The Dead Janitors Club (21 page)

    I walked back into the apartment to collect the rest of my supplies and to say good-bye to Mrs. Candy Tran.

    "Jeeeepphhh, wwwhhhhattt hhhaaapppeeen tooo bbaaaaagggsss?" she asked.

    "We take them to a biohazard disposal station, where they are incinerated at a high temperature," I said, my stock answer, which was complete bullshit. I knew the bags were really all headed to the dump.

    "Caaaannnn I haaaaavvvvvee yooouuuurrrr caaarrrrd?"

    I pulled out a business card and handed it over to her. She studied the business card as if it were a menu. She pocketed my card and smiled broadly at me. "Thhhaaannnkkk yooouuuu, Jeeeeppphh."

    Fortunately for me, by the time I left the scene the dumps were closed for the day, and my boss would have to do a little work after all. I swapped the truck for the Red Rocket and went home.

* * *

That night, Kerry and I went out to dinner with some friends to celebrate my return to business. We had just been served at the restaurant when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but that wasn't unusual, as Dirk had about eight different numbers that he would call me from, and it was too late in the evening to be bothered by bill collectors.

    "This is Jeff," I answered, my standard greeting, now that my personal phone was also a business phone.

    "Jeeeepppphhhh, hoooowwwww arrrrreeeee yooouuuu?" the familiar voice drawled.

    "Hello, Candy…I'm fine," I said, silently apologizing to my dinner companions.

    "Jeeeepppphhhhh, wooooouuulllllddd yooooouuuu waaaannnnnt sooooommmmmeee offff thhheee fuuuurrrrnnnnittttuuuureee I haaaaavvvvee? I haaaavvvveeee tooooo geeeettt riiiidddd offfff itttt."

    I instantly thought of that bed frame. "Yeah, Candy. That would be great. I'll come by tomorrow, if that's okay?"

    "Thaaaannnkkkk yooooouuuu, Jeeeepphhhh."

    We went back to the frat house, where we all sat on the couches I had donated to the house when I had to move out of my apartment. They were ratty now, full of cigarette burns and slices from when frat morons had randomly decided to stick a knife or other sharp object into the fabric. One side of the bigger couch was even shredded by a crazed dog that had lived in the frat for a month. It was a shame, because Chris and I had been planning on taking the couches back when we finally escaped the frat house, but they were ruined.

    At around 11:00 p.m., I was lighting up a cigar when my phone rang again. I answered without looking at the number, anticipating a frat bro calling about my interest in a game of beer pong.

    "Hi, this is Jeff."

    "Jeeeepppphhhhh, iiiittt's Cannnnddddyy. Caaaannnnndyyyyy Trrraaaannn."

    "I remember you," I said rolling my eyes.

    "I juuuusssstt waaannnttted tooo reeeemmmmiiiinnnddd yooouuu tooo brrriiiinnngg a truuuuccckkkk toooommmmoooorrrroooowww."

    "I will, Candy."

    "Thhhhhhaaaaannnnnnkkkk yooooouuuuuu, Jeeeepppphhhh."

    I suddenly regretted giving her my card.

    The next morning, I woke Chris early and convinced him to go with me to pick up the bed frame. He was grumpy but excited to see what kind of furniture was being thrown away.

    Dirk let us use his truck for the move. Chris and I drove over to Stanton, just shooting the shit and laughing. Since moving into the frat house, we hadn't been as close as we had been, the two of us working different schedules.

    Candy was waiting out in front for us, this time wearing an electric blue tracksuit. She beckoned us to park in her sister's parking spot behind the building.

    "Jeeeeeppppphhhh, whhhhhoooo issss thhhhhiiiiissss wiiiiithhhh yoooouuuu?" she asked by way of introduction.

    "This is my brother, Chris," I said, and Chris shook her hand.

    "Yoooouuuu booootthhhh loooook sooooo stttttrrrrroooonggg," she gushed.

    When we got into the apartment, Candy spread her hands before her. "Taaaakkkkkeeee annnnyyyyyttttiiiiinnnng yooooouuuu waaaannnnnt."

    I tried to play it cool, but I was like the kid in the candy store (no pun intended). "I guess we'll take the tower speakers, the entertainment center, the TV…" I listed, indicating the smaller, working one. If they caught the creep who had kicked in the big plasma, which was allegedly the victim's violent boyfriend, I would kill him myself.

