The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (9 page)

I looked down at the tide as it washed over the rocks.

—Well, left to my own devices, I wouldn't have apologized either.

She choked on a lungful of smoke, more laughter combining with a few hacks.

I watched for a second then gave her a couple light pats on the back.

—You OK?

She coughed into her fist.

—Oh, sure, I'm fine.

She wiped the damp corners of her eyes with one of the Kleenexes Po Sin gave her.

—My dad killed himself in one of the more deliberate and grotesque manners imaginable and I'm laughing about it with one of the guys I'm paying to clean his brains off the wall. I'm doing great.

I turned and leaned my back on the deck rail and shrugged.

—Well, as long as you're OK then.

She smiled.

—Totally inappropriate.

—At least he left a note.

I didn't say anything, too occupied at the moment with working my Scotch-Brite pad over the speckles of blood on the surface of her dad's desk.

She picked another almond from the large bowl of them on the table next to the wingback chair near the hallway door.

—I mean, I knew he was sick. But. But I'm glad he left the note anyway. So I know for sure why he did it. Sort of.

She dropped the almond back in the bowl, picked out another.

—You think anyone would lie about that? I mean, no one would lie on their suicide note, would they?

I replaced the lamp I'd taken from the desk, minus the silk shade that had been sprayed, and looked over at her.

—You want to be a little more enigmatic with your questions? Seriously, if you try a little harder I might get curious or something.

She studied the almond between her fingers, rotating it.

—No. I don't mean anything. He was sick. He was going to die. Soon. Painfully. I know why he did it. I just never read a suicide note before. It made me wonder. I guess. But no. It all makes sense.

I adjusted the silver pen-and-pencil set on the desk and lined it up with the antique in-and-out box and an absurdly detailed model of a freight vessel, its deck stacked with tiny cargo containers, Chinese characters on their sides.

She tossed the almond in her mouth and chewed.

—Makes sense as only a person making their head explode can make sense, I mean.

I walked to the section of bookcase that was in line with the open bathroom door.

—He had some nice books.

She watched me.

—Yeah. He loved his books. Well, he loved having a den with lots of books on the walls anyway. He never actually read them. He loved how they looked, but if it wasn't business-related or on the topic of fishing, Dad didn't have time to read much.

She dropped her voice an octave.

—Too much to do, sweetheart. Why bother reading about some made-up life when you can live it yourself?

She brushed curly dark hair from her forehead, bit her lip.

—Is that bad, that it kind of makes sense to me? What he did? Should I be worried?

I misted the spines of the books and watched white speckles appear over dozens of them.

—Fuck do I know. I just work here.

—Right, I forgot, you're the retard who doesn't know how to say the right thing.

She picked up another almond, moved it toward her mouth, stopped.

—Should I be eating these things?

I looked at the bowl of nuts, well out of line with the bathroom door.

—Um. Truth?

—No, lie to me, that would make me feel so much better.

I wiped my cheek on my shoulder.

—I doubt they could get hit with anything over there.

She started to put the nut in her mouth.

I turned back to the bookcase.

—But then again, this is my second day on the job and I'm the same lame fucker who made fun of how your dad wasted himself. So you might not want to listen to someone so clearly retarded.

She dropped the nut back in the bowl.

—Yeah, you got a point.

She got off the chair and walked over to me and looked at the books.

I misted them again and she reached out and touched the tip of her finger to a white spot that had appeared on a photograph on one of the shelves: a sunburned man with a thick moustache, large arms and shoulders, standing on a dock next to a striped marlin, well over 200 pounds, hanging from a tackle rig.

—Damnit. Goddamn it.

—What the fuck are you doing?

I helped Po Sin muscle the bagged and gutted mattress down the hall to the front door.

—Working.

He stopped, pausing in front of the door that led into the den, watching the girl as she took several books down from the shelves and boxed them.

—Looks to me like
she's
working.

He looked at me again, shook his head, and backed toward the front door and out into the sun.

We leaned the mattress against the van and I pointed back at the house.

—She wanted to go through them herself. She said she didn't want to keep the fabric-covered ones because she could see some of the marks.

Po Sin rested his ass in the open back door of the van and it dropped on its shocks.

—Fuck
that.
I mean, what are you doing
talking
with her?

I raised my hands over my head.

—You said talk to her!

—I said apologize, I didn't say engage in a damn
tête-à-tête
with her.

—She wanted to talk, man. What am I supposed to say?
Oh, miss, so sorry, my boss is a total prick and will freak out if I have a conversation with you in your own house while you're grieving the loss of your father who just killed himself. Maybe you should take this dime and go call someone who's allowed to give a fuck.

Po Sin turned his head and looked through the ranked cedars to the clogged traffic on the PCH.

—Gonna take forever to get home.

I kicked a rock.

—Yeah.

He pushed himself up, the van bounced, free of ballast.

—Giving a fuck, Web, that's not exactly the MO you've been working under for some time now.

I watched traffic.

Po Sin watched it, too.

—And people in her situation, they are prone to acting in ways they would not under normal circumstances. Start doing shit like talking to the help about their personal tragedies. Situation like that can become quickly awkward. People can all of a sudden realize they are not acting like themselves and freak out on everyone around them. And people employed to eliminate evidence that their loved ones ever existed can make attractive targets when they lash out. And that can make the job much more difficult than it needs to be. And this is my livelihood here. My business that I built from the ground up. And I don't need to have it getting all fucked up because some shell-shocked young woman mistakes your disinterest in pretty much anything for some kind of blasé charm, and ends up getting more deeply injured than she already is and has an inevitable emotional detonation and refuses to pay her fucking bill. I have enough problems, thank you.

—Don't worry, I know he's a disaffected asshole. No danger of me getting sucked into his emotional black hole or anything.

We turned from the traffic.

She stood at the top of the driveway, wind blowing her hair across her face and rippling the hem of her knee-length black jersey dress, a box of books in her arms.

—So you guys want to look and see if you want any of these?

…

—You sure?

—Yeah, of course. No, wait.

I stood away from the box of books I was sliding into the back of the van and she reached in and pulled one out.

—Not this one.

I looked at the title.

—You like that?

She looked at it herself.

—No, I'm keeping it because I think it sucks.

—Well that makes sense then, because it really does suck.

She bit her lip.

—My dad loved
Sister Carrie.

—Oh fuck, I'm sorry, I.

She clutched the book to her heart and threw her wrist across her forehead.

—He treasured this book and called me his little Carrie. This book was a bond between us. A treasure we shared.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets.

—Yes, please fuck with me some more, I like it so much when you make me feel like an asshole. And it's such an obvious challenge to you, I can see how you can't help yourself.

She dropped her arms and smiled.

—Sorry. You're just so funny when you try to apologize. You're so bad at it. You can't hide the fact that you don't think you should have to do it.

—Again, I'm glad my being an asshole is a source of entertainment.

—It is, it is.

Gabe came out of the house, carrying the fogger and a half-empty jug of Microban. He walked between us and set them in the back of the truck.

—All done.

He looked at the box of books, the girl pointed at them.

—Help yourself if you want.

He shook his head and peeled his Tyvek off, stripping to his black slacks and white short sleeve.

—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
X
s 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 la femme.

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?