I drove up to Culver City, thinking how the gas mask was yet another piece of equipment I wished I had some training in. The Red Rocket's engine wasn't enjoying the stop-and-go traffic on one of the country's busiest freeways, the 405. Culver City was near the heart of Los Angeles, and the armory was just up the road from the hallowed ground that was the Sony Studios production lot—hallowed grounds for a film nerd like me, anyway.
The guard at the armory was late, which I thought odd considering the stereotype about military precision. It also didn't help that I'd been suffering a case of "blue balls" all morning that threatened to send me behind the nearest shrub for a vigorous few minutes.
Finally my liaison arrived, just as I was starting to seek out a nearby park bathroom that I could get all George Michael in. The guard had a clipped mustache and a hard, stocky body that doubtlessly came from a lifetime of physical fitness routines. I'd bet he even did pushups before, during, and after sex.
I was led into the gymnasium, which had the floor markings to operate as a basketball court as well as a myriad of other indoor activities. In addition to the firm black boundary lines there was an impressive amount of blood splashed across the floor and up onto the walls. My contact was an all-business type, so I decided that I would impress him with my all-business knowledge of the crime scene business. In thrilling sermonlike analysis, with overtones of Sherlock Holmes, I laid out for him what exactly had happened, based on my previous knowledge of crime scenery.
He let me go on for a bit with my "clearly he hit him over here" and "the victim died over there" speech, complete with sweeping arm gestures reenacting the violence of the altercation, before telling me that based on what the suspect had confessed and what the police detectives had confirmed, my analysis was completely wrong. Embarrassed, I shut up and scribbled out a cost for my services.
"I'm late for my kid's soccer game," he said. "I'll probably call you out tomorrow to do the actual cleaning…" I left, nodding, and even pointed out a spot of blood that looked like it had been overlooked by the CSI techs. "I'll call," he said again, dismissively. He never called.
I'd begun to feel pretty down. First all the police stations in town had made me feel like the second biggest schmuck on the planet (even in my woeful state I had to figure there was some asshole out there who felt worse than I did); then I lost two accounts, one of which we should have just done to protect our reputation. Then, to show me up, Dirk had gone out and scored contracts with two more police stations in Southern California: Lake Forest and Corona police departments.
Granted, it was much easier for a police officer to call upon fellow police officers and work that angle, but that sort of logic had little effect on my psyche. I did, however, take a bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that there had been a catch for Dirk when signing up Lake Forest. He had to hire the niece of their chief of police.
I imagined the sort of girl who would have an interest in dead bodies. She'd be a Goth chick, with really frizzy, dark hair, lots of eye makeup, and the sort of tits that looked big because they were propped up by a belly that was barely contained in her faded Marilyn Manson concert T-shirt.
The chief maintained that she wanted to be a CSI technician after college, though, and working with a crime scene cleaning company would look impressive on her résumé. So then I began to imagine a frumpy, studious, intellectual girl, all brains and no looks. Thus you can probably imagine that I felt like a character in an '80s teen comedy when I pulled up at Dirk's house for our next gig only to see a wildly sexy blonde chick with a rockin' body and a hot ass waiting for me.
It was one of those moments in life when your car maneuvers the curve in the road like the whole thing is in slow-mo, "Oh Yeah" by Yello playing on the radio, and her standing in the middle of the street with a cowgirl hat on, chewing seductively on a piece of red licorice. Well, maybe that's not exactly how it all went down, but if you want to envision it differently, write your own damn book. In this book, we'll call her Misty. And it sure didn't help that Misty was cool as hell and openly bisexual.
I'd been dating Kerry for over a year at this point, but if I'd had any sort of ring on my finger when I saw Misty, I would have quickly slid it into my pocket. Not that it would have mattered any, since I didn't have anything going on that impressed her. I could see the disinterest in her eyes as she shook my hand. I might as well have been one of her grandpa's poker buddies for the complete lack of sparks between us. And yet I was a man…I had to try.
On the way to the job, I drove Dirk's truck hard, because that's what a motherfuckin' guy does when he's got nothing else. He performs the shit out of whatever piece of machinery he has at his disposal, be it car, truck, or riding lawnmower. Hell, it doesn't even have to be mechanical…I knew a guy who once threw a metal trash can to impress my sister. It didn't work, of course, but man, he threw the shit out of that trash can, both literally and figuratively. Did I mock him for it at the time? Yes. Would I have done the same thing for Misty? Someone give me a trash can.
I was only slightly embarrassed that I was using Dirk's truck. He'd been promising me that the business would supply me with a truck of my own as soon as it made a little cash, but we just weren't there yet. He once again had elected not to come on the job with us, despite it being an evening gig and him being the "evening guy." I was the "day guy," but because I didn't get paid if I didn't go on the job, I was also the "evening guy." Dirk got paid the same percentage no matter what, so it was a no-brainer for him to stay home and eat bonbons while I toiled. Only this time, I wasn't too annoyed.
Initially, I'd been pissed about Dirk bringing a new hire on board. The money situation was already tight, and even though a second person would have been incredibly useful on all the jobs I'd done up to that point, I'd managed. I couldn't bear to see my percentage sliced again to placate the police chief of some podunk South County watering hole.
Then, smiling slyly, Dirk confided in me that though she'd be doing equal work, he was only paying her twenty-five dollars an hour. That might seem like a lot, but the average crime scene required about four and a half hours of work. If you cut that in half, she'd be making around fifty bucks for risking her health. On the other hand, if I held tight to my father's formula, I would net several hundred. It was chauvinistic, it was mean, but it was math I could live with.
