The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death: A Novel by Charlie Huston

Author:Charlie Huston
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Crime Fiction
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2009-01-12T15:00:00+00:00

ACQUISITIONS

—Do you have any other clothes?

I looked down at the T and blue jeans and sneakers I'd been wearing for over twenty-four hours.

—My dinner jacket is at the cleaner's just now. But if you don't think it would be gauche, I could wear my morning coat.

Gabe's expression remained immobile. Except maybe his eyes rolled around and around behind his shades without me knowing it.

—Nothing else to wear.

He extended his arm, shooting his wrist free of his jacket cuff, and looked at his watch.

—OK.

He steered us east on Burbank Boulevard.

—Po Sin lock up?

I pointed back in the direction of the shop.

—What tipped you off? I mean, besides the fact he left me sitting outside waiting for you after he took the kids home? What the fuck, I can't be trusted now?

Gabe drove, reserving comment. Reserving just about any indication that he was alive, as I was already learning, being a big specialty of his.

I picked up the slack.

—Really, man, I'm not trying to get off the hook for the van or anything, but I was supposed to watch the shop. I succeeded in that. Now, when Po Sin has to take the kids for dinner and you're late, I have to wait on the sidewalk? That, frankly, is bullshit.

Gabe took a left onto Lankershim.

—You tell Po Sin all this?

I looked out the window.

—Well. No.

He pulled to the curb at a Goodwill and killed the engine.

—That was probably a good idea.

He climbed out and walked around the car and stopped on the sidewalk and looked back at me.

—You coming?

I got out and closed the door.

—I didn't realize I was required.

He pushed through the glass doors into the shop.

—Certainly required if you want anything to fit.

—Here, hold out your wrist.

I held out my wrist and Gabe flipped open the knife blade on his Leatherman and cut the tag from the sleeve of my jacket.

I fiddled with the stiff collar of the white button-down that was chafing my neck.

—You know, when you said you needed help with business communications, I assumed that was like code for doing something illegal. I didn't realize I needed to actually dress in business attire.

He slipped the Leatherman away and started the Cruiser.

—You have that other bag?

I pointed at the two bags in the footwell, one containing my sneakers, stinking jeans and T and socks, the other holding the odds and ends he'd bought at the Goodwill.

—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

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