TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Calvin and Horton stood sweating under a bare lightbulb in the basement, staring into the bottom half of a rusting dumpster. The top had been removed with a cutting torch, and the remaining tub welded tight at the seams. The body of the former Mr. Finch slumped against an inside wall, his head at an angle that went beyond healthy relaxation. His left hand flopped into one corner, the index finger smearing a glob of cream colored grease. Calvin was pretty sure it wasn’t Crisco. An odor tinted the air that reminded him of a chemistry class.
“We’re in luck with this container,” Calvin said.
“I hate comin’ in here,” Horton said. “This was Finch’s deal, all this shit.” He waved a hand at a set of metal shelves, populated by rows of industrial-size bottles, some plastic and a few brown glass. “I got an idea of what he did in here, but I’m no expert. It’s like Mr. Mason said. Finch was the cleaner. If we had a problem, he’d take em’ in here and poof, problem solved, right?”
Calvin smirked and walked over to the shelving. “Yeah, roaches check in, they don’t check out,” he said, scrutinizing the smudged labels. “Don’t worry, I got an idea of what his methods probably were.” The largest glass bottle didn’t have a label. Brushing the metal cap with the tips of his fingers as if it might be hot, Calvin twisted it off and waved it around a couple of feet below his nose. He squinted and jerked his head away. Calvin capped the bottle and looked over the shelves, murmuring “Where? Where?” as he checked between the bottles. “Here we go,” he said and pulled on a pair of heavy rubber gloves that extended to the elbow. He carried the bottle back to the dumpster and looked down at the body.
It had been a while since he’d done anything like this. Cleaning was required only when you had to be certain the identity of the dirty person was never discovered. Most of his martyrs were made for dual purpose: to solve the problem the martyr created, and to serve as a message to future trouble makers.
“You squeamish?” Calvin asked.
Horton, already a bit green, nodded. “A little.”
“If you’re going to throw up, make sure you turn away. If your puke hits this stuff and splashes back, one or both of us is going to have a real bad day.”
“What is that anyway? Smells like a forty year old rotten egg.”
“Sulfuric acid.” Calvin squinted into the container. “Reach in there and face his left hand out. Yeah, good. The right one’s already okay. Yank his shoes off. Now, stand back.”
Calvin dumped acid over the dead man’s feet, then his fingers and palms. He stopped long enough to check for a suitable reaction, nodded, and poured a gout into Finch’s open mouth, splashing over his eyes and face. Within moments, the room was filled with the hiss of countless particles destabilizing along their molecular bonds. Calvin stared down, a faraway smile on his face. Had his life followed a different track, he could have been a scientist. “Flip that switch by the door,” Calvin said. “I’m pretty sure it’s an exhaust fan.”
Horton didn’t answer.
Calvin looked up to find the bodyguard screwed into a dark corner of the room, his massive back and shoulders rounded and gripped by periodic convulsions. Calvin looked back at Mr. Finch, or rather, back at what had become Mr. Identified-not-even-with-dental-records. Once the acid oxidized all they would have to do was dump the slush.
Horton heaved and splashed.
Calvin sighed. It was going to be a long fucking night.