The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

—I did not blow my end. Obstacles came up that I hadn't been able to avoid. Shit took longer than I thought. They wanted turnaround like yesterday. But from working in the industry, I'm geared toward things moving at a steady pace. I'm used to weighing the pros and cons of decisions when millions could be at stake. Someday. These guys, they want to sell shit and get paid right away.

  —Strange how thieves might be in a hurry.

  —Fucking cool it with the smartass, asshole. Here, over here.

  —Here?

  —Yeah.

  We came off the 47 onto Ocean Boulevard, past the twin domes of the waste reclamation plant, a monstrous installation far too evocative of colossal and perfectly symmetrical breasts for Jaime not to comment.

  He pointed.

  —Looks like big tits.

  I declined to respond.

  —Big titties.

  I changed the subject.

  —So what happened when you couldn't do what they wanted when they wanted it?

  He threw his hands up.

  —Fucking Talbot gets all in my face. Starts talking about the delay means costs and how they're gonna have to come out of my ten percent. Bullshit.

  —Yeah, total bullshit. And that was before you knew they weren't even paying the full ten percent.

  —Fucking right! Shit. Telling me I was gonna have to cover their hotel and meals for the extra days. As if.

  I took a moment to replay what he'd said. Decided I had to be wrong. Realized I probably wasn't. Thought I'd ask. Thought I'd rather not know for sure. And finally couldn't help myself.

  —Um, they wanted you to cover their expenses?

  —Believe that shit?

  —For like a couple days, right?

  —Fucking gall!

  —They wanted you to cover their room and board for a couple days was what they wanted? Am I correct about that?

  —Yeah, that's what I'm saying. You need it in some other brand of English?

  —You cut Talbot and started this whole round of shit because?

  —Because motherfucker was reneging on a business agreement. I mean, shit may fly in Butte County, but not in Hollywood.

  I stared at the rear of the bobtail we were stuck behind.

  —Jaime. You cut a man. His boss, his uncle got pissed. He got so pissed, he killed the man you cut.

  —And?

  I cranked the wheel over and took us off Ocean onto the access road to Terminal T and pulled to the side of the road.

  —Dots not connecting, are they? Pointless for me to continue? Yes, I can see that's the case. I won't even bother with the part where they must have been watching your hotel room when I showed up. The part where they followed me and Soledad up to L.A. and snatched her and, by the by, stole my boss's van. Oh, and that, that bit of grand theft auto, for the record, that led to another van being firebombed and shots being fired into a place of business. But I will refrain from lining it up so you can see how all these events result from you not being willing to pick up someone's fucking per diem. Asshole.

  He brushed his hand at me.

  —Not my fault. People responsible for themselves. Nobody in this, nobody that didn't put themselves in it.

  I raised my hand.

  —I'd beg to differ. My ass is in this because I got dragged in by a psycho cowboy who told me to get his almonds or something bad would happen to someone I like.

  He leaned close.

  —No, you're in this because my sis called you in the middle of the night for a little help and you came running as fast as you could because you wanted to get in tight with her and tap that ass.

  It would have been nice to tell him he was wrong. More to the point, it would have been nice if he had been wrong. But he wasn't.

  I slumped back in the seat.

  —OK. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck us all. We're all fucked. Now what?

  He unzipped the bank envelope and took out a pistol and pointed it at me.

  —Now we discuss terms. Points of gross and shit.

  —They have your sister!

  —Man, I don't care. I mean, I care. And I'm gonna get her back, but I don't want any misunderstanding, I'm getting my fucking ten percent.

  —Wait, is that the real ten percent, or the fake ten percent you were too stupid to realize wasn't really ten percent because you are so fucking stupid?

  —Man, did I show you this?

  He picked up the gun from the dash again and showed it to me.

  —That's all you've shown me for the last half hour.

  He pointed it at me.

  —So stop fucking around.

  —You stop pointing that thing at me! I told you in the first place, I cannot think when you point that at me! I'm like a freak that way, all my brain juice runs out my ass when some moron who doesn't know his multiplication tables points a gun at me and might accidentally pull the trigger because he thinks it's his nose and he's trying to pick it!

  —OK, OK, chill, chill!

  He put the gun back on the dash.

  —There, it's down. Chill.

  I chilled. Or I tried to chill. My ability to chill being seriously hampered. My sense of proportion, already in sorry shape before I first walked into a cockroach-filled apartment and started hauling little plastic bags of shit out of it, was fucked beyond recognition.

  And I was having some very creepy thoughts.

  Like …

  What if none of this is real? I mean, does it seem real to you, Web? Have you ever had experiences like this? Has anyone you know had experiences like this? Does this not seem rather more like a bad screenplay L.L. might have brushed up in the ’80s than like real life? Are you, perhaps, going a little more loony than you first suspected? Or, wait, how about this? Maybe you're not going crazy, maybe, wait for it, maybe you're dead? Get it? Like, you got hit by one of the bullets on the bus? Like you died on the bus and all of this is like after-death experience, like your journey into the afterlife? Or maybe you're still alive, still on the bus? Like it all just happened, is happening, right now? What about that shit?

  I shook my head.

