The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– I like your wife.

Po Sin rested a hand on his daughter's knee, handed a Lego to his son, never taking his eyes from them.

– Yeah, me too.

Xing looked over at me.

– You were Tameka's teacher, weren't you?

I stood there. Po Sin turned his head. Yong built his monstrous, hidden cave.

I nodded.

– Yeah, I was.

She touched her head.

– She had a cool hat.

I nodded.

– Yeah, she did.

She smiled and went back to helping Yong.

I walked into the shop, pulled on my gloves, and started scrubbing.

AQUISITIONS

– 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 shof. 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 squawk of the police-band radio mounted under the dash, calling out numbered codes and responses that Gabe kept one ear cocked for. I was reminded of listening to a ball game with certain avid ap-preciators who have moved on from rooting for one team or the other, and became highly tuned appreciators of the game and its nuances. Gabe hemmed, grunted, clucked his tongue and, once, snorted in reaction to the story the radio was telling him.

As the 405 cut past the Veteran's Administration Healthcare Center, I pointed at the radio.

– Anything good?

He leaned forward, turned the volume up slightly, and tsked at whatever the cops were currently getting up to.

I nodded.

– Just tell me when someone wins.

And I closed my eyes.

– We're here.

I opened my eyes on a residential neighborhood of fake Tudors and Georgians and haciendas with large front yards crawling with bougainvil-lea, gardenia bushes, and lemon trees in the midst of huge lawns and thick ficus sculpted into hedge. I looked around for a street sign and found one up at the corner. Butterfield and Manning.

I rubbed sleep from my eyes.

– West side, huh? No wonder I had to dress up.

Gabe looked at the house we were parked in front of, a large stucco job done up adobe Pueblo style. Lots of terra-cotta tiles jutting over the eaves, long cone chimney, large wooden gate mounted in an arch in the garden wall.

He took a notebook from inside his jacket and flipped it open and looked at the pencil marks on the page and checked them against the address numbers painted on the curb. Satisfied he'd not become suddenly dyslexic, he put the notebook away and looked me over.

– Do up that top button and cinch that tie.

I dabbed some sweat on my forehead.

– Can't I do this business-casual? Kind of hot to be wearing this shit in the first place.

He waited.

I did up the top button and cinched the tie.