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

He gestured at the back of the station wagon.

– There's only room for one.

I continued rolling up my sleeves.

– Thank God, 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 moonshine 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. Fuck. Fuck, Gabe. What the fuck 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 fucked 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 fucking hard to figure out how I got from sprawling on the couch in Chev's tattoo parlor to the moment when a stoic ex-gangbanger corpse fetcher was asking me to take possession of his jumbo Molotov cocktail. I measured and weighed the consequences of my actions in the next few minutes.

Sort of.

– Fuck 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, shifting 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? Hell no! I don't smoke! Wow, too bad, guess that means we have to delay the big firebombing.

He reached into one of the milk crates, took out a bag of disposable lighters, and allowed the corner of his mouth to tip slightly upward.

– I was just joking. Here, let me have that thing.

I let him have the thing, delighted to have discovered just what kind of scenario brought out the prankster in him.

I watched as he got out of the car and walked to a weathered brick building that I had taken for one of the garages, but saw now by its sign was not.

– Oh, oh fuck. Gabe, shit no.

But he was well beyond hearing my little gasps of dismay, and flicked the lighter and held the flame to the edge of the baggie, patiently waiting till it caught fire and ignited the fuel-soaked bandanna within. Pocketing the lighter, he raised the jug high and brought it down, throwing it at an angle under the van at the curb.

The jug shattered, spilling flaming jelly over the asphalt under the van, fire tickling the undercarriage and licking up the sides. Gabe walked back to the Cruiser, silhouetted by the flames, and climbed in.

He looked at the small inferno, looked at me, the fire in the lenses of his sunglasses.

– Well, that should make it clear to them where we stand.

He started the car and pulled easily from the curb, rolling slowly by the burning van as the front door of Aftershock Trauma Cleaning slammed open and a wiry bald man just barely five feet tall, brandishing a broom handle, ran out followed by Dingbang and several other Aftershockers.

The wiry guy made straight for the Cruiser, the broom handle cocked over his shoulder. Behind him, Dingbang was fumbling with a set of keys, trying to find one to open the driver's door on the van, dancing side to side to avoid the thrashing flames.

Gabe stuck a hand under his seat.

– Stupid sons of bitches.

The wiry guy was coming at my window, mouth moving, spittle flying, curses lost in the roar of the flames. My window rolled down as he reached the car, the broom handle bouncing off the chrome trim instead of shattering the glass.

– Fuckinguslesslyingshitdogeatingfuckwadambushingdicksuckers!

He started to bring the handle back up.

I twisted around, trying to squirm between the seats to join the dead body in the back of the station wagon.

Gabe shoved me back down in my seat, leaned across me, and stuck the gun in his hand out the window.

– Drop that shit and back up out the way, Morton.

Morton pulled up, dropped the broom handle and backed up out the way.

– Fuckingniggerfuckingshitdogfuckingniggernigger.

Gabe pointed the gun at the van where Dingbang was still trying to get the door open while the flames grew higher.

– Cover your ears, Web.

I covered my ears and jerked and screamed each of the three times Gabe pulled the trigger. My screams were somewhat louder than those of the men scattering on the street, away from the van where all three bullets had dimpled the hood next to Dingbang, sending him first to the ground and then crawling behind a dumpster at the curb.

Only Morton kept his place, pointing at Gabe, mouth tight shut now. Shaping the finger of his other hand into a pistol, he pointed it at his own head, and pulled the trigger.

Gabe shifted the aim of his gun, centered the bead on Morton's chest.

– Not wise, Morton, threatening a man with a pistol in his hand.

Morton seemed to make a similar assessment of the situation and dropped both hands to his sides. But was, I can only assume, the kind of man who can't leave well enough alone.

– Fuck you, nigger.

Gabe nodded.

– That's enough of that.

I covered my ears again, and the windows of the Aftershock shop exploded one after another while I did the flinch and scream thing again.

He settled back into his seat, tucked the gun between his thighs, put the car in gear, and drove slowly past where Morton had thrown himself on the street, screaming newly invented obscenities that I couldn't hear for the sharp ringing in my ears.

Of course, I did hear it when the van's gas tank blew and a fireball climbed up the sky, but we were some ways down the street by then.