking refuge in the neighboring apartments, Gabe brought up an ozone generator and plugged it in.

Po Sin took off his mask and wiped his forehead and pointed at the machine.

– It'll bond oxygen to oxygen. Essentially purify the air. Eliminate the odor, not just mask it.

I was looking at the stain on the floor. Fainter now, but there was no way to get rid of the entire smear of the man's death.

Po Sin followed Gabe to the door, leaving the ozone generator behind to do its job. He stopped and looked at me.

– You OK?

I scuffed at the stain with the toe of my paper-covered boot.

– Sure.

– Never seen that one in a horror movie before, huh?

I stood there for another moment before following them out.

I hadn't. I hadn't seen that kind of thing before.

Not exactly.

– He does accommodations at night.

My head was out the window of the moving van, blowing some of the stink out of my hair. I pulled back inside to hear better.

– Accommodates what?

– Bodies. For the coroner. He picks them up. It's what they call it. Accommodations.

– No shit?

– Sure. Some wino goes stiff on Skid Row, who ya gonna call? His buddies gonna take up a collection, get him a nice casket, a mausoleum at Hollywood Forever? Damon Runyon don't live here no more, man. Once they grab his last can of Sterno and his shoes, if he's got any, they walk away. Sooner or later, someone at the mission or one of the treatment centers, or a cop cruising by because he took the wrong fucking turn, will see the body. Sometime after that, the coroner gets a call. They have a service they call to do the pickup. Gabe works for one of those services. It's his night job.

He took a bite out of a Slim Jim he got from the box beneath the driver's seat.

– That's why he can't drive you home.

– So what's up with him? Know he keeps a sap in his glove box? And what's with all that camping gear?

– Gabe's between places of residence just now.

– What, he's homeless?

– He prefers to have no fixed address at this time.

– Uh-huh.

I tapped my cheekbone.

– And that tattoo, that tear under his eye, that's gang shit, right? He some reformed O.G. or something?

He shoved that last six inches of the Slim Jim in his mouth.

– Don't talk shit you don't know shit about, Web. ‘Sides, you got a problem with him if he has a history? You don't want to ride with him? You'd rather ride the bus?

We rolled on Beverly, the street bending east at the ramps to the 101.

– I don't ride the bus.

He crumpled the empty wrapper and threw it under his seat.

– I know.

Traffic crawled to a full stop for no visible reason. It being in the nature of all L.A. drivers to be suddenly seized en masse by retardation and start hitting the brake pedal when every light in the immediate vicinity is a nice bright green.

Po Sin, taking advantage of the respite, removed his hands from the wheel, stretched, looked at me.

– But you should, you know, ride the bus. Might be good for you.

I stared up at the giant red sign for the Ambassador Dog & Cat Hospital. A beacon for wounded animals everywhere. Or something. I mean, there has to be a reason why the sign is so fucking tall, right? I always picture some old lady out walking her Maltese when a sharp pain starts radiating down its left front leg. She crouches next to the stricken dog, screaming for help, cars passing by, no other pedestrians in sight. Desperate, she looks to heaven, and there it is, visible from a mile away, the Ambassador. Thank Jesus for that fucking sign!

– You listening?

I looked at him.

– Yeah. I'm just failing to hear anything that has anything to do with anything I give a shit about.

Traffic moved. Po Sin drove.

– You give a shit alright.

– Says you.

He adjusted the rearview.

– Xing's back on the bus.

– How proud you must be of her.

He grunted, a phlegmy and no doubt Slim Jim flavored sound that was meant, I suppose, to indicate his disgust.

We passed Jollibee. I stared at the red and yellow fiberglass Jolly Bee out front.

– What's with the paint on the van?

Po Sin flicked on the headlights.

– Nothing. Just business.

– Just business? Paint bombs?

– There's some competition out there. Trauma scene and waste cleaning is a growth industry.

– Competition for cleaning shit. I'm trying to make that work in my head. What kind of people are drawn to that kind of work and fight for the honor?

He reached over and punched me lightly in the shoulder. Lightly for Po Sin being sufficient to slam me into the door and leave me rubbing both shoulders.

He jabbed me with his forefinger, each jab deepening the shade of purple that would no doubt be spreading across my shoulder in the next hour, if it survived his onslaught.

– Kind of people who are fighting over cleaning shit and blood and assorted bodily fluids are people who need a job. People who need money.

Now I don't know about you, but I know a few people who fit that profile. You know anyone like that? Ring any bells?

I pulled out of his range.

– Yeah, yeah, I get it. Sure, I'm no better than anyone else. I'm just saying, seems weird to be fighting over who gets to pick up the shit.

He took a right on Highland.

– There's money to be made, people will fight. And seeing as this is a nasty area of commerce to be involved in, it sometimes attracts a pile of assholes.

– Like your nephew.

He took advantage of another halt in the traffic to stare at me.

– Web, you know the one about the pot and the kettle and what one called the other and what that story is supposed to mean?

– It's not a story, it's more of a saying. And yeah, I know that one. And what it means. Need an explanation?

– No. My point is, shut the fuck up.

In front of my building he counted twenties from his wallet.

– Eighty bucks sound right?

I looked at the driveway, Chev's ‘58 Apache parked in front of my parts receptacle/car in our stacked parking slots under the building's overhanging upper story.

– Sure, sounds fine.

He held out the money and I took it and put it in my pocket.

He folded his wallet.

– Not gonna count it?

I pulled open the door.

– No.

– What if I'm ripping you off?

– You're not.

– How do you know?

I stepped out of the van.

– Well, if you are, it's only money, man. How upset am I supposed to get?