A Dirty Job (Grim Reaper #1) (37 page)

“And evidently didn’t know that it’s considered common courtesy when you publish a death notice to actually die!” Charlie held out the enlarged driver’s-license picture. He considered adding
aha!,
but thought that might be a little over-the-top.

Irena Posokovanovich slammed the door. “I don’t know who you are, but you have the wrong house,” she said through the door.

“You know who I am,” Charlie said. Actually, she probably had no idea who he was. “And I know who you are, and you are supposed to have died three weeks ago.”

“You’re mistaken. Now go away before I call the police and tell them that there’s a rapist at my door.”

Charlie gagged a little, then pushed on. “I am not a rapist, Mrs. Poso…Posokev—I’m Death, Irena. That’s who I am. And you are overdue. You need to die, this minute if possible. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s like going to sleep, only, well—”

“I’m not ready,” Irena whined. “If I was ready I wouldn’t have left my home. I’m not ready.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have to insist.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken. Perhaps another Mrs. Posokovanovich.”

“No, here it is, right here in the calendar, with your address. It’s you.” Charlie held his date book turned to the page with her name on it up to the little window in the door.

“And you say that that is Death’s calendar?”

“That’s correct, ma’am. Notice the date. And this is your second notice.”

“And you are Death?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s just silly.”

“I am not silly, Mrs. Posokovanovich. I am Death.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have a sickle and a long black robe?”

“No, we don’t do that anymore. Take my word for it, I am Death.” He tried to sound really ominous.

“Death is always tall in the pictures.” She was standing on tiptoe, he could tell the way she kept bouncing up by the little window to get a look at him. “You don’t seem tall enough.”

“There’s no height requirement.”

“Then could I see your business card?”

“Sure.” Charlie took out a card and held it against the glass.

“This says ‘Purveyor of Fine Vintage Clothing and Accessories.’”

“Right! Exactly!” He knew he should have had a second set of business cards printed up. “And where do you think I get those things? From the dead. You see?”

“Mr. Asher, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“No, ma’am, I’m going to have to insist that you pass away, this instant. You’re overdue.”

“Go away! You are a charlatan, and I think you need psychological help.”

“Death! You’re fucking with Death! Capital
D,
bitch!” Well, that was uncalled for. Charlie felt bad the second he said it. “Sorry,” he mumbled to the door.

“I’m calling the police.”

“You go ahead, Mrs.—uh—Irena. You know what they’ll tell you, that you’re dead! It was in the
Chronicle
. They hardly ever print stuff that’s not true.”

“Please go away. I practiced for a long time so I could live longer, it’s not fair.”

“What?”

“Go away.”

“I heard that part, I mean the part about practicing.”

“Never you mind. You just go take someone else.”

Charlie actually had no idea what he would do if she let him in. Maybe he had to touch her for his Death abilities to kick in. He remembered seeing an old
Twilight Zone
as a kid, where Robert Redford was Death, and this old lady wouldn’t let him in, so he pretended to be injured, and when she came to help him…
ALA-KAZAM!
She croaked, and he peacefully led her off to Hole in the Wall, where she helped him produce independent movies. Maybe that would work. He did have the cast and the cane going for him.

He looked up and down the street to make sure that no one could see him, then he lay down, half on the little porch, half on the concrete steps. He threw his cane against the door and made sure that it clattered loudly on the concrete, then he let out what he thought was a very convincing wail. “Ahhhhhhhhh, I’ve broken my leg.”

He heard footsteps inside and saw gray hair at the little window, bouncing a little so she could see out.

“Oh, it hurts,” Charlie wailed. “Help.”

More steps, the shade in the window to the right of the door parted and he saw an eye. He grimaced in fake pain.

“Are you all right?” said Mrs. Posokovanovich.

“I need help. My leg was hurt before, but I slipped on your steps. I think I’ve broken something. There’s blood, and a piece of bone sticking out.” He kept his leg below the level where she could see it.

“Oh my,” she said. “Give me a minute.”

“Help. Please. The pain. So—much—pain.” Charlie coughed the way cowboys do when they are dying in the dirt and things are getting all dark.

He heard the latch being thrown, and then the inner door opened. “You’re really hurt bad,” she said.

“Please,” Charlie said, holding his hand out to her. “Help me.”

She unlatched the screen. Charlie suppressed a grin. “Oh, thank you,” he gasped.

She threw open the screen door and blasted him in the face with a stream of pepper spray. “I saw that
Twilight Zone,
you son of a bitch!” The doors slammed. The latch was thrown.

Charlie’s face felt like it was on fire.

When he could finally see well enough to walk, as he limped back to his van, he heard a female voice say, “I’d have let you in, lover.” Then a chorus of spooky-girlish laughter erupted from the storm sewer. He backed against the van, ready to draw the sword from the cane, but then he heard what sounded like a small dog barking in the sewer.

“Where did he come from?” said one of the harpies.

“He bit me! You little fucker!”

“Get him!”

“I hate dogs. When we take over, no dogs.”

The barking faded away, followed by the voices of the sewer harpies. Charlie took a deep breath and tried to blink the pain out of his eyes. He needed to regroup, but then he was taking the old lady down, pepper spray or not.

I
t took him the better part of an hour to get into position, but once he was ready, he put down the cinder block, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed the number he’d gotten from information.

A woman answered. “Hello.”

“Ma’am, this is the gas company,” Charlie said in his best gas-company voice. “My grid is showing pressure loss at your address. We’re sending a truck right out, but you need to get everyone out of the house, right now.”

