Free The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death by Charlie Huston Page B

clipboard.
    —But I am an employee of the firm and should be trusted with this information if I am to do my job in an efficient manner.
    He placed a weighty fist on the clipboard.
    —But you are not a
trusted
employee. You are a ten buck an hour fuckup day laborer who is not allowed to cherry pick the phone numbers of attractive female clients so that you can harass them and get me sued.
    I leaned back in my seat and folded my arms.
    —Fine. Whatever you say
jefe.
    He stuck his hand under the seat and came out with a Slim Jim and unwrapped it.
    I looked out at the Pacific Ocean.
    —What was that about the guild?
    Po Sin cocked an eyebrow.
    —What?
    —The guild. That deputy you bribed mentioned a
guild
and something about
aftershocks
or something?
    —Don't worry about it. It's not your problem.
    I threw my hands up.
    —Shit, man, I know it's not my problem, I'm just curious. I'm just trying to make conversation. I'm not allowed to ask about the damn girl backthere. Fine. You don't want to talk about the business. Fine. So let's talk about the diet you're supposed to be on and how that's going. How are your cholesterol numbers looking? Triglycerides? How's the blood pressure? Your wife know you're munching sticks of pig ass seasoned with MSG?
    He bit a hunk off the Slim Jim, chewed it once, and swallowed.
    —Soledad.
    —Say what?
    —Her name is Soledad. And here's a tip, it means
solitude
in Spanish. As in,
Leave me the fuck alone.
    I held my arm out the window and felt the sun burning it red.
    —She didn't pick her own name.
    —Drop me over here.
    Po Sin looked around.
    —We're only in Santa Monica. How the hell you gonna get home from here?
    —I'll get a ride.
    —A ride.
Chev gonna drive out here to pick you up?
    —I'll get a ride. Pull over, pull over here, man.
    He pulled the van to the curb on Ocean, just past the pier.
    —Tell you one thing, you get stuck out here, I won't be coming to get you.
    I opened the door and started to get out and he grabbed the tail of my old Mobil gas station shirt.
    —Web.
    I looked at him.
    —You get stuck out here, you're gonna be riding the bus.
    I tugged free.
    —I can get a ride.
    He held up his hands.
    —As you wish.
    I climbed out and pushed the door closed.
    —That's the idea.
    He pushed a button on his armrest and the passenger window slid down.
    —Listen, there's no job tomorrow. You want to make some more cash, you can help clean the shop.
    I shrugged.
    —Sure. Sure. Sounds good.
    —OK.
    The window rolled back up and he drove off toward the 10 West.
    I stood there for a minute and looked at the causeway to the pier and thought about walking out past the bars and the fried-food stands and the Ferris wheel all the way to the end so I could stand there and stare at the water. But instead I turned around and trotted across the street and walked into the late-afternoon darkness inside Chez Jay.
    Dark, the only light coming in through the open upper half of the split front door and three portholes cut behind the bar. Fishing nets, life preservers and a ship's anchor on the walls, a tattered American flag hung in a single billow over the bar. I took a seat on the corner. The bartender looked down from the TV where he was watching a rerun of
Charlie's Angels.
    He came over.
    —I was always a Kate Jackson man. You?
    I glanced at the TV.
    —Never watched it.
    He stops in his tracks.
    —Naw?
    —Didn't have a TV growing up.
    —No kidding. One of those.
    —Yeah. One of those. No early childhood brain cancer to retard my emotional development.
    —That's not funny.
    —Not supposed to be.
    He looked back up at the TV.
    —Well I like the show.
    —Yeah, I rest my case.
    —Huh?
    —Can I have a beer, please?
    —What kind?
    —Whatever.
    He took a mug from behind the bar and drew a Heineken and set it in front of me.
    —Four.
    —I got that.
    I looked at the old man tucked into the angle where the bar met the wall. Hunched over an open book, a stack of several more