The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [38]
I leaned away from the crumbs and the spittle filling the air between us.
—Yeah, OK, I get it. You're stressed. You got a right to be. I understand. Hey I'm stressed, too. Which, you know, I think makes a lot of sense in this scenario. Seeing as I was the one who got his face beaten in by your goddamn nephew. Oh, and by the way, I couldn't help but notice that the van he and his friends took off in had been recently vandalized in the same shade of yellow paint that Gabe had under his fingernails this morning. Not that I think the two things are related or anything. Not that I think I've landed in the middle of some kind of dead-body-cleanup range war or anything like that.
He hammered the roof again.
—Fucking Morton! Fucking guild!
—Yes, the guild, interesting that you should mention that. So happens that Bang brought that up while we were chatting. I must confess that I was at something of a loss when the topic came about. Somewhat in the dark, as it were. Perhaps you might fucking enlighten my ass.
He jerked the van to a stop at a red light and turned to me.
—His name is Dingbang, not Bang. It was his grandfather's name. Ding-bang, not Bang.
I folded my arms and put my feet on the dash.
—As long as he doesn't beat me up anymore, he can call himself whatever he wants.
Po Sin snapped his fingers.
—Feet, feet.
—Yes, they are, right there at the bottoms of my legs.
—Off the dash.
I shook my head.
—Uh-uh. Consider it getting my ass kicked for the job tax.
He put more Cheetos in his mouth.
The light changed and we moved forward and I looked at the road ahead.
—Hey hey. Hey where are we going?
—Sherman Oaks.
I took my feet off the dash and pointed at the road.
—But why are we going this way?
—Because it's fastest. Why do you care?
—No, Highland to the 101 is faster.
—No it's not. Not where we're headed.
—Here, turn here!
He kept going straight.
—Fuck, Po Sin, you needed to turn there.
He crumpled the empty Cheetos bag and dropped it in the grocery sack.
—Chill out, Web, this is the way to go. What's your fucking problem?
—Nothing. I just think my way is faster.
He pulled a tube of Pringles from the sack.
—Well you're wrong. Laurel Canyon is the way to go.
I didn't say anything, just put another mark down on the tally sheet, one more point scored by God in our ongoing game of Who's the Bigger Dick.
And we twisted up through the canyon of my childhood, passing the curve, the decisive landmark in Chev's life, me fingering the hundred-dollar bills in my pocket.
Casa Vega is dark as hell.
I'm only guessing about that, mind you, but I'm pretty certain that combination of blackness, dimly illuminated by red glass-filtered candlelight, is the precise effect that would really go in Hades.
Except I doubt they have nachos and margaritas there.
We felt our way past the bar and into the dining room, Po Sin apparently guided by second sight, or an interior compass that always reads true to hot ceramic platters heaped with chili relleno. At the back, under one of the nicer bullfighters on black velvet I've come across, we found Gabe in a red leather booth, his black jacket on against the blasting AC, tie knotted, sunglasses on his face.
We slipped into the booth and he gestured at the food.
—I ordered.
Po Sin grabbed a fork and started digging into a beef-stuffed bell pepper covered in melted cheese.
—Thanks.
Gabe looked at me.
—Eat something. It's good.
I pointed at my face.
—Yeah, I'm sure it is, but aside from the fact that chewing sounds like a bad idea right now, I just don't like eating in an environment where I can't see my fork coming at my face. This crazy fear of stabbing myself in the eye.
Po Sin grabbed my plate and pulled it in front of him.
—Fine by me.
I took a chip from the basket on the table and tried nibbling the corner and the salt got in the cut inside my mouth and I winced and picked up one of the margaritas Gabe had got for