“Well, I’m the only one here right now, but I’m sorry, I don’t smell gas.”

“It may be building up under the house,” Charlie said, feeling proud of himself for being quick on his feet. Is there anyone else in the house?”

“No, just me and my kitty, Samantha.”

“Ma’am, please take the cat and go out by the street. Our truck will meet you there. Go right now, okay?”

“Well, all right.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Charlie clicked off. He could feel movement inside of the house. He moved right to the edge of the porch roof and raised the concrete cinder block over his head.
It’ll look like an accident,
he thought,
like a cinder block fell off the porch roof
. He was glad that no one could see him up here. He was sweating from the climb, his armpits stained, his trousers wrinkled.

He heard the door open and got ready to throw the cinder block as soon as his target emerged from under the roof.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” A man’s voice, out by the street.

Charlie looked down to see Inspector Rivera standing at the sidewalk, having just climbed out of an unmarked car. What the hell was he doing here?

“Are you the gas company?” said Mrs. Posokovanovich.

“No, ma’am, I’m from the San Francisco police.” He flashed his badge.

“They told me there was a gas leak,” she said.

“That’s been taken care of, ma’am. Could you step back inside and I’ll check with you in a minute, okay?”

“Well, okay, then.”

Charlie heard the doors open and close again. His arms were trembling from holding the cinder block over his head. He tried to breathe quietly, thinking that the sound of his wheezing might attract Rivera’s attention, make him visible.

“Mr. Asher, what are you doing up there?”

Charlie nearly lost his balance and went over. “You can see me?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly can. And I can also see that cinder block you’re holding over your head.”

“Oh, this old thing.”

“What were you planning on doing with that?”

“Repairs?” Charlie tried. How could Rivera see him when he was in soul-vessel-retrieval mode?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you, Mr. Asher. You’re going to have to drop the cinder block.”

“I’d rather not. It was really hard getting it up here.”

“Be that as it may, I’m going to have to insist that you drop it.”

“I was planning on it, but then you showed up.”

“Please. Indulge me. Look, you’re sweating. Climb down and you can sit in my air-conditioned car with me. We’ll chat—talk about Italian suits, the Giants—I don’t know—why you were about to brain that sweet old lady with a cinder block. Air-conditioning, Mr. Asher—won’t that be nice?”

Charlie brought the cinder block down and rested it on his thigh, feeling his trousers snagging beyond repair as he did so. “That’s not much of an incentive. What am I, some primitive Amazon native? I’ve had air-conditioning before. I have air-conditioning in my own van.”

“Yes, I’ll admit it’s not exactly a weekend in Paris, but the next choice was that I shoot you off the roof, and they put you in a body bag, which is going to be sweltering on a warm day like this.”

“Oh, well, yes,” Charlie said. “That does make air-conditioning sound a lot more inviting. Thanks. I’m going to toss my brick down first, if that’s okay?”

“That would be great, Mr. Asher.”

D
isillusioned with
DesperateFilipinas,
Ray was browsing through the selection of lonely first-grade teachers with master’s degrees in nuclear physics on
UkrainianGirlsLovingYou.com
when she came through the door. He heard the bell and caught her out of the corner of his eye, and forgetting that his neck vertebrae were fused, he sprained the left side of his face trying to turn to see her.

She saw him looking and smiled.

Ray smiled back, then, out of the corner of his eye, saw the monitor with the photo of the first-grade teacher holding her breasts, and sprained the right side of his face trying to turn in time to punch the power button before she passed the counter.

“Just browsing,” said the love of his life. “How are you today?”

“Hi,” Ray said. In his mental rehearsals, he started with “hi,” and it just sort of burped out of him before he realized that it put him behind a beat. “I mean, fine. Sorry. I was working.”

“I can see that.” Again the smile.

She was so understanding, forgiving—and kind, you could just tell that by her eyes. He knew in his heart that he would even sit through a hat movie for this woman. He would watch
A Room with a View
AND
The English Patient,
back-to-back, just to share a pizza with her. And she would stop him from eating his service revolver halfway through the second movie, because that’s just how she was: compassionate.

She made a show of browsing the store, but two minutes hadn’t passed before she made for Charlie’s special shelf. Even the sign said
SPECIAL ITEMS—ONE PER CUSTOMER,
but it didn’t say if that was a per-day policy, or one per lifetime. Charlie hadn’t really specified, now that Ray thought about it. Sure, Lily had yammered on about how important it was that they adhere to the policy, but that was Lily, she might have grown up some, but she was still disturbed.

After a short time she picked up an electric alarm clock and brought it over to the counter. This was it. This was it. Ray heard the back door open.

“Will this be everything?” he said.

“Yes,” said the future Mrs. Ray Macy. “I’ve been looking for one like this.”

“Yep, you can’t beat a Sunbeam,” Ray said. “That’s two-sixteen with tax—aw, heck, call it two even.”

“That’s very nice of you,” she said, digging into a small purse woven from colorful Guatemalan cotton thread.

“Hi, Ray,” Lily said, suddenly standing there beside him like some evil phantom who appeared out of nowhere to leech every potentially joyous moment out of his life.

“Hi, Lily,” he said.

Lily clicked some keys on the computer. Slowed down by his freshly sprained face, Ray wasn’t able to turn before she’d hit the power button on the monitor.

“What’s this?” asked Lily.

With his free hand, Ray thumped Lily in the thigh under the counter.

“Ouch! Freak!”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy waking up with that,” Ray said, handing the alarm clock to the woman who would be his queen.