—I need to use the phone. I have to call Po Sin.
He crossed to the door.
—There's a payphone on the corner.
I stood, the money in my fist.
—I wasn't gonna spend it, Chev. I was gonna give it away. I didn't even know I had it. He put it in a book.
—Web.
—Yeah.
—I love you, man.
—I know.
He opened the door.
—But if you don't shut up and get out of here right now, I'm gonna love you a lot less, you son of a bitch.
I could have said something else. I could have said something so unbelievably dicky it would have made him laugh. I could have torn the money into little pieces and went and flushed them down the can. I could have done a lot of things. But it was kind of a delicate situation. And I don't have a good track record with doing the right thing in delicate situations.
So I just got the fuck out.
Cuz down to one friend in the world, you tend to get anxious about how long you can hang onto him before you fuck up and do that one last thing that can't be forgiven and you get left all alone for the rest of your life until you die on the toilet in a stinking SRO apartment and no one finds your corpse till it swells up and tumbles from the can and bursts open and even the maggots have had enough of you and move on.
Besides, he had a right to be pissed.
After all, my dad did kill his parents.
It was an accident.
Does that go without saying?
Does it matter?
Does it matter that he didn't actually take a gun from his pocket and shoot them in the face? Does it matter that they were all close friends? Does it matter that they had a standing Friday night date at the Palm in the Beverly Hills Hotel from years back, from well before my mom took off, from before Chev and me were even born? Does it matter that three of them drove drunk back up the Canyon every week, year after year, always in L.L.'s latest Mercedes, always, even in the rain, with the top down? Does it matter that, despite L.L.'s blood alcohol level, the inquest showed that the true blame for the head-on collision lay with the driver who'd been coming down Laurel Canyon, screaming around corners on the wrong side of the road? Does it matter that L.L. was acquitted of vehicular manslaughter? Does it matter that L.L. did his utmost to adopt Chev, and that, when he couldn't fight the obvious objections, he lent every bit of financial support he could to Chev and his foster family?
No, it fucking doesn't.
Especially if you're Chev.
It might have mattered. It might all have made a big difference.
If L.L. could have kept his mouth shut and never gotten shitfaced one night and, in a classic bit of L.L. theater, decided it was time we knew the true face of God, and revealed to us that he should never have been driving that night. After years of lies.
Still, it might not have mattered, at nearly twenty years of age by then, Chev might have had enough perspective to see why L.L. had lied, and he might have had a big huggy moment with his crazy father figure.
Might have happened.
If L.L. hadn't also revealed that he was having an affair with Chev's mom and that, at the moment of the accident, Chev's dad had been passed out in the jumpseat, and her mouth had been in L.L.'s lap.
See, as was often the case with L.L., it wasn't so much the fucked up shit he did, as the fact that he had to talk about the fucked up shit he did.
So I understand Chev getting pissed at me for having L.L.'s money in my pocket. Cuz we're not supposed to take his money. Ever. For anything. It was an oath we swore. Nineteen, Chev dropped out of college because he didn't want anything to do with the trust L.L. had set up for him; didn't want his money, and didn't want the education L.L. had told him his mom and dad would want him to have. Didn't want anything to do with anything L.L. touched, said, or thought. And I joined him. Skipped out on UCLA and enrolled at LACC. Having kind of figured out by then that if push came to shove, I'd be better off with Chev in my corner than with L.L. My rare moment of wisdom, recognizing that blood is not in fact thicker than water.
That oath may have kind of been broken by not stuffing L.L.'s money down the garbage disposal the minute Dot showed it to me. But I was too busy being a dick to her to be bothered with that.
Crap.
So I thought about that kind of stuff, the kind of stuff where your dad is kind of responsible for the deaths of your best friend's parents, while I stood next to the payphone at the gas station on the corner of La Brea and Melrose waiting for Po Sin to come and pick me up.
Again, crap.
AS NORMAL AS IT GETS
—Motherfucker!
—So is this covered by workmen's comp?
