Christopher Moore - A Dirty Job

“Should you be telling me this? I mean, the book said—”

“I think I’m different than what the book says, Lily. The book says that I don’t cause death, but there have been two now that have died more or less because of my actions.”

“And I repeat, should you be telling me this? As you have pointed out many times, I am a kid, and wildly irresponsible. It’s wildly irresponsible, right? I’m never listening that closely.”

“You’re the only one who knows,” Charlie said. “And you’re seventeen now, not a kid, you’re a young woman now.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Asher. If you keep talking like that I’ll get another piercing, take X until I’m dehydrated like a mummy, talk on my cell phone until the battery is dead, then find some skinny, pale guy and suck him until he cries.”

“So, it will be like a Friday?” Charlie said.

“What I do with my weekends is my own business.”

“I know!”

“Well, then shut up!”

“I’m tired of being afraid, Lily!”

“Well, then stop being afraid, Charlie!”

They both looked away, embarrassed. Lily pretended to shuffle through the day’s receipts while Charlie pretended to be looking for something in what he called his walking satchel and Jane called his man purse.

“Sorry,” Lily said, without looking up from the receipts.

“S’okay,” Charlie said. “Me, too.”

Still not looking up, Lily said, “But really, should you be telling me any of this?”

“Probably not,” Charlie said. “It’s sort of a big burden to carry. Sort of—”

“A dirty job?” Lily looked up now and grinned.

“Yeah,” Charlie smiled, relieved. “I won’t bring it up again.”

“That’s okay. It’s kind of cool.”

“Really?” Charlie couldn’t remember anyone ever referring to him as cool. He was touched.

“Not you. The whole Death thing.”

“Yeah, right,” Charlie said. Yes! Still batting a thousand on the zero-cool quotient. “But you’re right, it’s not safe. No more talk about my, uh, avocation.”

“And I’ll never call you Charlie again,” Lily said. “Ever.”

“That would be fine,” Charlie said. “We’ll act like this never happened. Excellent. Good talk. Resume your thinly veiled contempt.”

“Fuck off, Asher.”

“Atta girl.”

They were waiting for him the next morning when he took his walk. He expected it, and he wasn’t disappointed. He’d stopped in the shop to pick up an Italian suit he’d just taken in, as well as a cigar lighter that had languished in a curio case in the back for two years, which he stuffed in his satchel with the glowing porcelain bear that was the soul vessel of someone who had passed long ago. Then he stepped outside and stood just above the opening of the storm drain—waved at the tourists on the cable car as it clanked by.

“Good morning,” he said cheerily. Anyone watching him might have thought he was greeting the day, since there was no one around.

“We’ll peck out her eyes like ripe plums,” hissed a female voice out of the drain. “Bring us up, Meat. Bring us up so we can lap your blood from the gaping wound we tear in your chest.”

“And crunch your bones in our jaws like candy,” added a different voice, also female.

“Yeah,” agreed the first voice, “like candy.”

“Yeah,” said a third.

Charlie felt his entire body go to gooseflesh, but he shook it off and tried to keep his voice steady.

“Well, today would be a good day for it,” Charlie said. “I’m well rested from sleeping in my comfy bed with the down comforter. Not like I spent the night in a sewer or anything.”

“Bastard!” A hissing female chorus.

“Well, talk to you on the next block.”

Strolled up the block into Chinatown, pacing out the sidewalk jauntily with his sword-cane, the suit inside a light garment bag thrown over his shoulder. He tried whistling, but thought that might be a little too cliché. They were already under the next corner when he got there.

“I’m going to suck the baby’s soul out through her soft spot while you watch, Meat.”

“Oh, nice!” Charlie said, gritting his teeth and trying not to sound as horrified as he was. “She’s starting to crawl around pretty well now, so don’t miss breakfast that day, because if she has her little rubber spoon, she’ll probably kick your ass.”

There was a screech of anger from the sewers and a harsh, hissing chatter. “He can’t say that? Can he say that? Does he know who we are?”

“Taking a left at the next block. See you there.”

There was a young Chinese man dressed in hip-hop wear who looked at Charlie and took a quick step to the side so as not to catch whatever kind of crazy this well-dressed Lo pak [1] white man was carrying. Charlie tapped his ear and said, “Sorry, wireless headset.”

The hip-hop guy nodded curtly, like he knew that, and despite appearances to the contrary, he had not been trippin’, but had, in fact, been chillin’ like a mo-fuckin’ villain, so step the fuck off, wigga. He crossed against the light, limping slightly under the weight of the subtext.

Charlie entered Golden Dragon Cleaners and the man at the counter, Mr. Hu, whom Charlie had known since he was eight, greeted him with an expansive and warm twitch of the left eyebrow, which was his usual greeting, and a good indicator to Charlie that the old man was still alive. A cigarette streamed at the end of a long black holder clinched in Hu’s dentures.

“Good morning, Mr. Hu,” Charlie said. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Suit?” said Mr. Hu, looking at the suit Charlie had slung over his shoulder.

“Yes, just the one today,” Charlie said. Charlie brought all of his finer merchandise to Golden Dragon to be cleaned, and he’d been giving them a lot of business the last few months, with all the estate clothes he’d been taking in. He also had them do his alterations, and Mr. Hu was considered to be the best three-fingered tailor on the West Coast, and perhaps, the world. Three Fingered Hu, he was known as in Chinatown, although to be fair, he was actually possessed of eight fingers, and was only missing the two smaller fingers from his right hand.

“Tailor?” Hu asked.

“No, thank you,” Charlie said. “This one’s for resale, not for me.”

Hu snatched the suit out of Charlie’s hand, tagged it, then called, “One suit for the White Devil!” in Mandarin, and one of his granddaughters came speeding out of the back, grabbed the suit, and was gone through the curtain before Charlie could see her face. “One suit for the White Devil,” she repeated for someone in the back.

“Wednesday,” said Three Fingered Hu. He handed Charlie the ticket.

“There’s something else,” Charlie said.

“Okay, Tuesday,” said Hu, “but no discount.”

“No, Mr. Hu, I know it’s been a long time since I needed it, but I wonder if you still have your other business?”

Mr. Hu closed one eye and looked at Charlie for a full minute before he replied. When he did, he said, “Come,” then disappeared behind the curtain leaving a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Charlie followed him into the back, through a noisy, steaming hell of cleaning fluids, mangle irons, and a dozen scurrying employees to a tiny plywood-walled office in the back, where Hu closed the door and locked them in as they did their business, something they’d first done over twenty years ago.

The first time Three Fingered Hu had led Charlie Asher through the stygian back room of Golden Dragon Cleaners, the ten-year-old Beta Male was sure that he was going to be kidnapped and sold into dry-cleaning slavery, butchered and turned into dim sum, or forced to smoke opium and fight fifty kung fu fighters at once while still in his pj’s (Charlie had a very tenuous grasp of his neighbors’ culture at age ten), but despite his fear, he was driven by a passion that had been embedded in his very genes millions of years ago: a quest for fire. Yes, it was a crafty Beta Male who first discovered fire, and true, it was almost immediately taken away from him by an Alpha Male. (Alphas missed out on the discovery of fire, but because they did not understand about grabbing the hot, orangey end of the stick, they are credited with inventing the third-degree burn.) Still, the original spark burns bright in every Beta’s veins. When Alpha boys have long since moved on to girls and sports, Betas will still be pursuing pyrotechnics well into adolescence and sometimes beyond. Alpha Males may lead the armies of the world, but it’s the Betas who actually get the shit blowed up.