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

– No, thank you.

He walked to his Cruiser.

– See you around, Web.

And he got in the car and rolled.

The girl looked at me.

– What's his story?

– I'm not allowed to ask.

Po Sin came from the house, the clipboard in his hand.

– Ready for the walk-through?

She looked up at the house.

– No, it's fine. I looked. It's fine.

She reached for the clipboard, but he held it away.

– We should really do a walk-through. Have you look at everything on the invoice and check it off.

She took the clipboard from him.

– No, I don't want to do that.

She signed her name and put her initials next to several ballpoint Xs on the contract.

– It's fine.

Po Sin raised his shoulders.

– Just if there's a problem, something we might have missed, and you don't see it now. You know? The home owner's insurance can get tricky.

She handed the clipboard back.

– If there's a problem, I'll pay to have it taken care of.

She looked at the house.

– Or I'll light a match and burn the place down.

Po Sin turned and slammed the rear doors of the van.

– Just so you know what's what.

She held out her hand.

– I know what's what.

He shook her hand, nodded, and started around the van.

– Come on, Web, time to hit it.

I looked at the girl, pointed at the van.

– Well, I gotta. You gonna be? In there?

She tapped me on the shoulder with her book.

– Go on, Web. Sensitivity doesn't suit you.

I scratched my head.

– Yeah. And I thought I was doing so well with it.

She smiled, turned, and wandered back toward the house, drifting from one side of the sandstone path to the other, slapping the book against her thigh as she went.

In the van, I watched her as Po Sin jockeyed for an open spot in the traffic. I watched her go to the open door of the house, stand there, then turn away and sit on the edge of the porch and open the book and flip slowly through the pages till she found one she wanted to read.

The last sight I'd have of her for some time, without bloodshed being involved anyway.

Cherchez lafemme.

Bumper to bumper down the Pacific Coast Highway. The feet of the Santa Monicas on our left dotted with custom luxury homes; losing bets placed against inevitable mud slides and quakes. The stilted houses on our right, overhanging the beach and the ocean, equally stupid money placed against the tides.

But Jesus they have great views.

I thought about the girl back at her father's beach house. Her beach house now, one could assume. I eyeballed the clipboard on the dash in front of Po Sin, and he caught me and shook his head.

– No fucking way.

– Why?

– Because that is private information that a client has shared with me for the purpose of doing business and you are not allowed to look at it.

I reached for the clipboard.

– But I am an employee of the firm and should be trusted with this information if I am to do my job in an efficient manner.

He placed a weighty fist on the clipboard.

– But you are not a trusted employee. You are a ten buck an hour fuckup day laborer who is not allowed to cherry pick the phone numbers of attractive female clients so that you can harass them and get me sued.

I leaned back in my seat and folded my arms.

– Fine. Whatever you say, jefe.

He stuck his hand under the seat and came out with a Slim Jim and unwrapped it.

I looked out at the Pacific Ocean.

– What was that about the guild?

Po Sin cocked an eyebrow.

– What?

– The guild. That deputy you bribed mentioned a guild and something about aftershocks or something?

– Don't worry about it. It's not your problem.

I threw my hands up.

– Shit, man, I know it's not my problem, I'm just curious. I'm just trying to make conversation. I'm not allowed to ask about the damn girl back there. Fine. You don't want to talk about the business. Fine. So let's talk about the diet you're supposed to be on and how that's going. How are your cholesterol numbers looking? Triglycerides? How's the blood pressure? Your wife know you're munching sticks of pig ass seasoned with MSG?

He bit a hunk off the Slim Jim, chewed it once, and swallowed.

– Soledad.

– Say what?

– Her name is Soledad. And here's a tip, it means solitude in Spanish. As in, Leave me the fuck alone.

I held my arm out the window and felt the sun burning it red.

– She didn't pick her own name.

– Drop me over here.

Po Sin looked around.

– We're only in Santa Monica. How the hell you gonna get home from here?

– I'll get a ride.

– A ride. Chev gonna drive out here to pick you up?

– I'll get a ride. Pull over, pull over here, man.

He pulled the van to the curb on Ocean, just past the pier.

– Tell you one thing, you get stuck out here, I won't be coming to get you.

I opened the door and started to get out and he grabbed the tail of my old Mobil gas station shirt.

– Web.

I looked at him.

– You get stuck out here, you're gonna be riding the bus.

I tugged free.

– I can get a ride.

He held up his hands.

– As you wish.

I climbed out and pushed the door closed.

– That's the idea.

He pushed a button on his armrest and the passenger window slid down.

– Listen, there's no job tomorrow. You want to make some more cash, you can help clean the shop.

I shrugged.

– Sure. Sure. Sounds good.

– OK.

The window rolled back up and he drove off toward the 10 West.

I stood there for a minute and looked at the causeway to the pier and thought about walking out past the bars and the fried-food stands and the Ferris wheel all the way to the end so I could stand there and stare at the water. But instead I turned around and trotted across the street and walked into the late-afternoon darkness inside Chez Jay.

Dark, the only light coming in through the open upper half of the split front door and three portholes cut behind the bar. Fishing nets, life preservers and a ship's anchor on the walls, a tattered American flag hung in a single billow over the bar. I took a seat on the corner. The bartender looked down from the TV where he was watching a rerun of Charlie's Angels.

He came over.

– I was always a Kate Jackson man. You?

I glanced at the TV.

– Never watched it.

He stops in his tracks.

– Naw?

– Didn't have a TV growing up.

– No kidding. One of those.

– Yeah. One of those. No early childhood brain cancer to retard my emotional development.

– That's not funny.

– Not supposed to be.

He looked back up at the TV.

– Well I like the show.

– Yeah, I rest my case.

– Huh?

– Can I have a beer, please?

– What kind?

– Whatever.

He took a mug from behind the bar and drew a Heineken and set it in front of me.

– Four.

– I got that.

I looked at the old man tucked into the angle where the bar met the wall. Hunched over an open book, a stack of several more books at his elbow, thick plastic-rimmed glasses on the end of his swollen nose, a sweating glass of beer in front of him paired with a half-full shot glass.

He nudged a few dollars out of the pile of bills next to his drinks.

– That bother you, that no-TV thing?

I lifted my glass and took a sip.

– No. Not really. I read a lot.

The bartender took the money and went back down the bar.

– Well I like TV.

The old man gestured at his back.