  —No. No way. Too weird.

  Jaime shot me an eye.

  —Say what?

  —Nothing. I'm cool. I'm here. This is happening. I know this is happening. I'm here. This is here and now. I'm here.

  —Dude, are you?

  —I'm fine. I'm cool. So. You were saying, ten percent?

  He tilted his head.

  —OKaaaaaay. So, Mr. Scary Asshole, what I'm saying is, I want it understood that if we bring them their can, with the almonds, I'm not sacrificing my ten percent. They're the ones pulling out of the deal. I took the time and expense of arranging a buyer for their property and all that shit. I'm not just walking away with nothing.

  I finished taking the deep breaths that seemed to be doing very little to help calm me.

  —Yes, but you will not be getting nothing. You will, in fact, be getting your sister.

  —That wasn't the deal! I want my ten percent! And the real ten percent. Whatever you said that was.

  —OK, fine. So how do we?

  He picked up the gun.

  —With this. Motherfuckers try to duck out without paying my due, I'm taking action. So you know how I roll. That's what I'm saying. Respect, gotta have it.

  That bit of dialogue coming straight from Boyz N the Hood if I'm not mistaken.

  I stared at the gun in his hand. I thought about how my brain might react to a sudden outbreak of gunfire. Another sudden outbreak of gunfire, I mean. I thought about how my body might react to a sudden outbreak of bullets hitting it. I thought about cops, and who would be screwed if I called them, and found I couldn't keep track of all the details. I thought about thinking about what I said next, but knew if I did I wouldn't be able to say what I said. If that makes sense. Which, of course, it does not.

  —I'll cover it.

  —Huh?

  —The ten percent, I'll cover it.

  —What? How?

/>   —I can cover that. If they don't come through, and I kind of think we shouldn't even bring it up, I'll pay it.

  He weighed the gun on his hand.

  —Bullshit. You clean up after dead people. Where you gonna get twenty-two Gs?

  I waited.

  He shook his head.

  —Twenty-six four! I mean twenty-six four! We're talking twenty-six four here.

  —I can get it. I have savings and shit. I can cover it. I'll cover it. If they won't pay you, I will.

  He looked me over, licked his lips.

  —Know if you're fucking around what will happen, right?

  —You'll cut me bad, is what I'm thinking.

  —At the least.

  —Yeah, at the least.

  He nodded.

  —OK. OK. Deal. We give them the can no matter what.

  —After they give us Soledad.

  —Yeah, right, whatever.

  I pointed at the gun.

  —And you leave that behind when we meet them.

  —Fuck that.

  —Fine, fuck it. Forget the deal then. Go shoot it out. Get all the respect you want. Shit wears well in the grave.

  —Maaan.

  He set the gun on the dash.

  —Shit. Fucking sister. Fucking Soledad.

  I thought about Soledad.

  Man, I liked that girl. A lot. And man it sucked that I was right and she'd dragged me into this deal knowing there was a deal to be dragged into. Shit. I'd really thought … I don't even know what. But hey, she could have all kinds of reasons for being involved deeper than she'd let on. She could just be trying to clean up a mess her dad left behind. Not like she was thinking clearly or anything. Girl's dad commits suicide, she's all screwed up and … oh. Oh shit.

  Suicide.

  Criminal enterprise.

  Violent suicide.

  Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney

  You see how long it takes me to put these things together? That's because I'm not as smart as I think I am. But you probably gathered that. Because you're probably not as stupid as I am. I know that because no one is as stupid as I am.

  No one except maybe Jaime.

  —What kind of gun is that?

  He looked at it.

  —Nine.

  —Again?

  —It's a nine-millimeter. Gun of choice for all.

  —Where'd it come from? You get it off a set like the knife?

  He raised an eyebrow.

  —I got it from Soledad.

  HINTERLANDS

  —What are you staring at, asshole?

  —Nothing.

  That's what I said. What I was in fact staring at was the gun. The gun he'd gotten from Soledad. The nine-millimeter he'd gotten from Soledad.

  I looked at him.

  —I'm not staring at anything.

  I started the Apache and turned us around.

  —What now?

  He took the papers he'd gotten from Homero and slipped them inside the envelope.

  —Now we cruise over to Terminal F and check out the can.

  I pulled to a stop at Ferry.

  —Really?

  He bapped my forehead with the documents.

  —No, asshole, I'm jerking your chain because I want to spent more time in your company. Yes, really.

  He held up the papers.

  —That was what Homero was doing, getting the export order changed so we can get that can back.

  —What about the buyer?

  —What? Fuck him. Some Chink? Fuck does he know? Not like he's paid yet. Verbal agreement means shit. Hell, in my line, a contract barely means shit. Nothing is nothing till the cash is in your hand.

  He fingered the papers.

  —Think of it, maybe I should get him to front some of the money for the almonds.

  I shook my head.

  —No way, man. No more complications. I'm gonna pay you off. But that's it. No double dipping. No shenanigans. —Shenanigans?

  —Yeah, it means.

  —I know what the fuck it means, I'm just trying to figure how someone born this side of a Lucky Charms commercial thinks it's OK to talk like that.

  I pointed up and down the street.