—Motherfucker!
—I mean, if I get beat to crap by the competition, are my medical expenses taken care of? Missed wages? All that shit?
Po Sin drove one-handed, hammering his fist against the roof of the van.
—Mother! Fucker!
He pulled the van into the lot of a two-story strip mall, put it in park, got out and walked into a liquor store stationed between a nail salon and a Pilates studio, just under an auto insurance office. I watched him through the glass as he walked to the snack rack and started grabbing things, his lips ceaselessly moving.
Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!
He came out a moment later, got in the van, dropped a sack full of junk food between our seats, ripped open a bag of puffy Cheetos, put it in his lap and started shoving them in his mouth as we pulled back onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
—Moferfuther!
Orange crumbs sprayed the inside of the windshield.
—Mofufer!
I poked a finger in the sack of chips and beef sticks and snack cakes.
—Feeling a little anxious, Po Sin?
He wiped orange dust from his finger onto his pants.
—Fuck you, Web. And, yes, I am. I am a stress eater, OK. When I am stressed I lose composure and self-control and I eat compulsively. That's what happens. You've seen me, right? You see how fucking fat I am, right? You think this shit just happens? It doesn't. I don't have a fucking thyroid problem here, I eat too much and I eat junk food. And I eat more when stressed. And I'm stressed right now. OK? OK? OK?
I leaned away from the crumbs and the spittle filling the air between us.
—Yeah, OK, I get it. You're stressed. You got a right to be. I understand. Hey I'm stressed, too. Which, you know, I think makes a lot of sense in this scenario. Seeing as I was the one who got his face beaten in by your goddamn nephew. Oh, and by the way, I couldn't help but notice that the van he and his friends took off in had been recently vandalized in the same shade of yellow paint that Gabe had under his fingernails this morning. Not that I think the two things are related or anything. Not that I think I've landed in the middle of some kind of dead-body-cleanup range war or anything like that.
He hammered the roof again.
—Fucking Morton! Fucking guild!
—Yes, the guild, interesting that you should mention that. So happens that Bang brought that up while we were chatting. I must confess that I was at something of a loss when the topic came about. Somewhat in the dark, as it were. Perhaps you might fucking enlighten my ass.
He jerked the van to a stop at a red light and turned to me.
—His name is Dingbang, not Bang. It was his grandfather's name. Ding-bang, not Bang.
I folded my arms and put my feet on the dash.
—As long as he doesn't beat me up anymore, he can call himself whatever he wants.
Po Sin snapped his fingers.
—Feet, feet.
—Yes, they are, right there at the bottoms of my legs.
—Off the dash.
I shook my head.
—Uh-uh. Consider it getting my ass kicked for the job tax.
He put more Cheetos in his mouth.
The light changed and we moved forward and I looked at the road ahead.
/> —Hey hey. Hey where are we going?
—Sherman Oaks.
I took my feet off the dash and pointed at the road.
—But why are we going this way?
—Because it's fastest. Why do you care?
—No, Highland to the 101 is faster.
—No it's not. Not where we're headed.
—Here, turn here!
He kept going straight.
—Fuck, Po Sin, you needed to turn there.
He crumpled the empty Cheetos bag and dropped it in the grocery sack.
—Chill out, Web, this is the way to go. What's your fucking problem?
—Nothing. I just think my way is faster.
He pulled a tube of Pringles from the sack.
—Well you're wrong. Laurel Canyon is the way to go.
I didn't say anything, just put another mark down on the tally sheet, one more point scored by God in our ongoing game of Who's the Bigger Dick.
And we twisted up through the canyon of my childhood, passing the curve, the decisive landmark in Chev's life, me fingering the hundred-dollar bills in my pocket.
Casa Vega is dark as hell.
I'm only guessing about that, mind you, but I'm pretty certain that combination of blackness, dimly illuminated by red glass-filtered candlelight, is the precise effect that would really go in Hades.
Except I doubt they have nachos and margaritas there.
