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A Dirty Job: A Novel by Christopher Moore

By Christopher Moore

Charlie Asher is an exquisite general man with an ordinary lifestyles, married to a shiny and lovely girl who really loves him for his normalcy. They're even approximately to have their first baby. definite, Charlie's doing okay—until humans begin shedding useless round him, and all over the place he is going a gloomy presence whispers to him from below the streets. Charlie Asher, it sort of feels, has been recruited for a brand new place: as loss of life.

It's a grimy task. yet, good day! Somebody's gotta do it.

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Extra info for A Dirty Job: A Novel

Sample text

He was forty, short, muscular, and black. He wore wraparound sunglasses, which were almost always pushed back on his head over hair braided in tight cornrows. Lily had mixed feelings about him. She liked him because he called her Darque, short for Darquewillow Elventhing, the name under which she received mail at the shop, but because he was cheerful and seemed to like people, she deeply mistrusted him. “Need you to sign,” Stephan said, offering her an electronic pad, on which she scribbled Charles Baudelaire with great flourish and without even looking.

He couldn’t do anything to help, couldn’t say, It will get better, like everyone kept saying to him. It wasn’t getting better. Different, but not better. And this fellow had fifty more years in which to pack his hopes, or in his case, his history. “Let me think about it. Check into storage. ” “I’d be grateful,” Mainheart said. Then, for no reason that he could think of, Charlie said, “May I take this jacket with me? ” “That would be fine. ” As they passed into the rotunda, a shadow passed across the leaded-glass windows, three stories up.

Always compliment the merchandise; it might be a piece of crap to you, but they might have a lot of their soul poured into it. Compliment but never covet. You can make a profit and preserve everyone’s dignity in the process. “Holy shit,” Charlie said as he followed the old man into a walkin closet the size of his own apartment. “I mean—your wife had exquisite taste, Mr. ” There was row upon row of designer couture clothing, everything from evening gowns to racks, two tiers high, of knit suits, arranged by color and level of formality—an opulent rainbow of silk and linen and wool.

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