Erasing the Eraser

Trigger warning: gun violence

I shot him in the back of his left ear. The bullet went through his brain and exited out of his right eye. It was a clean shot, not a clean location, in terms of blood. The blood covered the breakfast bar and part of the kitchen’s white tile. Damn, white tile. I hate that shit.

I hadn’t intended to shoot the guy right here, but I knew it needed to happen, so I made a quick decision to end him. Job well done. I love my job. I clean up bad relationships. You know how some women end up in relationships with men who end up hurting them or worse, killing them from abuse? I get hired to make sure the second part of that doesn’t happen. Sometimes it just takes a long flight to another country for them to go away, other times, it takes a more permanent solution. Erasing my client’s past, so she can change her life for the better.

But I have to say, I’ve seen too many cases where the boyfriend or husband promise to stop hitting and, blah, blah, blah, bullshit talk and all that. I can’t tell you how frustrated I get when the woman shows complete sympathy and ends up back in the same abusive relationship. It’s simply better my way.

I find a Swiffer mop in the side closet and grab some extra pads and a bucket. I think Swiffer should advertise that they’re great on bloodstains because I’ve used it a few times now and it always does the job. Bleach under the sink, and I light a couple of three-wick candles that smell like apples and cinnamon, my favorite.

After throwing away a half dozen pads and laying down a large black plastic trash bag, next to what’ his name, then comes a sudden knock on the door.

“Shit”, I spit out under my breath.

Through the peephole I see an out-of-focus wreath blocking my view. Happy freaking holidays, I guess.

“Hey, Kaplan, it’s Merch.” Comes a quiet response. I open the door slowly and see one of my partners in a black suit and tie. I pull him in quickly and slam the deadbolt again.

We walk back into the kitchen area and I continue to pick up. I see Merch, bend over, and pull the guy’s wallet out. He starts to pull out cards and examine IDs. We need to make sure no one misses him. Most of the scumbags I deal with have very few friends. It’s so much better that way.

I pour a good amount of bleach onto a small piece of carpet stained with blood then I grabbed a wire brush from under the sink.

Merch lays his open wallet on the counter, then says, “Ah shit. I thought this asshole looked familiar.”

I stop scrubbing and head to the counter to see what he’s talking about. “What? You know this guy? He’s a scumbag.”

“Yeah. He’s a ‘made’ scumbag. Larry Detouche, he’s part of Big Bart’s crew. This isn’t going to sit too well with their organization.”

Of all the damn luck, I gotta kill a made mafia dude. I thought this guy sold insurance for a living. “I wasn’t told this guy was part of a crew. That’s a piece of information I could have used.” I need to think this through. They’re most likely going to want an eye-for-an-eye.

“We have to get you out of town.” As much as I hated to admit it, Merch was right. I’ve been helping people erase their lives for twenty-two years, and now, I need mine erased.

We wrapped the body up in the black plastic and tied it up with some loose string from my truck. I finished scrubbing the carpet and threw away all the stuff I cleaned with. Lena will be home any minute now and I can’t have her see a thing. We were contracted by her father and one of the stipulations was that Lena never knows what happened to the guy. If she calls in a missing person’s report, we want her to sound like she doesn’t know anything.

We toss the body into the back of my pickup and I lay a bigger tarp on top of him. I’ve only been pulled over once with a body in the back, but I’d rather not relive the experience. I thought the cop was going to check my truck, but he just thought I was drunk. Luckily, I passed the test and went on my way.

Merch followed me out to the deep woods in his minivan. His wife always takes the good car, leaving him with the family minivan, but it’s perfect because no one thinks a hitman would drive a minivan.

We unload the goombah’s body and throw him in our firepit. I can’t tell you how many bodies we’ve burned out here, but it’s got to be in the hundreds. I’ll miss the familiarity of it all. Perhaps one day, when it cools down a little, I’ll come back.

As we watched the flames get higher, I popped a beer and sat on the tail of my truck bed, dangling my feet below. “How the hell was I supposed to know who that asshole was?”

“You can go up to Washington. Somewhere around the sound. It’s nice up there, I’ve visited a few times. We have two apartments, in high-rise buildings.” Merch is trying to soften the blow.

“What if I just ducked low around here?” with this, Merch gives me a look that I’ve given people so many times over the years. The look of, ‘there’s no easy way out’.

I know they’ll come after me. And they won’t stop until they get blood or give up trying to find me. The underworld is like a small town. Everybody knows your business and reputation. They know that we come after abusers and people that need to be erased in this world, that’s our job, and we are damn good at it. And I’m sure they know this guy was on our radar. His body slowly rises into the midnight vapors, but he won’t be out of mind for a while. He’s like property to an operation. If he’s no longer around, he can’t bring any money to the crew and they’re going to want restitution. Either cash or my ass, and I’m not ready to give that up.

“What about Paula?” Paula was my girlfriend of 8 years. We had been planning to get married early in the summer.

“She could come with you if you think she’d be cool with that.” Not a bad idea, but how the hell can I explain that I’m up and moving to Washington state? She thinks I work with stocks and bonds independently. I guess I could always tell her the truth.

“Damnit, Merch.” I tossed my beer can in the hot fiery pit.

“Yeah, it stings. But we don’t need to lose you because of it. Here.”

Merch hands me a big yellow envelope. Inside is a new driver’s license and passport. I’m now, Reginald Laurey, but I’ll go by Reggie because no one should ever be named Reginald.

The drive home that night made me think about all the familiar places around town: the peers, the ballpark, my newly built house. God, I love that house.

Paula was already asleep as I slide in after showering. I stare at her exposed neck and slowly brush away her auburn hair, so I have just enough room to gently kiss the exposed skin. She moves, slightly, but not enough to wake her. I’ll have to break the news tomorrow morning. A new life. An erased life. Memories will remain, but no physical evidence. If she agrees to come with me, we can start a new life together.

Even having to deal with all this bullshit, I still love my job. My sister was killed by her boyfriend because she wanted to date other people. I still think about finding that guy in his upstate prison and taking him out. If he ever makes parole, I will. And I’ll smile when I see his body fly away like crackling embers. In the meantime, a new life will do.