  —Just tell me which way to the can.

  He pointed toward a smaller terminal, beyond a series of huge blue sheds connected by an enclosed conveyer belt through which petroleum coke was being moved to a container vessel.

  —Over yonder, at the foot of that there rainbow we'll find me pot-o-gold.

  I put the truck in gear. More than slightly delighted at the prospect that getting the truck was going to be considerably less trouble than I'd been afraid of.

  Of such delights are dreams made.

  Parked just under the 710, we watched the uniformed officers of Customs and Border Protection, plainclothes detectives from Immigration and Customs Enforcement a well-armed Anti-Terrorism Contraband Enforcement Team, and members of the Long Beach Harbor Patrol as they systematically and, I must say quite efficiently impounded every last bit of cargo on Terminal F that had any association with Westline Freight Forwarding.

  I pointed at a can.

  —That one?

  —No.

  I pointed at another can.

  —That one?

  —No.

  I pointed at another can.

  —That one?

  Jaime scooted further down in his seat as another CBP car rolled past us and through the gate.

  —No, that's not our can. And why the fuck do you care at this point?

  I shrugged.

  —I don't know, I just thought it'd be nice to know where that pot-o-gold is.

  He peeked over the edge of the window frame and pointed.

  —That one. OK, asshole? Can we leave now? I mean, before someone comes over and asks what the hell we're doing here?

  I waved a hand at the other cars parked on the edge of the road, the assortment of rubberneckers taking in the spectacle of our government's law enforcement community in the act of seizing control of the assets of what was, I gather, a rather extensive smuggling operation.

  —So when you said that everyone knew Westin Nye was the man to talk to when you needed something shipped on the sly out of the Port of L.B., you really meant everyone.

  One of the officers walked to the can Jaime had indicated to me. He inspected a seal, checked it against a clipboard in his hand, set the clipboard aside, and popped the seal.

  Jaime dropped low again.

  —Fuckfuckfuck.

  The officer picked up his clipboard and looked from it to the stacked boxes inside.

  I scratched my chin.

  —So, what do you figure? They must have been onto Nye for a while. You think they had this planned, or did they decide to make a move after he killed himself?

  —I don't fucking know, man. Can we just get the hell out of here? Can we just. Oh fuck!

  He was looking at the envelope of documents in his lap.

  —Fuck, I got to get rid of these.

  He pulled the papers out and stuck them through the window.

  I grabbed his wrist.

  —Hang on, man.

  —Hang on, my ass. I can't get caught with these.

  I pointed at the officers and the plainclothes agents again.

  —Dude, maybe throwing a sheaf of incriminating shipping documents out the window across the street from a huge smuggling bust is a bad call.

  He pulled his hand back inside.

  —OK, OK, but get us the fuck out of here.

  I looked one last time at the scene, then put the Apache in gear and pulled into the road and turned around.

  I hooked my thumb back at the load of almonds.

  —By the way?

  —Yeah?

  —Once we gave them the paperwork and whatnot and they released the container?

  —Yeah?

  —Where were we going to get a truck, and do you know how to drive one?

  He scooted lower in his seat.
<
br />   —Just shut the fuck up.

  —I'll take that as, it never even occurred to you.

  —Harris has a truck and a driver.

  —Yeah, but I just noticed he's not with us.

  —Asshole, I know. I wanted to make sure they had the can out of the stacks and on a chassis and ready to roll. Far as Harris goes, all we needed to give him was these papers.

  I paused at a stop sign.

  —They would have gone for that?

  He stared at the papers in his hand.

  —Never gonna know now. Shit. Cost me a fucking G. Never gonna see that cash again.

  I pointed us back at the 47.

  —Jaime, not that I want to bother you with details at a time like this, but I think you're missing the point here.

  He shook his head.

  —No, man, I ain't forgot, I know this also means I'm out the twenty-two.

  I didn't bother to make my point more clear. I mean, why bother? I was gonna force him to help me get his sister back no matter what, so why not let him wallow in his own misery for a while?

  Someone screamed, more people screamed. I looked back at the terminal and saw a handful of small ragged men and women scattering from one of the cans, more of them popping from its top, the assorted officers of the law chasing them, brandishing arms and yelling commands. Something fell from the top of the fence along the road, got up and sprinted in front of us and I pounded the brake to keep from running over the fleeing Chinese boy in filthy clothes. A siren fired up and a LBHP vehicle took off after him.

  Jaime shook his head.

  —Fuckin' Chink wetbacks, man. Two weeks in a can and take their chances on the other side.

  He pointed at the terminal where the CBP officers had the illegals down on the ground.

  —Soledad's old man, he liked to have a finger in every pie, man.

  —Cops? Why the fuck would you call the cops?

  I fingered my knife and thought about sticking it in his ear. But it was plastic and would probably break before it went deep enough to hit his brain. And beside, even if I jammed it in there, I was uncertain it would do any real damage.

  —No, you're right, Jamie, come to think of it, kidnapping is really more of a matter for the FBI.

  —The FBI? Why would you want to call them?

  I looked at my plastic fork, thought about jabbing him in the eye with it to get him to focus for a second. I settled for talking slowly instead.