We felt our way past the bar and into the dining room, Po Sin apparently guided by second sight, or an interior compass that always reads true to hot ceramic platters heaped with chili relleno. At the back, under one of the nicer bullfighters on black velvet I've come across, we found Gabe in a red leather booth, his black jacket on against the blasting AC, tie knotted, sunglasses on his face.
We slipped into the booth and he gestured at the food.
—I ordered.
Po Sin grabbed a fork and started digging into a beef-stuffed bell pepper covered in melted cheese.
—Thanks.
Gabe looked at me.
—Eat something. It's good.
I pointed at my face.
—Yeah, I'm sure it is, but aside from the fact that chewing sounds like a bad idea right now, I just don't like eating in an environment where I can't see my fork coming at my face. This crazy fear of stabbing myself in the eye.
Po Sin grabbed my plate and pulled it in front of him.
—Fine by me.
I took a chip from the basket on the table and tried nibbling the corner and the salt got in the cut inside my mouth and I winced and picked up one of the margaritas Gabe had got for us and took a big swallow, but I didn't see the salt all over the rim because it was so fucking dark and that really hurt like a son of a bitch.
—Son of a bitch!
Gabe pushed a water glass my way.
—Sorry about that. Didn't know if you liked them with or without.
I filled my mouth with cold water and swished it around, and that hurt, too.
—Crap.
I looked at Po Sin as he mopped his first plate with a tortilla.
—So look, man, I don't want to be ungrateful for the dinner I can't eat or anything, but are we at the part where I get to know what the fuck, or what?
He scooped guacamole onto a chip.
—Yeah, we're there. We're there.
He ate the chip. And then a couple more. Gabe sat behind his sunglasses.
I slapped the table.
—So what the fuck then? What's the deal? What the hell is the guild? Whatwhatwhat?
Po Sin wiped his lips with a red napkin.
—Aftershock.
—Huh?
—Aftershock is the name of another trauma cleaner. They have a lot of contracts, mostly on the west side. Hotels, office buildings, property management. And they get most of the law enforcement referrals over there. Cops, sheriff's deputies, they're at the scene of a violent crime, someone asks them, How do I clean this up? My baby Huey, my little boy was shot here, how do I clean it up? Baby Huey, mind you, is six and a half feet and over three hundred pounds and he's bled all over the house after getting shot on the porch by the guy who used to be his best friend before one of them fucked the other one's baby mama or some such crap. So the law officer suggests a reliable trauma cleaner who will come in and take care of the situation.
I found a paper-wrapped straw on the table and unpeeled it.
—And he gets a bribe for doing it.
Po Sin waved a finger in the air.
—It's not a bribe. It's a referral fee.
—It's illegal as hell.
—It is that, but it is not a bribe.
I dipped the straw in my margarita and took a sip.
—And the guild?
He lined up the second plate of chili relleno.
—The guild is a racket. Guy who owns Aftershock, Morton, is trying to get all the cleaners to join a guild. Guild will distribute jobs and contracts. Set prices. Broker health coverage, that kind of shit. The more cleaners he can get to sign on, the more pressure he can put on the remaining independents. They don't join, they're gonna have to find a way to live off the scraps of jobs that don't go through the guild.
—And you don't want to join an organization that will help to set the market in your favor and allow you to pool resources because?
He licked his fork clean and set it in the middle of his equally clean plate.
—Because it's a scam, Web. Because the work won't be distributed throughout the guild equally. Because it's set up so that Morton is the president and administrator of the guild, which, seeing as he owns Aftershock, is a rather large conflict of interest. Because the jobs come in and he assigns two out of every three to his own fucking company. So, what, I join and give the guild access to my contracts and contacts, my 7-Eleven gig, my Hyatt contract, my Amtrak deal, all my public housing call-lists, I hand that all to the guild and then what? Fucking Morton takes the sweetest plums for himself and I have to wait and get some shit call to clean up in front of a gas station where a dog got hit by some old lady who couldn't see over the steering wheel.
He propped an elbow on the table and jabbed a finger at me.
