Christopher Moore - A Dirty Job

The phone rang again and he grabbed the handset off the counter so violently he nearly chipped a tooth in answering.

“You merciless bastard!” Charlie screamed into the phone. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through, you heartless monster!”

“Well, fuck you, Asher!” Lily said. “Just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.” And she hung up.

Charlie called back.

“Asher’s Secondhand,” Lily answered, “family-owned by bourgeoisie douche waffles for over thirty years.”

“Lily, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else. What did you call about?”

“Moi?” Lily said. “Je me fous de ta gueule, espèce de gaufre de douche.”

“Lily, stop speaking French. I said I was sorry.”

“There’s a cop down here to see you,” she said.

Charlie had Sophie strapped to his chest like a terrorist baby bomb when he came down the back steps. She had just gotten to the point where she could hold up her head, so he had strapped her in face-out so she could look around. The way her arms and legs waved around as Charlie walked, she looked as if she was skydiving and using a skinny nerd as a parachute.

The cop stood at the counter opposite Lily, looking like a cognac ad in an Italian-cut double-breasted suit in indigo raw silk with a buff linen shirt and yellow tie. He was about fifty, Hispanic, lean, with sharp facial features and the aspect of a predatory bird. His hair was combed straight back and the gray streaks at the temples made it appear that he was moving toward you even when he stood still.

“Inspector Alphonse Rivera,” the cop said, extending his hand. “Thanks for coming down. The young lady said you were working last Monday night.”

Monday. The day he’d battled the ravens back in the alley, the day the pale redhead had come into the store.

“You don’t have to tell him anything, Asher,” Lily said, obviously renewing her loyalty in spite of his douche wafflosity.

“Thanks, Lily, why don’t you take a break and go see how things are going in the abyss.”

She grumbled, then got something out of the drawer under the register, presumably her cigarettes, and retreated out the back door.

“Why isn’t that kid in school?” Rivera asked.

“She’s special,” Charlie said. “You know, homeschooled.”

“That what makes her so cheerful?”

“She’s studying the Existentialists this month. Asked for a study day last week to kill an Arab on the beach.”

Rivera smiled and Charlie relaxed a little. He produced a photograph from his breast pocket and held it out to Charlie. Sophie made as if to grab it. The photograph was of an older gentleman in his Sunday best standing on the steps of a church. Charlie recognized the Cathedral of Sts. Peter and Paul, which was just a few blocks away on Washington Square.

“Did you see this man Monday night? He was wearing a charcoal overcoat and a hat that night.”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t,” Charlie said. And he hadn’t. “I was here in the store until about ten. We had a few customers, but not this fellow.”

“Are you sure? His name is James O’Malley. He isn’t well. Cancer. His wife said he went out for a walk about dusk Monday night and he never came back.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “Did you ask the cable-car operator?”

“Already talked to the guys working this line that night. We think he may have collapsed somewhere and we haven’t found him. It doesn’t look good after this long.”

Charlie nodded, trying to look thoughtful. He was so relieved that the cop wasn’t here about anything connected with him that he was almost giddy. “Maybe you should ask the Emperor—you know him, right? He sees more of the nooks and crannies of the city than most of us.”

Rivera cringed at the mention of the Emperor, but then relaxed into another smile. “That’s a good idea, Mr. Asher. I’ll see if I can track him down.” He handed Charlie a card. “If you remember anything, give me a call, would you?”

“I will. Uh, Inspector,” Charlie said, and Rivera paused a few steps from the counter, “isn’t this sort of a routine case for an inspector to be investigating?”

“Yes, normally uniform personnel would handle something like this, but it may relate to something else I’m working on, so you get me instead.”

“Oh, okay,” Charlie said. “Beautiful suit, by the way. Couldn’t help noticing. It’s my business.”

“Thanks,” Rivera said, looking at his sleeves, a little wistful. “I had a short run of good fortune a while back.”

“Good for you,” Charlie said.

“It passed,” Rivera said. “Cute baby. You two take care, huh?” And he was out the door.

Charlie turned to go back upstairs and nearly ran into Lily. She had her arms crossed under the “Hell Is Other People” logo on her T-shirt and was looking even more judgmental than usual. “So, Asher, you have something you want to tell me?”

“Lily, I don’t have time for—”

She held out the silver cigarette case that the redhead had given him. It was still glowing red. Sophie was reaching for it.

“What?” Charlie said. Could Lily see it? Was she picking up on the weird glow?

Lily opened the case and pushed it into Charlie’s face. “Read the engraving.”

James O’Malley, read the ornate script.

Charlie took a step back. “Lily, I can’t—I don’t know anything about that old man. Look, I have to get Mrs. Ling to watch Sophie and get over to the Castro. I’ll explain later, okay? I promise.”

She thought about it for a second, staring at him accusingly, like she’d caught him feeding Froot Loops to her bête noire, and then relented. “Go,” she said.

Into the breech of the Castro district Charlie Asher charged, an antique sword-cane from the store on the van seat beside him, his jaw set like a bayonet, his visage a study in fearsome intensity. Half a block, half a block, half of a block onward—into the Valley of Overpriced Juice Bars and Outlandish Hair Highlights—rode the righteous Beta Male. And woe be unto the foolish ne’er-do-well who had dared to fuck with this secondhand death dealer, for his raggedy life would be fast for the bargain table. There’s going to be a showdown in Gay Town, Charlie thought, and I am gunning for justice .

Well, not really gunning —since he had a sword concealed in a walking stick, not a gun—more of a poking for justice —which didn’t really have the avenging angel connotation he was looking for—he was mad, and ready to kick ass, that’s all. So, you know, just watch out. (Coincidentally, Poking for Justice was the title currently second in popularity at Castro Video Rentals, closely edging out A Star Is Born: The Director’s Cut, and outranked only by Cops Without Pants, which was number one with a bullwhip.)

Charlie turned off Market Street and just around the corner on Noe Street he saw it: Fresh Music, the sign done in blocky, Craftsman-style stained glass, and he felt the hair at the back of his neck bristle and an urgency in his bladder. His body had gone into fight-or-flight mode, and for the second time in a week, he was going against his Beta Male nature and choosing to fight. Well, so be it, he thought. So be it. He would confront his tormentor and lay him low, as soon as he found a parking place—which he didn’t.

He circled the block, cutting between cafés and bars, both of which were in abundance in the Castro. He drove up and down the side streets, lined with rows of immaculately kept (exorbitantly priced) Victorians and found no quarter for his trusty steed. After a half hour of orbiting the neighborhood, he headed back uptown and found a spot in a parking garage in the Fillmore, then took the antique streetcar back down Market Street to the Castro. A cute little green, Italian-made antique streetcar, with oak benches, brass railings, and mahogany window frames—a charming brass bell and a top speed of about twenty miles per hour: this is how Charlie Asher charged into battle. He tried to imagine a horde of Huns hanging off the sides, waving wicked blades and firing arrows as they passed the murals in the Mission district, perhaps Viking raiders, shields fastened to the sides of the car, a great drum pounding as they rowed in to pillage the antique shops, the leather bars, the sushi bars, the leather sushi bars (don’t ask), and the art galleries, in the Castro. And here, even Charlie’s formidable imagination failed him. He got off the car at Castro and Market and walked back a block to Fresh Music, then paused outside the shop, wondering what in the hell he was going to do now.