The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [26]
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.
THE SON OF A BITCH HE RAISED
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?
He bit a hunk off the Slim Jim, chewed it once, and swallowed.
—Soledad.
—Say what?
—Her name is Soledad. And here's a tip, it means solitude in Spanish. As in, Leave me the fuck alone.
I held my arm out the window and felt the sun burning it red.
—She didn't pick her own name.
—Drop me over here.
Po Sin looked around.
—We're only in Santa Monica. How the hell you gonna get home from here?
—I'll get a ride.
—A ride. Chev gonna drive out here to pick you up?
—I'll get a ride. Pull over, pull over here, man.
He pulled the van to the curb on Ocean, just past the pier.
—Tell you one thing, you get stuck out here, I won't be coming to get you.
I opened the door and started to get out and he grabbed the tail of my old Mobil gas station shirt.
—Web.
I looked at him.
—You get stuck out here, you're gonna be riding the bus.
I tugged free.
—I can