A Dirty Job (Grim Reaper 1)

Jane dropped the stack of cushions on the floor. "What?"

"Glowing red. Did you see things in the shop glowing, like pulsating red?"

"No. Did you?"

"Kind of. "

"Give 'em up. "

"What?"

"The drugs. Hand them over. They're obviously much better than you led me to believe. "

"But you said they were just antianxiety. "

"Give up the drugs. I'll watch the kid while you shivah. "

"You can't watch my daughter if you're on drugs. "

"Fine. Surrender the crumb snatcher and go sit. "

Charlie handed the baby up to Jane. "You have to keep Mom out of the way, too. "

"Oh no, not without drugs. "

"They're in the medicine cabinet in the master bath. Bottom shelf. "

He was sitting on the floor now, rubbing his forehead as if to stretch the skin out over his pain. She kneed him in the shoulder.

"Hey, kid, I'm sorry, you know that, right? Goes without saying, right?"

"Yeah. " A weak smile.

She held the baby up by her face, then looked down in adoration, Mother of Jesus style. "What do you think? I should get one of these, huh?"

"You can borrow mine whenever you need to. "

"Nah, I should get my own. I already feel bad about borrowing your wife. "

"Jane!"

"Kidding! Jeez. You're such a wuss sometimes. Go sit shivah. Go. Go. Go. "

Charlie gathered the cushions and went to the living room to grieve with his in-laws, nervous because the only prayer he knew was "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep," and he wasn't sure that was going to cut it for three full days.

Jane forgot to mention the tall guy from the shop.

Chapter 3

3

BENEATH THE NUMBER FORTY-ONE BUS

It was two weeks before Charlie left the apartment and walked down to the auto-teller on Columbus Avenue where he first killed a guy. His weapon of choice was the number forty-one bus, on its way from the Trans Bay station, by the Bay Bridge, to the Presidio, by the Golden Gate Bridge. If you're going to get hit by a bus in San Francisco, you want to go with the forty-one, because you can pretty much figure on there being a nice bridge view.

Charlie hadn't really counted on killing a guy that morning. He had hoped to get some twenties for the register at the thrift store, check his balance, and maybe pick up some yellow mustard at the deli. (Charlie was not a brown mustard kind of guy. Brown mustard was the condiment equivalent of skydiving - it was okay for race-car drivers and serial killers, but for Charlie, a fine line of French's yellow was all the spice that life required. ) After the funeral, friends and relatives had left a mountain of cold cuts in Charlie's fridge, which was all he'd eaten for the past two weeks, but now he was down to ham, dark rye, and premixed Enfamil formula, none of which was tolerable without yellow mustard. He'd secured the yellow squeeze bottle and felt safer now with it in his jacket pocket, but when the bus hit the guy, mustard completely slipped Charlie's mind.

It was a warm day in October, the light had gone autumn soft over the city, the summer fog had ceased its relentless crawl out of the Bay each morning, and there was just enough breeze that the few sailboats that dotted the Bay looked like they might have been posing for an Impressionist painter. In the split second that Charlie's victim realized that he was being run over, he might not have been happy about the event, but he couldn't have picked a nicer day for it.