The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [101]
She took my little finger and squeezed it.
—And I think you're the nice guy. I mean, I know you have a huge asshole in permanent residence inside, but I think you're the nice guy.
She leaned over the top of the door and kissed me.
—So I'm just gonna have to hope I'm right about that.
She got in the cab.
—'Cause I'm too tired to do anything else.
I put my hands in my pockets.
—Your flattery knows no bounds.
—Yeah. I'm a sweet talker.
—Right. So this means?
The cabby turned and gave her a look and she nodded and looked up at me.
—I'll see you tonight, Web.
She closed the door. The cab pulled away. The window rolled down and she stuck her head out.
—If I'm not in jail.
I watched the cab to the end of the street, standing on the curb, still there a couple minutes later when Chev pulled into his spot.
I wandered over.
—Hey.
He climbed out, ran a hand over the freshly washed door.
—Lucky you didn't fuck her up.
—I was careful.
He closed the door and sat on the running board.
—Beautiful day.
I looked at the utterly typical, stunning blue sky hovering relentlessly above.
—Yeah.
I sat next to him.
—Some things.
He stretched his legs, crossed his ankles.
—Like?
I leaned forward, put my elbows on my knees.
—I saw L.L. again. Last night.
I looked at him, looked away.
—He's, not that it matters, but he's in sorryass shape. And I'm gonna, I don't know, I need to see if I can. Help? I guess. And I don't want to sneak around doing it.
He uncrossed his ankles, recrossed them the other way.
—He's your dad. Do what you have to.
—And I took some money from him. For a guy I know. To pay a debt.
He slipped the smokes from his T sleeve and knocked one from the pack.
—'Kay.
—Just so you know.
—Now I know.
He lit up, tilted his face to the sun and closed his eyes and blew smoke.
I leaned my back against the hot steel of the door.
—I want to do better, Chev. I. I want to try and do better. Shit, man, I want to just, I want to try. I'm tired of. Things. I'm not saying. I don't feel any better. About it. I still can't think. About it. Too clearly. It still makes me want to fall asleep. But I know. It. Happened. I know I was there and the girl. I know. It. Happened. And I don't want to be him. I don't want to be L.L. I don't want this one fucked up thing to be who I am and that's it, this is the end of my life. I do not want to feel like this, be like this forever. I mean, I'm not sure, but I think I used to be kind of a nice guy.
He took the cigarette from his lips, opened his eyes and slid them my way.
—Web, man, you have never in your life been a nice guy.
He closed his eyes again.
—But you used to be pretty damn cool. You used to be a guy a friend could count on. And it'd be nice if you were that way again.
I nodded.
—See, that's it. That's it. I want to be that guy, I want to be the guy people can count on. That sounds great. I don't exactly remember how that worked, but I want to try and be that again. Really, man.
He nodded, worked a hand into his pocket.
—Cool.
He took his hand from his pocket.
—So why don't you start by telling me where you took my truck.
He opened his hand and showed me the nine-millimeter bullet inside.
—And how this got in there.
—The phone?
—Yeah.
—Jesus. I think we need to get rid of it.
We both sat on the couch, staring at the phone in the middle of the livingroom floor.
I nodded.
—Yeah. Without a doubt.
He pointed at the kitchen table.
—There was stuff on it?
—Um, yeah.
—Lots?
—Not really.
—On the top?
—Yeah.
He shook his head.
—We got to get rid of it.
He put his face in his hands.
—With the fucking phone. That is so. Oh man.
He took his face from his hands and looked at me.
—Was the guy a dick?
—Chev, he beat his nephew to death with a fucking phone! Yes, he was a dick.
—No, the nephew, was he a?
—I don't know. Probably. Why do you?
He stood up.
—I don't know. I'm just trying to deal and. Jesus. With the phone.