you backing up on the sidewalk? Wait, slow down. Stop running . . . Face it, Steve, you canât outrun me. See how Iâm easily keeping stride, and youâre breathing and sweating like Rush Limbaugh being whipped by a jockey up a pyramid? I can do this all day. You donât want to turn down that alley; thereâs only the parking garage . . . Okay, you did it anyway. And you just made another careless error, running the wrong way on level one. I know this garageâyouâve just boxed yourself in. But since I now have you cornered against those walls, a few golden drops of your wisdom, please . . . Man, Steve, youâre really shaking; dress shirt all stuck to your chest and shit. Are you trying to kick H? If you are, I know these cats. Revolutionary new technique. Forget nine to twelve weeks in a mountain chalet with Liza Minnelli. One week, pow! You hire them, and they grab you off the street without warning, sack over your head and into the back of a van. Variation on tough love, but incredible success rate . . . Steve, Iâm trying to talk to you, but youâve got your cell phone out. Am I not giving you my undivided attention? Donât call the police . . . Youâre still calling them. Gimme that thing. Iâll give it back when weâre done. You know those fantastic nature documentaries in high def where they get stupid-close to those big fuckinâ sharks, and the one fish the sharks donât tear to a bloody mess are the little guys that clean their skin and eat the sidestream chunks of flesh that get stuck in their teeth? Get it? Sidestream income, sidestream flesh? I want to be your skin cleaner . That melody is Peter Gabrielâs âSledgehammer.â What ever happened to him? . . . Steve! Youâre fainting! . . . God damn, thatâs the biggest forehead gash Iâve ever seen.â . . . And then I had to call 911 . . .â
âGuess you didnât get any of his money tips,â said Coleman.
âJust the opposite,â said Serge. âItâs how we landed this job.â
âYou mean the place where we are now?â
Serge nodded and pocketed cuff links. âAnd the six houses before this when you werenât around. After the parking-garage mishap, I called Steve at home.â
âYou had his number?â
âNo, I was calling him through his bedroom window,â said Serge. âI promised no bedroom windows, but he wasnât answering the phone. And Iâm standing there in the bushes saying I think his phone is broken, and his wife turned out to be a real screamer, and he motions for me to meet him at the front door. I finally see his face in half-decent light from the street, and Iâm like, âJesus, thatâs one big-ass bandage over your stitches. Couldnât the doctors have used anything smaller that doesnât tell everyone you faint for no reason?â . . . And he begs me to leave him alone, and to call his office in the morning. Of course I do, and his secretary explains this job about cleaning up after the dead and gives me an address, and then a few days later, a check from the real-estate agent arrives at the same address. Since then, whenever I need some extra cash, I just call Steveâs office, and the secretary immediately gives me another address. Itâs almost as if she has a list taped to her phone. Steveâs polite like that, respecting my time . . .â
Banging and whimpering from the closet.
âSerge,â said Coleman. âThe ATM guy . . .â
âHeâll get tired of doing that.â
Coleman herded dust bunnies on the floor. âBut whereâd you learn how to do this job?â
âWhatâs to know?â Serge shrugged. âI donât even think they care how well I perform, because once I did a really crappy job. Showed up for an hour but got distracted by