The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [43]
It's not like it's a mystery or anything, all the sleep.
Sleeping was just easier than being awake.
So why fight it?
I curled up and stopped fighting. A daily ritual of the last year. Giving up.
Hello, you've reached Clean Team. We're currently out of the office on a job. If you have an emergency we can help you with, please call 1-888-256-8326. That's 1-888-CLN-TEAM. We'll be there for you.
Beeeeeep.
—Um, hi, this is, uh, this is Soledad Nye. The woman in Malibu. You cleaned my dad's mess? I mean, oh fuck, that was horrible. You cleaned the house. Anyway. I was hoping I could get in touch with one of your employees. Web. I wanted to talk to him about … anyway. My number, well, he should call me on my cell. The number. Hang on.
I didn't quite kill myself when I jerked out of sleep and slammed my already damaged head into the shelf that hung too low over the bed, but I came close enough that I had to crawl across the floor to answer the phone on the office desk.
—Hello? Hello? Crap! Crap!
—Uh, Web?
—Yeah, yeah, it's me. Oh fucking crap! Jesus.
—Are you OK?
—Yeah, I just kind of, crap, banged my head really hard.
I sat on the floor, back against the side of the desk, phone to my ear, hand clapped over the brand-new lump rising from my head.
—Do you need some ice?
—Sure, yeah, that would be great.
There was some silence.
She cleared her throat.
—Web, you know I'm not there to actually get you the ice, right?
I blinked my eyes a few times, tried to bring the face of the liquid crystal clock on the wall into focus.
—Yeah, I know that. I was being funny.
—Or not.
—Yes, well, being not funny is more my forte.
—I noticed.
The clock straightened out for me. 12:32 AM.
—Yes, it's good of you to call my place of work to leave a message that, I can only assume, would have been meant to make clear my lack of humorousness. I'm flattered by the attention. Is there anything else I can do for you now that you have not laughed at me.
—Oh, I've laughed at you.
I took my hand from my head and looked at it. No blood. What luck. —At me. Just not with me.
—You never know, stranger things have happened.
—Indeed.
I sat there and held the phone. She, I imagine, did the same. I have, I also imagine, less patience than she. Less patience, it's safe to say than most normal people. Therefore, I cracked first.
—So, Soledad.
Note that the first time I spoke her name out loud I did it without stuttering or squeaking into a register higher than Tiny Tim's. A memory I treasure with some pride. A lesser man would have embarrassed himself with some verbal tic. Not I.
—So, Soledad. Why the fuck are you calling?
—Um, right. Well, I'd like to say I'm calling to ask if you want to go grab a coffee or something traditionally ambiguous and noncommittal.
Observe how I remain aloof and calm.
—But that's not the case?
—Nooo.
—The case is?
—The case is. I need a favor.
A favor? She's in need? And yet, not a tremor in my voice.
—The favor is?
—The favor is, well, I need something cleaned.
But of course. Was there ever any doubt. My janitorial expertise is required. L.L. would be so proud.
But I'm no woman's flunky.
—What needs to be cleaned, when?
—A room. Now.
I looked at the clock again. 12:35 AM. Clean a room? At 12:35 AM. Is she out of her fucking mind? Does she think I'm an absolute tool?
—Where are you?
Where she was, of course, was that motel. What was in the room, of course, was that blood. Who was with her, of course, was the guy trying to out-asshole me.
A title I was ready to relinquish in light of the butterfly knife he flashed at me.
If that all rings a bell.
HOW BREATHING WORKS
The guy with the fauxhawk showed me his blade, a slight crust of dry blood gummed at the hilt.
—Say that again? Say it. About to go Bruce Lee on your ass here, you keep talking about my moms.
I put my back to the door and