The Cleaner

As I sweep the fast food containers into the bin I can’t help but think that with all the money the Mafia has, they could afford to eat a little healthier. I lift the dead man’s head to reach the quarter pounder sandwiched between what was left of his skull and the mahogany table. The irony of there being red tinged fries with no ketchup bottle in sight isn’t lost on me. Such is the humor of a Cleaner. “If you can’t laugh at death then you’ve got no business in The Business.” Chuck’s favorite line. I shake my head, no time to ride down my old mentor’s memory lane; I have a Job to do, a big one at that.



After the incidentals are cleared away I take a good look at the Job. I’ve already discarded the food and random tapestries around the table. The 300lb man currently slumped over in the most undignified of positions is the real Job. How the hell was I going to get his big butt out to my van without trailing brain matter and other nastiness through the house? I swear, my clients never think to make it easy for me. I was just the help, a hired hand to clean up after them. Never mind it was probably the last sunny day of the season. I’d much rather be cycling through the park with my best buddy Bo or strolling along the waterfront watching the boats around the marina. It was my own fault for establishing such a prosperous business in a city with the worst weather.



Squaring my shoulders and trying not to sigh as birds chirp gaily outside the window, I settle to work. I roll Jimbo (that’s what I’ve decided to call todays stiff) off the chair and onto the expanse of plastic I had laid out under the table.



As predicted, the impact of his carcass dislodges a fair amount of brain jelly from the multiple gaps in his head. It’s my guess that whoever offed this guy did it from behind with a close range firearm; effective, but messy. No matter, I’ve done enough jobs to anticipate such things and had laid out just the right length of plastic to catch the wayward droppings. I try not to feel smug at my expert analysis, but then why shouldn’t I be proud of my technique, “If you’re gonna do something, do it right, and do it well.” Another Chuck-ism. Not very original, but the way he delivered those lines made you believe in him and in The Business.



Unfortunately, while I had enough plastic down to catch the Job, ‘ol Jimbo was too big for me to wrap up. I’d need another sheet, maybe even two. I was so billing the client extra for this; large heavy-duty plastic construction sheets don’t come cheap. Well, they were cheaper for me thanks to my contacts, but they don’t know that. Not to mention the pain and suffering I was bound to experience after lugging this dude around all day.



I checked my watch; only 2 hours before the Job had to be done, cremation and all. My client would be expecting my call soon to let him know the mark was powder ready and available for distribution. That was my own lingo; “powder ready” obviously let the client know the body had been burned to ash. “Available for distribution”, well, powders are easily distributed, whether scattered out over a beautiful lake or disseminated into various baked goods and delivered to the Jobs family; made no difference to me and I never asked. Chuck liked the phrasing so we kept it.



As I walk along the veranda toward the van I catch a sound. No one was around that I could see. That should have been the end of it. I should have moseyed on, got the extra plastic, and hightailed it out of there just Jimbo and I. Something about the noise makes me pause. I veer to the right of the walkway and make my way to the back garage. The noise turns to words.



“No sense trying to fight us. I told you we might be back. Lucky for us Boss gave the go ahead to do what we want before bringing you to him. Not often we get a bonus you know; I plan to enjoy this one.” Before I even know what I am doing I open the side door and step into the room. My eyes adjust quickly as sunlight streams through four of the eight square windows along the top of the walls. None too surprisingly, the scene is about what I expected. Two medium built guys in black trench coats, designed both to keep the wearer dry and conceal all manner of devilment, are bearing down on a woman backed into a corner of the room. Her frantic eyes telegraph her terror as she stares up from her sitting position on the floor. She is the first to see me and when her eyes lock on mine I know I made the right choice not to go to the van. The trench coats follow her line of sight and whirl on me. “The hell are you doing here cleaner?!” Coat #1 asks, annoyed. “Get back to work. Boss ain’t payin’ you to nose around.”



“I don’t clean female Jobs,” I say, peeved at Trenchys' self-righteous tone.



“No one expects you to clean this one.” inserts Coat #2, “We plan on taking this mess with us, once we’re finished.” At that, the thugs turn their attention back to the woman. Fear flares back to life in her big open eyes.



“Mind no business but The Business.” Chucks’ most touted and important phrase.



“Sorry Chuck,” I think to myself. “Not this time.” I whip out my pistol and down both coats before they can even reach their flies, let alone their guns. A heavy sigh escapes my lips. Now I need even more plastic. A cleaner’s job is never done.



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Edited from past to present tense and revamped for standard submission into GlimmerTrain   on 4/20/2019

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