{"product_id":"the-mystic-arts-of-erasing-all-signs-of-death-isbn-9780345501127","title":"The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this “shockingly original” (\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e) novel from the author of \u003ci\u003eCaught Stealing, \u003c\/i\u003ea former teacher takes a job as a crime scene cleaner—and soon becomes embroiled in a diabolically twisted mess even he can’t scrub his way out of.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A comic masterpiece.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Authentically great.”—Stephen King\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Smoking hot.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith his teaching career derailed by tragedy and his slacker days numbered, Webster Fillmore Goodhue makes an unlikely move and joins Clean Team, charged with tidying up L.A.’s grisly crime scenes. For Web, it’s a steady gig, and he soon finds himself sponging a Malibu suicide’s brains from a bathroom mirror and flirting with the man's bereaved and beautiful daughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen things get weird: The dead man’s daughter asks a favor. Every cell in Web’s brain tells him to turn her down, but something makes him hit the Harbor Freeway at midnight to help her however he can. Soon enough it’s Web who needs the help when gun-toting California cowboys start showing up on his doorstep. What’s the deal? Is it something to do with what he cleaned up in that motel room in Carson? Or is it all about the brewing war between rival trauma cleaners? Web doesn't have a clue, but he’ll need to get one if he’s going to keep from getting his face kicked in. Again. And again. And again.“Shockingly original . . . The outlandish characters . . . are brazen originals, and the dialogue is the roar of a death-defying talent.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A comic masterpiece . . . Like all the best comic fiction (\u003ci\u003eCatch-22 \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003ePortnoy’s Complaint \u003c\/i\u003ecome to mind), at bottom it is deadly serious. Life is violent, messy, and all too short, and laughter is the best revenge.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Authentically great . . . a runaway freight train that feels like a combination of William Burroughs and James Ellroy.”\u003cb\u003e—Stephen King\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The dialogue is terrific. . . . Cleaning up blood and broken body bits becomes the subject for restorative comedy—who knew?”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smoking hot . . . a tart, quick-witted, sharply funny trip . . . a book that anyone can admire.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hilarious . . . [Huston’s] way with characterization and plot are so sure-handed and appealing, you’ll find yourself desperately hoping [his characters] survive to live another day and star in a sequel, Clorox at the ready.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Dallas Morning News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As darkly funny as it is graceful . . . a work that is sly, twisted, and surprising.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huston’s novels are among the most imaginative and compelling in the mystery and thriller genres. . . . In \u003ci\u003eThe Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death\u003c\/i\u003e, Huston finds pathos and the sublime in a story about an occupation for which there is no training or career path.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePittsburgh Tribune-Review\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huston, one of his generation’s finest and hippest talents, shows in grisly detail what cleaning up after the dead entails. This one should appeal to Chuck Palahniuk fans as well as hard-boiled crime readers.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a pretty neat trick to avert your eyes while you read, but \u003ci\u003eThe Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death\u003c\/i\u003e by Charlie Huston is so fresh, funny and original that I managed. . . . The characters range from the slightly odd to the bizarre-doesn’t- even-begin. You might feel ashamed of yourself for laughing, but I won’t tell. Just take a bath afterward, and remember to scrub out the tub.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eCleveland Plain Dealer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eCharlie Huston is the author of The Shotgun Rule, the Henry Thompson trilogy: Caught Stealing, Six Bad Things (an Edgar Award nominee), and A Dangerous Man, and the Joe Pitt novels: Already Dead, No Dominion, Half the Blood of Brooklyn, and Every Last Drop. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, the actress Virginia Louise Smith. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003ewww.pulpnoir.com\u003c\/u\u003eI’m not sure where one should expect to find the bereaved daughter of a wealthy Malibu suicide in need of a trauma cleaner long after midnight, but safe to say a trucker motel down the 405 industrial corridor in Carson was not on my list of likely locales.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Ouch. That looks painful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI touched the bandage on my forehead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—And if that’s what it feels like to look at it, imagine how it feels to actually have it happen to you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe half of her face that I could see in the chained gap at the edge of the door nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Yeah, I’d imagine that sucks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCars whipped past on the highway across the parking lot, taking full advantage of the few hours in any given Los Angeles county twenty-four hour period when you might get the needle on the high side of sixty. I watched a couple of them attempting to set a new land speed record. I looked back at Soledad’s face, bisected by the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—So?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Uh huh?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hefted the plastic carrier full of cleaning supplies I’d brought from the van.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Someone called for maid service?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Yeah. That was me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe fingered the slack in the door chain, set it swinging back and forth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I didn’t really think you’d come.