The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [62]
—Fuckingniggerfuckingshitdogfuckingniggernigger.
Gabe pointed the gun at the van where Dingbang was still trying to get the door open while the flames grew higher.
—Cover your ears, Web.
I covered my ears and jerked and screamed each of the three times Gabe pulled the trigger. My screams were somewhat louder than those of the men scattering on the street, away from the van where all three bullets had dimpled the hood next to Dingbang, sending him first to the ground and then crawling behind a dumpster at the curb.
Only Morton kept his place, pointing at Gabe, mouth tight shut now. Shaping the finger of his other hand into a pistol, he pointed it at his own head, and pulled the trigger.
Gabe shifted the aim of his gun, centered the bead on Morton's chest.
—Not wise, Morton, threatening a man with a pistol in his hand.
Morton seemed to make a similar assessment of the situation and dropped both hands to his sides. But was, I can only assume, the kind of man who can't leave well enough alone.
—Fuck you, nigger.
Gabe nodded.
—That's enough of that.
I covered my ears again, and the windows of the Aftershock shop exploded one after another while I did the flinch and scream thing again.
He settled back into his seat, tucked the gun between his thighs, put the car in gear, and drove slowly past where Morton had thrown himself on the street, screaming newly invented obscenities that I couldn't hear for the sharp ringing in my ears.
Of course, I did hear it when the van's gas tank blew and a fireball climbed up the sky, but we were some ways down the street by then.
Gabe observed the detonation in the rearview and, nodding his head, raised his voice over the ringing in his own ears.
—Stupid crackers, I'd have let them, they'd have climbed in that thing and tried to drive it off the fire, got their asses blown to hell.
I turned from staring out the back window as he took us round the corner onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
—You're a paragon of charity and compassion, Gabe. A real model to the rest of us when faced with the opportunity to think of our fellow man's well-being before our own.
He took the gun from between his legs and put it back under his seat.
—Good of you to say so, Web.
He straightened his tie.
—Now let's go drop that stiff.
One of the keys on the big ring in Gabe's glove box got us into Woodlawn and we rolled the gurney down an empty tile corridor, one wheel balky and loud.
Gabe stopped at a steel door.
—Hold up.
He took the ring off his belt, sorted keys, and unlocked the door.
—OK.
He pushed the door open and we rolled into the morgue.
I held up.
—Wow.
Gabe looked at the butterflied corpse on the table in the middle of the room.
—Yeah, it's a sight. Come on.
He guided the gurney to the back of the prep room and jerked the handle on the door of a walk-in.
—Park it here. OK. Got the legs, by the heels there. And lift.
We swung the body onto an empty rack at the side of the walk-in.
I looked at the dead in their rows.
—Lotta dead people, man.
Gabe took a look.
—Yeah. And the world isn't running out of raw supplies to make more.
We walked back down the corridor, the jittery wheel squeaking.
Gabe pulled up and tapped it with the toe of his shiny black shoe.
—Got to take that off and straighten it out tonight. No one wants their dead rolling out of their home on a gurney sounds like a shopping cart with a bum wheel.
Outside he locked up behind us.
I pointed at the keys.
—So you work for Woodlawn?
—No. Work for a company that does accommodations all over. Night shift I handle, never know if someone will be around to let you in.
He pointed at the Cruiser and we took the gurney over.
—Funeral homes contract with the service. Give us keys so we have access. Got keys to pretty much every home from the Valley down to Long Beach.
We dropped the gurney down to its wheels, lifted it into the back of the station wagon and swung the door shut.
I rested my ass on the gleaming chrome bumper.
—So, Gabe, tell me, how's one go about getting the