The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [47]
—It means that shit is not coming out.
—Little bleach. Fuck do you know?
I pointed at the sheets.
—I had a girlfriend once, had the heaviest periods you ever saw. Dated the girl for over a year, and I threw away enough sheets in that year to know a lost cause when I see one. Those are dead soldiers.
Soledad came over.
—Can you get rid of them for us?
I nodded.
—Yeah, I can get rid of them. I can do that.
She nodded.
—Thanks.
I bent to pick up the wastebasket and Jaime slapped my hand away.
—Fuckin'way man. Sheets stay here.
I looked at the clock. Almost four. My eyes ached. My head and my mouth throbbed. I don't want to talk about how I felt below the waist. Suffice to say I was really looking forward to lying down.
I picked up the carrier.
—OK by me, the sheets stay here.
I started for the door and heard his knife snap open behind me.
—Fuckin' freeze, asshole. No one leaves till these sheets are clean and this location is wrapped.
I turned and looked at him, swaying drunk, knife in hand.
I set the carrier on the dresser, between the TV and the lamp.
—Do you have a gun?
—What?
I looked at Soledad.
—Does he have a gun?
She tossed the stub of her smoke through the bathroom door in the direction of the tub.
—No.
Jaime twirled the knife, almost lost his grip on it, recovered, settled into a credible kung fu stance that I was pretty sure I recognized from Chev's copy of Game of Death.
—Don't need a gun.
I picked up the lamp, knocked the shade from it, yanked the plug from the wall, turned it upside down and showed him the pointed corners of the heavy wood base.
—And I have a lamp. If you take one more step toward me with that knife, I will hit you as hard as I can with this lamp. If you die, I will clean up the mess and leave. If you don't die, you can clean up your own blood. Asshole.
He looked at his sister.
—Sol?
She went to the closet and got a jacket and pulled it on.
—Don't look at me, Jaime.
He jabbed the knife at the air.
—Dude's threatening your brother. Gonna let that happen?
She walked to the wastebasket.
—Still willing to get rid of this stuff?
I hefted the lamp.
—Yeah. Sure.
She picked up the wastebasket.
—Can I come with?
—Sure.
She came to my side of the room and picked up the cleaning carrier.
—Let's go.
I followed her to the door, eyes on Jaime, the lamp held out.
—It won't cost much, they're crap sheets.
He dropped his arms to his sides, knife dangling from his fingers.
—Fuck do you know? Didn't even clean up the almonds, asshole. Fucking don't call me, I'll call you, fucker.
And I backed from the room, pausing to set the lamp inside the door before I closed it and ran for the van, taking the carrier from Soledad, she taking my hand, running along with me. Laughing.
ONLY A SMALL EARTHQUAKE
—How'd you get out here?
—Taxi.
I took my eyes from the road.
—You took a taxi from Malibu to Carson?
She kept her eyes closed.
—Yeah. They say when you've had a loss in the family, a sudden and unexpected loss, they say driving is a bad idea.
—Why's that?
—Because you're distracted, I guess. I mean, I don't know by what. Unless they mean the memory of finding your dad with his head blown all over the room.
She opened her eyes, shook her head, pinched her cheek.
—I think I'm going to have to learn not to be so flippant about that. I'm not handling it as well as I thought I could.
—So the taxi was probably a good call.
—Probably. Of course, the driver no doubt assumed I was coming down here for a late-night hookup with some rough trade I'd been chatting with online. But I'll live with the dim opinion of my cabby this once.
—We should all be so well adjusted.
She waved a hand.
—Well, well adjusted, let's not get carried away.
I smiled.
—Yeah, especially as your brother seems to have the market cornered on that particular quality.
—He's really just my half brother.
—Yeah, same mom, I got that.
She stopped inspecting the glories advertised on the massive illuminated signs looming over the 405 North mega car lots of Torrance, and looked at me.
—How'd you