Our latest job turned out to be in one of the few nice pockets of North County—a house in the hills with a Cadillac Escalade in the driveway. Instantly, the presence of the fancy SUV made me tack another several hundred dollars onto the bill, regardless of the scene. If they could afford an Escalade, they could afford paying a larger chunk of my rent. I pulled the truck into the driveway next to the Escalade and checked out of my peripheral vision to see if Misty thought it was a cool move. My result: inconclusive.
A black lady in medical scrubs answered my knock. She'd just got home from work and was still crying over the death of our latest meal ticket. When I found out the story, I cried, too.
She and her husband, both doctors, had taken in a wayward youth who'd run afoul of the gang lifestyle and all the trappings that accompanied it. They were attempting to set him on the right path, and everything had seemed to be going well until the previous day, when the police had shown up on the couple's doorstep with a warrant to search the house.
The kid was wanted in connection with an attempted murder. (Where the hell was our call on that one?) Obviously, he was not as well-adjusted as the two doctors had thought. Though he wasn't there, the police had to confirm for themselves the absence of the suspect, as well as perform a search of the home.
The lady informed the police that she had a dog out back, a Rottweiler named Happy that ran loose in the backyard. If they would give her a second, she said, she'd put Happy in his cage.
Happy was a very friendly dog (his name apparently not being ironic), and she didn't want Happy covering the officers in big, wet, drooling puppy kisses and getting in the way of what the police had to do. Happy was like that, and he was regarded fondly throughout the neighborhood for his legendary kind disposition toward children, the elderly, and even neighborhood cats.
The cops, guns drawn, told her to stay put and then proceeded around the side of the house checking for the youth. At the sound of the side gate opening, Happy came running, curiously excited, and the cops opened fire, pumping six bullets into the big, sweet dog. Dying, Happy managed to limp back away from them in terror, his eyes wide.
Unable to comprehend the brutality of man, Happy finally collapsed on the pockmarked concrete beside the family pool. His last, whimpered barks were doubtlessly to inform the officers that he forgave them. The suspect wasn't at the house after all, and the police didn't find anything incriminating in their search.
Misty and I followed the path of the dog's last steps, noting the blood's presence in the porous concrete and up onto a wooden door where Happy had tried to escape into the house after the impact of the first couple of bullets.
The rest of the backyard was predominantly a pool, spa, and a small glass shed that housed the filter equipment and pumps for the pool. Beyond that, the backyard descended down a steep, barren mountainside, leaving the couple an impressive view of the rest of the mountains.
Right from the outset, I was concerned about our ability to clean concrete. The little dips and pockmarks flecked across the surface were too small for us to reach the furniture-stripping brushes into, and the blood had already sat through the summer sun for a day, cooking to the ground.
For this reason, I wrote the (now legendary in the crime scene cleaner world) phrase: "Due to porous nature of affected surface, some residual staining may occur." This was to become our caveat and got us off the hook for numerous future jobs, but at the time, it was merely concern for our limitations.
I once again wrestled with the price tag. They had an Escalade in the driveway, but it was "only" a dog that had died. (Sorry, Happy!) The dog had as much blood as a human, but the blood probably wasn't chock-full of doggy AIDS. It was a large scene, what with the dog dragging itself a good distance to its death, but the lady was black and I didn't want to come off like a racist. (I know, I know.) Finally, I went with nine hundred dollars. It wasn't as much as I normally would have charged, but I was doing it for Happy.
I put Misty to work on the side door while I turned my efforts to the main bloodstain, which was about the size of a beach umbrella. There was much work to do before it got too dark to see, and our tools weren't doing shit against the concrete. Two and a half hours of sweaty work later, we were no closer to being finished than when we'd started.
Because something like a portable light for outdoor work had never occurred to Dirk and me, all too quickly Misty, with only partial moonlight to guide her, said she couldn't see the blood anymore. I wanted to keep working, hating the idea of having to drive all the way out there again the next day, but I also didn't want Misty to think I was a tyrant.
Frustrated, I knocked on the front door. I'd already told the client that we'd easily be finished that evening, but evidently I was wrong. She was gracious, though, and said it was okay to return and finish the next day. Nobody would be home, but we could let ourselves in through the side gate.
Realizing that Misty and I would be returning to a fabulous house in the hills with a pool and a spa while the homeowner would be absent, I started strategizing how to broach the subject of bringing swimming suits with us the next day.
I know, I know, most of you will be pointing out that I had a good and serious long-term girlfriend already, and one that I was lucky to have, but a fella can dream, can't he? I'm a fucking dirtbag; I admit it. And anyway, I never got the chance to try to insinuate the whole spa-sex thing, because Misty couldn't go. Like Dirk, she had a day job and was only available to work evenings and weekends. I would have to finish up all by myself. It was like the cruelest masturbation joke ever.
The next morning, I headed out bright and early, sans swimsuit and grumbling about being alone. I had brought along a power washer that one of my frat brothers owned. Dirk didn't think it was a good idea, but as I pointed out to him, he wasn't the one using it.
The neighborhood surrounding the victim's house was nice, if a little compact. Most of the cars were gone from the driveways, and I was happy to see that those who lived there worked and were not a bunch of Ritchie Rich types who just hung out all day basking in their self-confidence and banging chicks who looked like Misty.
Knowing there would be no heavy furniture, beds, or carpeting that I would have to take back with me, I didn't bother with Dirk's truck and instead chugged up the hill in the Red Rocket. She was the first car I'd ever owned and was getting on in years. The onehundred-thousand-mile mark had long since come and gone, and she didn't suffer hills well, but we made it together. I patted her dashboard appreciatively when I clambered out.
The stains at the crime scene were even darker, as the additional dose of morning sunlight had reheated the stubborn blood into the gray concrete. I had just hooked up the sprayer, happy to find an intact hose, and was blasting the concrete with a high-intensity jet of water pressure when I felt the first rumble.