The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [5]
—Why thank you for your prompt and courteous payment.
Chev stuffed the wallet back in his pocket and pointed at the koi tattooed on Po Sin's forearm.
—Shit, man, not I like don't hit you with a discount on your ink.
Po Sin tucked the money into the breast pocket of his unbuttoned Clean Team Trauma work shirt.
—True. And it's also not like I ever beef with you about what you charge when I get the bro rate.
Chev nodded his head, put out his hand.
—No, man, you're right, I was out of line.
Po Sin folded his hand around Chev's.
—It's cool, just the ways and means of business. Four bucks is just four bucks, but, then again, it's four bucks. If you get me.
Chev looked at the number on the face of his vibrating cell.
—Yeah, don't got to tell me. Small business owners of the world unite.
He hooked a thumb at me where I'd sprawled back on the couch with my magazine.
—Wish you could teach some economics to the freeloader over there.
I didn't look away from the magazine.
—Indentured servant is more like it.
He ignored me, answering the phone and flipping open the appointment book on the counter at the front of the shop.
—Yeah, what did you want?
He rolled his eyes.
—A dolphin? In the small of your back?
He stuck a finger in his open mouth.
—Yeah, no problem. How about tomorrow afternoon?
Po Sin came over and peeked at my magazine.
—That guy got toes for eyes?
—Yeah. Cool, huh?
—He a monster?
—Nah, just a guy gets all fucked up by a psycho.
—What you see in that shit, man?
—I don't know.
—Doesn't bother you, all that gore?
—Why should it?
He looked at Chev.
—Why should it?
He always been like that?
Chev put his hand over the phone.
—Actually, no. The taste for horror is kind of a new thing.
I looked up from the magazine.
—Hey is there a problem here I'm unaware of? Am I not allowed to develop new interests and tastes? So I never really got into horror before, so it's a new thing, is that supposed to mean something? I mean, fuck, it's just fun is all.
Po Sin grunted.
—People getting hacked up and tortured and mutilated is fun. Shit's disgusting.
I put the magazine in front of my face.
—Says the man with a van full of bloody rags and dirty needles and shit-stained sheets and used condoms and wads of tampons.
He pulled the magazine from my hands and flipped through it, looking at the pictures.
—Some nasty stuff in here.
—Doesn't bother me.
He looked at me, nodded, and kicked the side of the biohazard canister.
—Give me a hand with this. Come out and get the empty.
I rolled off the couch.
—Like I'm everyone's slave today.
Chev was scribbling in the appointment book, back on the phone.
—With a sunset behind it, yeah, sure.
I followed Po Sin out the door.
—Ask her if she wants the dolphin snagged in a gill net or drowning in an oil spill.
Chev showed me his middle finger.
Outside, Po Sin was at the back of the Clean Team van, opening the doors. I set the canister on the edge of the curb.
He waved me closer.
—Bring it here.
I picked it back up.
—Maaan.
I brought it over to him and caught a face-full of the reek pouring out of the sun-baked rear of the van.
—Holy Jesus! Motherfuck.
He took the canister from me and snugged it in with several others and snapped a bungee cord around them to keep them from shifting.
—How's that for a gross-out?
I waved a hand in front of my face.
—Dude, that's some nasty shit.
He took an empty canister from a rack and passed it to me.
—Things are supposed to be airtight.
—They're not.
—No shit.
He slammed the doors closed and leaned his back against them, the polarized lenses of his glasses darkening.
—So. Still no work.
I lifted the empty canister.
—Working plenty.
Chev came out of the shop and lit up.
—Don't listen to him, he ain't worked in over a year.
Po Sin looked up at the sky.
—Been that long?
I spat in the gutter.
—It's been awhile.
I pointed at Chev.
—And don't listen to his bullshit. I work all the time. I mean, who's been doing the laundry? Cleaning the dishes? Cooking? Who's been running all