—Clean Team is my business. I created it. I built it. I made the contacts and sweated the contracts. Someone calls me, they know what they're getting. Twenty-four hours a day that goddamn phone is on. Someone calls, they have trouble, they're in pain, someone they love has died messy and they are traumatized, I pick up that phone any hour of the day or night. I talk to them civil and gentle. I come as soon as I can. I tell them straight what is involved and what it will cost. The job is harder, takes longer than I thought, costs me more than I estimated, that's my problem, I eat the loss. That's my reputation. Doing the job the way it should be done, that's all I do. And that is worth something.
He leaned in, the tabletop tilting slightly under his weight. I remained very still, having, not for the first time, a sudden awareness of his crushing bulk.
—And I don't give that to anyone. What is in my house is mine. Who is in my house I take care of. My name, my reputation, those are in my house, those are for the well-being of my family. And I will not have my house fucked with.
He inhaled through his nose, a long wheeze, and leaned back into the depths of the booth.
—Especially not by an asshole like Morton.
I poked my straw into the melting ice at the bottom of my margarita glass.
—OK, then can you advise me as to how you will be making allowances to ensure I won't be getting beaten again? Because a police complaint is sounding like a pretty good strategy to me.
Po Sin looked at Gabe. Gabe looked at something, but I don't know what, all I could see was darkness and tiny red flames reflected in his glasses.
Po Sin picked up his margarita and drained half of it.
—The thing you have to remember here, Web, this isn't what you'd call a heavily regulated industry. They set the bar pretty low. Two hundred bucks, proof
of a fixed address, and a contract with a licensed hazardous waste disposal company is all you need to be a certified trauma cleaner.
My eyebrows went up.
—Bullshit.
—No bullshit at all. You got employees, you have to pass an OSHA class, but that's it. So, see, you get a mixed bag of types drawn to the trade. At worst, mostly, you get people who are just fucking incompetent and lazy. They give the trade a bad name, but they also go out of business pretty fast. But there is a higher class of worst-case scenario, because some folks are just plain crooked as hell. Whether that means overbilling or maybe cutting corners on a job, whatever. Kind of stuff that Deputy Mercer was talking about with Aftershock. Worser case, you get some straight-up thieves. Go into a house, take advantage of being there while the family is staying in a motel because they don't want to look at the bloodstain that used to be daddy, and they clean it out. Family says, Where's the TV, where's the stereo, where's my stamp collection? These guys say Oh, that stuff, it was all contaminated, had to be disposed. Contaminated? Shit was on the second floor at the back of a house where daddy did himself in the downstairs bathroom. Or maybe your aunt dies, chokes on her chocolate-covered cherries, lays there for a week with her Pekinese so hungry it takes a few nibbles. These guys come in, they do a great job with the cleaning, you're happy as hell with the deal. Two months later, new charges start showing up on auntie's credit cards. Stuff like that, we'd like it to stop. But we'd also like it not to have too bright a light shined upon it. Those kind of stories get too much coverage, that's bad for everyone's business.
I scooped some ice from my glass and put it in the middle of one of the red napkins and folded the material around it and pressed it to the knot on my forehead.
—Yeah, OK, no cops. So I'm still waiting for the part where you guys stop trading paint bombs and I don't have to be freaked about this shit happening to me again.
Gabe's phone beeped once. He took it from the clip on his belt, looked at the face, put it back on his belt and nodded at Po Sin.
Po Sin rubbed his nose.
—OK, you've got a handle on that first part. And yeah, there's also been some intimidation happening. Vandalization. Like the paint on the van. Also, job calls come in, you show up at the address and what do you find? Find a vacant lot, find a Chinese caterer where there's supposed to be a private residence. Don't have to think hard to figure who made the call, who's wasting your time and effort. Shit goes back and forth for a few months now. Some tit for tat. The guild trying to show us who's boss. Us showing them we don't work for no one. But you getting beat on, that was new. That was an escalation.
The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death Page 10