The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [59]
—Yeah.
I clicked the heels of the worn loafers that were the only black shoes in the shop that fit me.
—Hey are these technically work clothes? Can I write these off? I mean, with what I make, a twenty-five-dollar suit and six-dollar shoes are major deductions.
We drove down a long boulevard of beige stucco apartment buildings and strip malls, the mission school architectural palette of Los Angeles as it had blossomed in all its late twentieth-century glory.
Gabe shook his head.
—I wouldn't know how to file a tax return.
The ride west on the 101, and then south on the 405, was undertaken to the accompanying squawk of the police-band radio mounted under the dash, calling out numbered codes and responses that Gabe kept one ear cocked for. I was reminded of listening to a ball game with certain avid appreciators who have moved on from rooting for one team or the other, and became highly tuned appreciators of the game and its nuances. Gabe hemmed, grunted, clucked his tongue and, once, snorted in reaction to the story the radio was telling him.
As the 405 cut past the Veteran's Administration Healthcare Center, I pointed at the radio.
—Anything good?
He leaned forward, turned the volume up slightly, and tsked at whatever the cops were currently getting up to.
I nodded.
—Just tell me when someone wins.
And I closed my eyes.
—We're here.
I opened my eyes on a residential neighborhood of fake Tudors and Georgians and haciendas with large front yards crawling with bougainvillea, gardenia bushes, and lemon trees in the midst of huge lawns and thick ficus sculpted into hedge. I looked around for a street sign and found one up at the corner. Butterfield and Manning.
I rubbed sleep from my eyes.
—West side, huh? No wonder I had to dress up.
Gabe looked at the house we were parked in front of, a large stucco job done up adobe Pueblo style. Lots of terra-cotta tiles jutting over the eaves, long cone chimney, large wooden gate mounted in an arch in the garden wall.
He took a notebook from inside his jacket and flipped it open and looked at the pencil marks on the page and checked them against the address numbers painted on the curb. Satisfied he'd not become suddenly dyslexic, he put the notebook away and looked me over.
—Do up that top button and cinch that tie.
I dabbed some sweat on my forehead.
—Can't I do this business-casual? Kind of hot to be wearing this shit in the first place.
He waited.
I did up the top button and cinched the tie.
—Better?
He nodded.
—Let's go.
I got out of the car and looked for a bell or something.
—Web.
I looked back at Gabe, standing at the rear of the Cruiser with the window rolled down and the gate dropped. He reached in and pulled the gurney halfway out.
—Give me a hand with this.
Again I found myself in a dead man's bedroom while someone else did the paperwork elsewhere.
—Do you like this one?
I looked at the purple suit the old woman had draped over the corpse on the bed.
—It's a nice color.
She fingered the material.
—Yes, it is. He liked to be seen, Wally
Whatever Wally once liked, it didn't matter now. And being seen wasn't something he was going to be doing much more of. Judging by the suit, he'd been built on a scale that might have had him approaching Po Sin's rarefied air, but the withered thing lost in the bedclothes could be swaddled in just the vest.
The woman sat on the edge of the bed, the suit overflowing her lap.
—Such a nice suit. Will they cut the back out of it to get him in?
I looked down the hall and longed for Gabe to get the fuck back in there.
—I'm not certain, ma'am. I think so. But I can't. I'm new to the job.
She took the corpse's hand in hers.
—Really? And do you like it so far?
I ran my eyes over the bedpan and oxygen tank and wheelchair and rows of pill bottles, all the other accoutrements of a long and miserable death that littered the room.
—It's OK.
—Must be sobering work for such a young man. Not very exciting.
I considered the last forty-eight hours of my life.
—Ma'am, there