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“Then could I see your business card?”

“Sure.” Charlie took out a card and held it against the glass.

“This says ‘Purveyor of Fine Vintage Clothing and Accessories.’”

“Right! Exactly!” He knew he should have had a second set of business cards printed up. “And where do you think I get those things? From the dead. You see?”

“Mr. Asher, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“No, ma’am, I’m going to have to insist that you pass away, this instant. You’re overdue.”

“Go away! You are a charlatan, and I think you need psychological help.”

“Death! You’re fucking with Death! Capital D, bitch!” Well, that was uncalled for. Charlie felt bad the second he said it. “Sorry,” he mumbled to the door.

“I’m calling the police.”

“You go ahead, Mrs. — uh—Irena. You know what they’ll tell you, that you’re dead! It was in the Chronicle. They hardly ever print stuff that’s not true.”

“Please go away. I practiced for a long time so I could live longer, it’s not fair.”

“What?”

“Go away.”

“I heard that part, I mean the part about practicing.”

“Never you mind. You just go take someone else.”

Charlie actually had no idea what he would do if she let him in. Maybe he had to touch her for his Death abilities to kick in. He remembered seeing an old Twilight Zone as a kid, where Robert Redford was Death, and this old lady wouldn’t let him in, so he pretended to be injured, and when she came to help him…ALA-KAZAM! She croaked, and he peacefully led her off to Hole in the Wall, where she helped him produce independent movies. Maybe that would work. He did have the cast and the cane going for him.

He looked up and down the street to make sure that no one could see him, then he lay down, half on the little porch, half on the concrete steps. He threw his cane against the door and made sure that it clattered loudly on the concrete, then he let out what he thought was a very convincing wail. “Ahhhhhhhhh, I’ve broken my leg.”

He heard footsteps inside and saw gray hair at the little window, bouncing a little so she could see out.

“Oh, it hurts,” Charlie wailed. “Help.”

More steps, the shade in the window to the right of the door parted and he saw an eye. He grimaced in fake pain.

“Are you all right?” said Mrs. Posokovanovich.

“I need help. My leg was hurt before, but I slipped on your steps. I think I’ve broken something. There’s blood, and a piece of bone sticking out.” He kept his leg below the level where she could see it.

“Oh my,” she said. “Give me a minute.”

“Help. Please. The pain. So—much—pain.” Charlie coughed the way cowboys do when they are dying in the dirt and things are getting all dark.

He heard the latch being thrown, and then the inner door opened. “You’re really hurt bad,” she said.

“Please,” Charlie said, holding his hand out to her. “Help me.”

She unlatched the screen. Charlie suppressed a grin. “Oh, thank you,” he gasped.

She threw open the screen door and blasted him in the face with a stream of pepper spray. “I saw that Twilight Zone, you son of a bitch!” The doors slammed. The latch was thrown.

Charlie’s face felt like it was on fire.

When he could finally see well enough to walk, as he limped back to his van, he heard a female voice say, “I’d have let you in, lover.” Then a chorus of spooky-girlish laughter erupted from the storm sewer. He backed against the van, ready to draw the sword from the cane, but then he heard what sounded like a small dog barking in the sewer.

“Where did he come from?” said one of the harpies.

“He bit me! You little fucker!”

“Get him!”

“I hate dogs. When we take over, no dogs.”

The barking faded away, followed by the voices of the sewer harpies. Charlie took a deep breath and tried to blink the pain out of his eyes. He needed to regroup, but then he was taking the old lady down, pepper spray or not.

It took him the better part of an hour to get into position, but once he was ready, he put down the cinder block, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed the number he’d gotten from information.

A woman answered. “Hello.”

“Ma’am, this is the gas company,” Charlie said in his best gas-company voice. “My grid is showing pressure loss at your address. We’re sending a truck right out, but you need to get everyone out of the house, right now.”

“Well, I’m the only one here right now, but I’m sorry, I don’t smell gas.”

“It may be building up under the house,” Charlie said, feeling proud of himself for being quick on his feet. Is there anyone else in the house?”

“No, just me and my kitty, Samantha.”

“Ma’am, please take the cat and go out by the street. Our truck will meet you there. Go right now, okay?”

“Well, all right.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Charlie clicked off. He could feel movement inside of the house. He moved right to the edge of the porch roof and raised the concrete cinder block over his head. It’ll look like an accident, he thought, like a cinder block fell off the porch roof. He was glad that no one could see him up here. He was sweating from the climb, his armpits stained, his trousers wrinkled.

He heard the door open and got ready to throw the cinder block as soon as his target emerged from under the roof.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” A man’s voice, out by the street.

Charlie looked down to see Inspector Rivera standing at the sidewalk, having just climbed out of an unmarked car. What the hell was he doing here?

“Are you the gas company?” said Mrs. Posokovanovich.

“No, ma’am, I’m from the San Francisco police.” He flashed his badge.

“They told me there was a gas leak,” she said.

“That’s been taken care of, ma’am. Could you step back inside and I’ll check with you in a minute, okay?”

“Well, okay, then.”

Charlie heard the doors open and close again. His arms were trembling from holding the cinder block over his head. He tried to breathe quietly, thinking that the sound of his wheezing might attract Rivera’s attention, make him visible.

“Mr. Asher, what are you doing up there?”

Charlie nearly lost his balance and went over. “You can see me?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly can. And I can also see that cinder block you’re holding over your head.”

“Oh, this old thing.”

“What were you planning on doing with that?”

“Repairs?” Charlie tried. How could Rivera see him when he was in soul-vessel-retrieval mode?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you, Mr. Asher. You’re going to have to drop the cinder block.”

“I’d rather not. It was really hard getting it up here.”

“Be that as it may, I’m going to have to insist that you drop it.”

“I was planning on it, but then you showed up.”

“Please. Indulge me. Look, you’re sweating. Climb down and you can sit in my air-conditioned car with me. We’ll chat—talk about Italian suits, the Giants—I don’t know—why you were about to brain that sweet old lady with a cinder block. Air-conditioning, Mr. Asher—won’t that be nice?”

Charlie brought the cinder block down and rested it on his thigh, feeling his trousers snagging beyond repair as he did so. “That’s not much of an incentive. What am I, some primitive Amazon native? I’ve had air-conditioning before. I have air-conditioning in my own van.”

“Yes, I’ll admit it’s not exactly a weekend in Paris, but the next choice was that I shoot you off the roof, and they put you in a body bag, which is going to be sweltering on a warm day like this.”

“Oh, well, yes,” Charlie said. “That does make air-conditioning sound a lot more inviting. Thanks. I’m going to toss my brick down first, if that’s okay?”

“That would be great, Mr. Asher.”

Disillusioned with DesperateFilipinas, Ray was browsing through the selection of lonely first-grade teachers with master’s degrees in nuclear physics on UkrainianGirlsLovingYou.com when she came through the door. He heard the bell and caught her out of the corner of his eye, and forgetting that his neck vertebrae were fused, he sprained the left side of his face trying to turn to see her.