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Well, I like to surprise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stopped playing with the chain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Terrible habit. Don’t you know most people don’t like surprises?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked over at the highway and watched a couple more cars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Can I ask a silly question?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Sure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked back at her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—What the fuck am I doing here?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe ran a hand through her hair, let it fall back over her forehead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—You sure you want to do this, Web?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat being the kind of question that tips most people off to a fucked up situation, I could very easily have taken it as my cue to go downstairs, get back in the van and get the hell gone. But it’s not like I hadn’t already been clued to things being fucked up when she called in the middle of the night and asked me to come to a motel to clean a room. And there I was anyway. So who was I fooling?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExactly no one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Just let me in and show me the problem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Think you can fix it, do you?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shook my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—No, probably not. But it’s cold out here. And I came all this way. She showed me half her smile, the other half hidden behind the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—And you’re still clinging to some hope that a girl asking you to come clean something is some kind of booty call code, right?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rubbed the top of my head. But I didn’t say anything. Not feeling like saying \u003ci\u003eno \u003c\/i\u003eand lying to her so early in our relationship. There would be time for that kind of thing later. There’s always time for lying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe inhaled, let it out slow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—OK.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door closed. I heard the chain unhook. The door opened and I walked in, my feet crunching on something hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—This the asshole?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked at the young dude standing at the bathroom door with a meticulously crafted fauxhawk. I looked at bleached teeth and handcrafted tan. I looked at the bloodstains on his designer-distressed jeans and his artfully faded reproduction Rolling Stones concert T from a show that took place well before he was conceived. Then I looked at much larger bloodstains on the sheets of the queen-size bed and the flecks of blood spattered on the wall. I looked at the floor to see what I’d crushed underfoot, half expecting cockroaches, and found dozens of scattered almonds instead. I listened as the door closed behind me and locked. I watched as Soledad walked toward the bathroom and the dude snagged her by the hand before she could go in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I asked, \u003ci\u003eIs this the asshole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI pointed at myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Honestly, in most circumstances, in any given room on any given day, I’d say, \u003ci\u003eYeah, I’m the asshole here. \u003c\/i\u003eBut in this particular scenario, and I know we just met and all, but in this room here?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pointed at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—I’m more than willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and say that \u003ci\u003eyou’re \u003c\/i\u003ethe asshole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at Soledad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—So, yeah, he’s the asshole then?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe twisted her hand free and went into the bathroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—He’s the guy I told you about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe closed the door behind her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Yeah, you’re the asshole alright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI held up a hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Hey, look, if you’re gonna insist, I can only accept the title. But seriously, don’t sell yourself short. You got the asshole thing locked up if you want it. He came down the room in a loose strut I imagine had been meticulously\u003cbr\u003eassembled from endless repeat viewings of Tom Cruise’s greatest hits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Yeah, I can tell by the way you’re talking. You’re the one fucked with her today. Made jokes about her dad killing himself. You’re the asshole alright. The toilet flushed, Soledad yelled over it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—He didn’t make jokes!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dude looked at the closed door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—You said he made jokes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Asshole. Fucking go in someone’s home, there’s been a tragedy, go in and try to make money off that. Fucking vulture. Fucking ghoul. Who does that, who comes up with that for a job? That your dream job, man? Cleaning up dead people? Other kids were hoping to grow up to be movie stars and you were having fantasies about scooping people’s guts off the floor?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shifted, crushing a few more almonds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Truth is, mostly I had fantasies about doing your mom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe slipped a lozenge of perforated steel from his back pocket, flicked his wrist and thumb in an elaborate show of coordination, and displayed the open butterfly knife resting on his palm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Say what, asshole?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSay nothing, actually. Except say that maybe he was right and I was the asshole in the room. Certainly being an asshole was how I came to be there in the first place.Bestselling author of Sleepless","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304261210341,"sku":"NP9780345501127","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345501127.jpg?v=1767740615","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-mystic-arts-of-erasing-all-signs-of-death-isbn-9780345501127","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}