A Dirty Job (Grim Reaper 1)

13

CRY HAVOC, AND LET SLIP THE GOGS OF WAR!

Watching Madeline Alby die had shaken Charlie. It wasn't her death so much, it was the life he'd seen in her minutes before she passed. He thought: If you have to stare Death in the eye to be able to take the life out of your moments, then who better to do it than the man who shaves Death's face?

"Cheese wasn't in the book," Charlie said to Sophie as he walked her out of the shop in her new runner's stroller - which looked like someone had crossbred a carbon-fiber bicycle and a baby carriage and ended up with a vehicle you could use to take a day trip to Thunderdome - but it was strong, easy to push, and kept Sophie safely wrapped in an aluminum frame. Because of the cheese, he didn't make her wear her helmet. He wanted her to be able to look around, see the world around her, and be in it. It was watching Madeline Alby eat cheese with every ounce of her being, like it was the first and best time, that made him realize that he had never really tasted cheese, or crackers, or life. And he didn't want his daughter to live that way. He'd moved her into her own room the night before, the bedroom that Rachel had decorated for her with clouds painted on the ceiling and a happy balloon carrying a happy bunch of animal friends across the sky in its basket. He hadn't slept well, and had gotten up five times during the night to check on her, only to find her sleeping peacefully, but he could lose a little sleep if Sophie could go through life without his fears and limitations. He wanted her to experience all the glorious cheese of life.

They strolled through North Beach. He stopped and bought a coffee for himself and some apple juice for Sophie. They shared a giant peanut-butter cookie, and a crowd of pigeons followed them down the sidewalk feasting on the river of crumbs that flowed from Sophie's stroller. The World Cup soccer championships was playing on televisions in bars and caf??s, and people spilled out onto the sidewalks and out into the street, watching the game, cheering, jeering, hugging, swearing, and generally acting out waves of elation and dejection in the company of new companions who were visiting this Italian-American neighborhood from all around the world. Sophie cheered with the soccer fans and shrieked with joy because they were happy. When the crowd was disappointed - a kick blocked, a play foiled - Sophie was distressed, and would look to her daddy to fix it and make everyone happy again. And Daddy did, because a few seconds later, they were all cheering again. A tall German man taught Sophie to sing "Goooooooooooooooooooooal!" the way the announcer did, practicing with her until she got the full five-second sustain, and she was still practicing three blocks away, when Charlie had to shrug at confused onlookers as if to say, The kid's a soccer fan, what can you do?

As naptime approached, Charlie looped through the neighborhood and headed up through Washington Square Park, where people were reading and lounging in the shade, a guy played guitar and sang Dylan songs for change, two white Rasta boys kicked a Hacky Sack around, and people were generally settling in for a pleasant and windless summer day. Charlie spied a black kitten sneaking out of a hedge near busy Columbus Avenue, stalking a wild McMuffin wrapper, it appeared, and he pointed it out to Sophie.

"Look, Sophie, kitty. " Charlie felt bad about the demise of Bear, the cockroach. Maybe this afternoon he'd go to the pet shop and get a new friend for Sophie.

Sophie screamed with glee and pointed to the little cat.

"Can you say 'kitty'?" Charlie said.

Sophie pointed, and gave a drooly grin.

"Would you like a kitty? Can you say 'kitty,' Sophie?"

Sophie pointed to the cat. "Kitty," she said.

The little cat dropped on the spot, dead.

Fresh Music," Minty Fresh answered the phone, his voice a bass sax sketch of cool jazz.

"What the fuck is this? You didn't say anything about this? The book didn't say anything about this? What the fuck is going on?"

"You'll be wanting the library or a church," Minty said. "This is a record store, we don't answer general questions. "

"This is Charlie Asher. What the fuck did you do? What have you done to my little girl?"

Minty frowned and ran his hand over his scalp. He'd forgotten to shave this morning. He should have known something was going to go wrong. "Charlie, you can't call me. I told you that. I'm sorry if something has happened to your little girl, but I promise you that I - "

"She pointed at a kitten and said 'kitty' and it fell over, stone dead. "

"Well, that is an unfortunate coincidence, Charlie, but kittens do have a pretty high mortality rate. "

"Yeah, well, then she pointed to an old guy feeding the pigeons and said 'kitty' and he dropped over dead, too. "

Minty Fresh was glad that there was no one in the store right then to see the look on his face, because he was sure that the full impact of the willies dancing up and down his spine was blowing his appearance of unflappable chill. "That child has a speech disorder, Charlie. You should have her looked at. "

"A speech disorder! A speech disorder! A cute lisp is a speech disorder. My daughter kills people with the word kitty. I had to keep my hand over her mouth all the way home. There's probably video somewhere. People thought I was one of those people who beats their kid in department stores. "

"Don't be ridiculous, Charlie, people love the parents who beat their kids in department stores. It's the ones who just let their kids wreak havoc that everybody hates. "

"Can we stay on point, Fresh, please? What do you know about this? What have you figured out in all your years as a Death Merchant?"

Minty Fresh sat down on the stool behind the counter and stared into the eyes of the cardboard cutout of Cher, hoping to find answers there. But the bitch was holding out. "Charlie, I got nothin'. The kid was in the room when you saw me, and you saw what it did to you. Who knows what it did to her. I told you I thought you were in a different league than the rest of us, well, maybe the kid is something else, too. I've never heard of a Death Merchant who could just 'kitty' someone to death, or cause anyone to die outside of normal, mortal means. Have you tried having her use other words? Like puppy?"

"Yeah, I was going to do that, but I thought it might fuck up property values if everyone in my neighborhood suddenly fell over dead! No, I didn't try any other words. I don't even want to make her eat her green beans for fear she'll kitty me. "

"I'm sure you have some kind of immunity. "

"The Great Big Book says that we're not immune to death ourselves. I'd say the next time a kitten comes on the Discovery Channel my sister could be picking out caskets. "

"I'm sorry, Charlie, I don't know what to tell you. I'll check out my library at home, but it sounds like the kid is a lot closer than we are to how all the legends portray Death. Things tend to balance, however, maybe there's some positive side to this, uh, disorder she has. In the meantime, maybe you should head over to Berkeley, see if you can find anything at the library there. It's a repository library - every book that's printed goes there. "