    Chris also suggested a nice lamp and a throw rug that looked expensive. The couches were too nice to leave behind, so we agreed we'd take those as well. And, of course, I told her that I was certain I could find someone who could use that elegant bed frame.

    Though it took us two trips to do it, we got everything from Stanton to the frat house in Fullerton, a thirty-minute trip each way. We were both exhausted by the end of packing up the final load and were all set to leave when Candy approached us.

    "Jeeepppphhhh, I haaavvveee beeeen goooodd toooo yooouuu?"

    "You've been very nice," I said, incredulous at our good fortune.

    "Jeeeeeppppphhhh, coooooullllddd yooouuu dooo sooommmeeeettttinnnggg fooorrr meee?"

    "What is it, Candy?"

    She had to get rid of all of her sister's things and be out of the apartment ASAP, though the super claimed it wasn't his edict. Basically, as a way of getting free movers, she had culled us over to take what we wanted and then guilted us into taking everything else over to a Buddhist monastery, where she was donating it to the local monks. Chris and I couldn't figure out a way to politely refuse, and so we did what she asked. Besides, we'd never been to a Buddhist monastery before.

    We had to drive back home, unload the stuff, and then drive back once more to do it. And in the frustration of now being Candy's pawn, I pulled the bed frame out of the back of the truck, feeling an odd tinge in my back. It was quick and painful, but the sharpness of the pain faded quickly. I had felt familiar tweaks before when schlepping kegs at BevMo and thought little of it.

    It was nightfall by the time I dropped my boss's truck off at his house, and the multiple trips had cost me in gas. But I'd gotten a bed frame, entertainment center, huge speakers, TV, CD player, amplifier, couch, loveseat, lamp, and rug out of the deal. All in all, it was a pretty good day.

    I wasn't prepared for the reaction at the frat house that night, though.

    I had done a lot of nutty things in my life, like stealing a newspaper dispenser that I put in our frat bathroom so visitors could read my journalism editorials on the can. But my frat bros and their litany of guests couldn't believe that I'd come home from work with a bed that a girl had been murdered in. It was quickly dubbed the Murder Bed and became a mandatory stop on tours being given through the house.

    Most bros accepted it as "Klima being Klima," but one guy in particular got really bad feelings about it and was certain the bed and all the possessions from the girl's house were cursed. That night, Kerry's hamster, which had been living at the frat for over a year, died. The brother gave us the evil eye.

* * *

The next day, my phone rang. This time I recognized the number.

"Hello, Candy," I answered, not excited.

    "Jeeeepppppphhhhh, caaaannnn I assssskkkk a favvvvvooorrrr offff youuuu?"

    "I'm pretty busy, Candy," I said, putting my new TV on mute.

    "Ohhhh, Jeeeeeppppphhhhh, I wiiiiilllll paaaayyyyy yooouuuu."

    "What is it, Candy?"

    "Jeeeeeepppppphhhhh…ittttt issss mmyyyyy siiiisssstttteeerrr. Shhhheeee wiiiilllll beeee naakkkkkedddd innnn heeeeaaavvvven ifff I doooo nottt seeeeennnndddd herrrrr cllloooottthhhess."

"Wait, what?"

    "Wiiillll yyyooooouuuu taaaakkkkkeee herrrr clllottthhheesss annnndddd innnnccccinnneeeerrratttteeee theeeemmmm?"

    "You want me to incinerate her clothes?"

    "Yessss, Jeeeepppphhhh. Wiiiitttthhhhh thhheeee baaagsss offff heeeer blllllooooddd."

    It suddenly made sense what she wanted me to do.

    "Oh, Candy, uh, the bags of biohazard have already been processed at the disposal station," I said, picturing them sitting beneath the decimated mattress at the landfill near Dirk's house.

    "Plllleeeeeaaasssseee, Jeeeepppphhhh, shhhheeeee iiissss naaaakkkkeeed in heeeaaaavennn. Itttt issss myyy cuuulllttttuuuurrrreeee."

    "Well, that disposal station charges three hundred dollars per load…" I said, grinning like a crook.

    "Jeeeppppphhhh, moooonnnneeeey issss noooo obbbbjjjjeeeeect."

