The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

So, not knowing which of them to believe, I went back to work.

I'd done as I saw Po Sin and Gabe do at the Malibu house, started at the top and worked my way down. Like cleaning a dirty window. There hadn't been anything on the ceiling, but along one wall next to the bed there was a nice spackling of blood that rose nearly to the top. I'd worked my way down it, spraying with a bottle full of Microban and sopping it up with paper towels that I dropped in the room's waste basket. To be disposed of later.

Jaime narrated as I worked.

– See, if he'd just come in here and conducted business in a responsible manner, I wouldn't have had to cut him. I mean, I understand that in this business contingencies sometimes arise without having been accounted for, but it's not the exclusive burden of the producer to absorb those costs. The deal starts going all Waterworld, I don't see where I should be on the hook for the overages. He got all the situation has changed. Shit like that. I told him, said, Dude, I'm working this deal on a short schedule with, like, no budget at all. So maybe you should get out of my fucking face before I fucking cut your ass. He didn't listen. All that blood up there, that's where he freaked out, started waving his arms around after I'd cut his hand. He'd stayed still he wouldn't have got blood on my new jeans and I would have left it at that. As it was, I had to stick him to make him sit down and shut up. Gave him a poke in the shoulder and he settled down. Wadded up those sheets and got them over the hole to stop the bleeding.

By that point in the conversation I'd shot about my hundredth look at Soledad, all of them saying pretty much the same thing: What is the nature of his birth defect, and do you have the same one?

Her looks in reply clearly indicating: I know, I know, just please don't f revoke him because I don't want to fetch any more ice for your swollen testicles.

Still unsure if Jaime was a congenital moron or just your average drunk fucking idiot infected by a particularly nasty form of the Hollywood Virus, I was working my way down the wall, deliriously happy that the blood hadn't had time to seep through the wallpaper, as he drew his tale to a close.

– Asshole wanted to take the sheet with him. Fuckin’ believe that? Told him, No way, man, I'm on the hook for this room. Those sheets end up on my bill if they go missing. That's not an expense I'm gonna carry. Asshole.

That detail bringing me up to where I was looking under the bed, finding nothing worse than more almonds.

Jaime pointed at the sheets.

– Way I figure it, some bleach'll get those spie an’ span. ‘Course, I'm not much when it comes to cleaning, doing laundry, whatever, but I knew Sol would be able to help.

He smiled at his sister.

– She's always good for lending a hand. Any wonder I got pissed when she told me some asshole'd been messing with her today of all days. Then she's gonna call that asshole to help us out over here? I mean, what the fuck, right?

He pointed at her.

– Above-line expenditures kill a production, Sol.

She looked at the long ash on the end of her cigarette, tipped it and watched it fall.

– I'm just trying to help, Jaime. I can leave at any time.

– Aw, don't be like that. Get all bitch on me.

– A bloody hotel room's not the same as when you dropped the cookie jar. Something happens to that guy you cut, you want this room to be more than spie and span.

– Nothin's gonna happen to him. He was fine. I just didn't want to pay for, you know, room damages and shit.

She stared at the tiny coal at the end of her nearly dead smoke.

– Fine. Whatever you need. Taken care of. No problem.

– Shit, Sol. C'mon.

I got to my feet.

– Well, I don't think the room's gonna pass any kind of close scrutiny by a team of crack experts with ultraviolet lamps, but it's as clean as I can make it.

And it was. Walls and furniture gleaming in the lamplight. The only signs remaining to tell that the carpet had been bloodied were patches where the original color showed brighter from my scrubbing. The offending bedding stuffed in the wastebasket with the paper towels.

A job well done.

A potentially very criminal job, well done.

Details, details, details.

Jaime lurched up from his chair, scattering the litter of tiny bottles at his feet, and toed the wastebasket.

– So all you gotta do is wash those out an’ you can get the fuck out of here.

I peeled the rubber gloves from my hand and dropped them on top of the stained sheets.

– Jaime, my man, I don't know how to tell you this, and I don't much want to, but I'm afraid you're going to have to eat the deposit on the sheets.

He watched me as I packed the cleaning gear back into the carrier.

– Fuck is that supposed to mean?

I wedged a pack of disposable paint scrapers into the carrier.

– It means that shit is not coming out.

– Little bleach. Fuck do you know?

I pointed at the sheets.

– I had a girlfriend once, had the heaviest periods you ever saw. Dated the girl for over a year, and I threw away enough sheets in that year to know a lost cause when I see one. Those are dead soldiers.

Soledad came over.

– Can you get rid of them for us?

I nodded.

– Yeah, I can get rid of them. I can do that.

She nodded.

– Thanks.

I bent to pick up the wastebasket and Jaime slapped my hand away.

– Fuckin'way man. Sheets stay here.

I looked at the clock. Almost four. My eyes ached. My head and my mouth throbbed. I don't want to talk about how I felt below the waist. Suffice to say, I was really looking forward to lying down.

I picked up the carrier.

– OK by me, the sheets stay here.

I started for the door and heard his knife snap open behind me.

– Fuckin’ freeze, asshole. No one leaves till these sheets are clean and this location is wrapped.

I turned and looked at him, swaying drunk, knife in hand.

I set the carrier on the dresser, between the TV and the lamp.

– Do you have a gun?

– What?

I looked at Soledad.

– Does he have a gun?

She tossed the stub of her smoke through the bathroom door in the direction of the tub.

– No.

Jaime twirled the knife, almost lost his grip on it, recovered, settled into a credible kung fu stance that I was pretty sure I recognized from Chev's copy of Game of Death. -Don't need a gun.

I picked up the lamp, knocked the shade from it, yanked the plug from the wall, turned it upside down and showed him the pointed corners of the heavy wood base.

– And I have a lamp. If you take one more step toward me with that knife, I will hit you as hard as I can with this lamp. If you die, I will clean up the mess and leave. If you don't die, you can clean up your own blood.