– 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
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,
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