    "All right then. I'm at a crime scene right now, but I'll be over later to pick up what you want me to take. Just make sure you have it bagged and ready to go.

    "I wiiiiilllll, Jeeeeeppppphhhhh. Yooooouuuu arrrreeeee soooo strrrrroooonnng. Thhhhhannnnkkkk yooouuuuu."

    I hung up the phone and turned the TV back on, loving my life.

    That evening, I interrupted my date with Kerry to talk her into driving over to the apartment in Stanton. Kerry was repulsed by the idea but still drove me. I changed back into my work polo, now crunchy from sweat and a faded gray from so many washings.

    Candy was waiting outside for us, wearing a violet tracksuit. Seven large trash bags full of shoes and handbags and clothes were piled up next to her. I thought about pressing my luck and telling her it would be three hundred dollars a bag, but that seemed a little mean even by my new standards.

    She paid me, and I loaded up Kerry's backseat and trunk, with Kerry glaring daggers at me the whole time. I swore to Candy that I would burn them all and that her sister would be well-stocked in heaven and no longer naked. Candy handed me a check and I thanked her, offering her once more my condolences.

    We drove back to the frat house. Refusing to be a part of it, Kerry went inside, leaving me to deal with a car full of contemporary clothing. Part of me wanted to try to sell it, but I could just imagine the phone calls I'd get if Candy saw people all over town wearing clothing and carrying purses that once belonged to her sister.

    Instead, I threw all the bags into the dumpster of a rival fraternity. To keep my karma in line, I took a purse and a pair of white pumps from one of the bags and threw them into a metal barrel we used for burning trash when it got cold around the house. Someone would set a fire in the barrel someday, I figured, and at least the sister would have stylish shoes and a nice purse. That was how women would be dressed in my version of heaven, anyway.

    I figured it was the last I'd heard of Candy Tran, but no. She called several days later to check on my progress, probably noting that I'd cashed the check.

    "They got taken care of," I assured her. "They're headed to the same place the mattress and all her sheets went." It wasn't exactly lying…

Dirk's motivations were always in the right place with the business. He wanted to get a truck for me, one that I could take home so I wouldn't have to go see him every time I had a crime scene. He wanted company vacations, and he wanted health care. It was a new business, still finding its legs. It wasn't easy that 50 percent of what we were making was instantly being shipped up north to Schmitty.

    Dirk had even gone so far as to scrap the splitting of the net profit into thirds. He knew I was struggling, and he also complained that the money coming in from his take was just extra money for his wife to spend. He didn't need that. So he eliminated the rule of thirds and began splitting the pot down the middle, half to me, half to him.

    It was good of him; he had a full-time job as a cop, making decent cop money. His wife had worked for the same company for more than twenty years, so she was making good money, and the crime scene cash was extra for him. On the other hand, I was living and dying on the crime scene money. The supplemental income I made bouncing for a few hours on the weekends wasn't anything real, food money mostly.

    I had "graduated" in May of '07 from CSUF, taking the walk with six of my frat brothers. I wasn't an official graduate yet; I still had one class left that I was supposed to take over the summer. But with the financial drought from the crime scene biz, I pushed back my graduation until fall so that I could get one last financial-aid check (which I then used to purchase an arcade game and a kegerator). But it also pushed my graduation date back to 2008.

    It was frustrating, though. I could barnstorm through crime scenes and make what boiled down to more than one hundred dollars an hour, sometimes even more than two hundred. I was making what doctors made, and yet I was a college graduate still living in a frat house. If only the work had been consistent, even moderately consistent, I would have had a chance at a real living, maybe even buying myself a new car.

    My credit was fucked up from months of inconsistency, and I didn't have clear goals for a promising future. Like a loser, I used to joke that I would get married and raise my kids while living in the frat house. Most of my cronies had come and gone over the years, either graduating or dropping out of school to focus on something "real." I had the crime scene business. It was what I clung to, pushing my potential for income on anyone who would listen.

    I wasn't a loser yet. At parties, anyone who found out what I did for a living was eager for me to share stories, to tell them about the unknown, but Kerry wanted me to quit. From the first time she met Dirk, she had sensed his weakness. I had done my damnedest to pimp the business to her, regurgitating all the claptrap that he had filled me with, and then I took her to meet him one night.