The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (25 page)

—Yeah. Better chill. Maybe buckle up.

—You did that on fucking purpose.

I nodded.

—Yes, Jaime, I did. And I am, take note,
still
driving this thing. So you may want to do as I say and chill and buckle up. Because while I may hit like a little girl, I drive like a born and raised Los Angelino. Which means, you know, I think I'm the best driver in the universe, when in fact I probably shouldn't be allowed in a bumper car.

—Asshole.

He buckled up.

Crossing the PCH we hit Harbor City. The Harbor Park Golf Course, garden spot of Harbor City if the truth be told, rapidly turning traffic-poisoned brown along the freeway. And on our left, a sudden outbreak of cranes, a thicket of them marking the edge of the Port of Los Angeles.

—So before the aside about bovine human relations, you were talking about Harris?

He rubbed the back of his head.

—Yeah, try this kind of shit with him, he'll fuck you up.
Unforgiven
style.

I thought about my special perspective on the kinds of things Harris would do if he took a disliking to you.

—I don't doubt that. Where'd the almonds come from?

He settled back into the seat, careful of his tender shoulder.

—Harris gets tips from drivers sometimes. These two trucks, they were supposed to go out the Port of Oakland. But traffic from the central valley was all screwed up. The drivers had to turn around and park the trucks on the producer's property and leave them overnight. So one of the drivers, he called Harris. Told him two semis loaded with almonds were sitting there with nothing but a fence and a German shepherd for security. He's got some place in Stanislaus County where he can park the trucks once they're off the lot. The almonds have to be offloaded, repackaged in case the container gets opened, and put back aboard. Some third cousin by marriage or some shit has a place. He cultivates a couple acres of almonds himself. So his wetbacks do all the work for five cents, he labels the almonds like the rest of his crop, and they ship ’em out.

—You're half Mexican, yeah?

—What?

—Your mom is Mexican?

—Dude, don't talk about my moms.

—No, I mean.

—And she's American. I'm American. I'm of half-Mexican descent, but I'm full fucking American. Talk about wetbacks all I want. Give me that politically correct bullshit. I hate that shit.

—Yeah. Again, my bad.

—Right it is. Talk about my moms. Fuck you up. Shit.

The Harbor Freeway bent west at a smokestack with the words WELCOME TO SAN PEDRO running down its length. More practical smokestacks and the storage tanks of a refinery covered a hillside, a Naval Fuel Depot or something. On our left, a vista of more towering gantry cranes, a tangle of steel rooted in piled cargo containers, Yong's Legos grown massive and scarred.

—So with all the wetbacks and other resources at their disposal, why do they need someone like you? I thought your game was film.

—Movies, asshole. My business is movies. Films are fag shit comes in from Europe or out of New York. Films don't make box office for shit unless they win the Oscar. Movies are all about the box. I make movies. But, you know, financing comes from all kinds of sources these days. The studio system, in case you missed the news, is totally dead. These days, we like to spread the risk. Get maybe a bank to pick up the bulk of the load. Bring in some private investors for bridge financing while the package takes shape. All that shit. I expedite relationships that help create financing opportunities for my movie projects.

—So Harris wants to get into the industry?

—No, asshole. He wants to pay me to help him ship his almonds overseas, and then I can redirect those funds into these online filmmakers I have a relationship with. These guys, they had a top-ten most-viewed clip on YouTube for over a week. Fucking sensation. They shot this thing about a dog eating its own shit, it was hysterical. Made it for nothing. I'm gonna take my cut of the almonds deal, funnel it into my production company, and lock up these guys' creative output for the next ten years. I'm gonna pay these kids a couple grand and they're gonna make these videos of animals eating their own shit, and I'm gonna stream them over a dedicated website where people have to subscribe for the service.

—Wait, a website dedicated to shit-eating animals?

—No, asshole, dedicated to humorous clips. Shit-eating animals will be the initial draw, but I'll expand after we attract more capital. Kids are gonna make me rich. And I'm gonna own everything they do. Fuckers didn't know enough to negotiate points or anything.

I got a feeling about something. And I had to ask.

—Jaime. How old are these
kids?

—I don't know, thirteen maybe. But they have talent. Raw. Think it's easy to get a dog to eat its own shit? Let alone a, I don't know, a parakeet?

—They got a parakeet to eat its own shit?

—Well, no, still working on that one. But they got mad footage of dogs eating their own shit. They mix Alpo into it. That's the secret.

Beyond the massed containers, the long humped spine of the Vincent Thomas Bridge stretched from the mainland across the water to Terminal Island.

—As much as I hate to admit it, Jaime.

—What?

—You'll probably get rich off shit-eating animals.

He grinned.

—Yeah, and that's just one aspect.

I took us past the turnoff to the bridge, heading toward San Pedro.

—Yeah. Imagine. So, I see where you have this thing all mapped out from an industry angle, but I'm still unclear on where the connection comes from. You know, Central Valley agro-hijackers meet shit-eating-animal entrepreneur.

—Heh, sounds like a pitch. Pretty good one, too.

Having spent my earliest formative years at L.L.'s feet, and at his always bent elbow, listening to various habitués of the movie-making community swap pitches, I couldn't really argue with him.

—Sure, when you're an Internet success, you can parlay it into a TV show.

—Feature, man.

—Sure. But it's light on plot details. Like how'd you and Harris hook up?

—Just ways and means. Contingencies and eventualities.

Up ahead, the freeway drifted to a stop at a traffic light at the top of Gaffey Street.

—Translation, man, I'm an asshole. Remember?

—Man, I remember. It was the wetbacks that did it. Warehouse up north got busted by La Migra. Took all the workers out. Only half the almonds had been turned around. Harris didn't want to have that shit sitting around while his cousin's cousin's cousin's whatever got a new crew together. He told him to keep the second load of almonds and the other truck instead of a cash payment for the services. They had an argument. Harris may or may not have fucked him up and took off with the loaded
truck. But the third cousin,
he
was the connection for the freight forwarder up there. The guy who could contract a shipping line and get the load onto a terminal and through the Port of Oakland to the buyer on the other end. That meant he had to find an alternate shipping route.

—Contingencies and eventualities.
He found you.

—What? Hells no. He found Soledad's dad.

At the stoplight, a caged pedestrian bridge crossed over the intersection. Kids hang banners there sometimes.
Class of 2008 Rocks! Welcome Home Sgt. Alberto Juarez. Happy Birthday Tina!

I stopped for the red light, looked at Jaime.

—Soledad's?

—Her pops, asshole.

—You hooked him up with Harris?

—What? No. You listen to anything? Told you I'm in movies. Old man Nye, he was a professional. Shipping and trade, man. Westline Freight Forwarding, man. That's what he did. You have something going overseas, Pacific Rim, you pay him a fee and he lines up shipping, all the paperwork, even find a buyer for some products. All that shit.

—But how's he? How'd they find him? I mean, why'd they go to a guy like that to smuggle almonds? Why'd they?

The light turned green. I didn't move.

—Why? Asshole, anyone with any savvy knows Westin Nye is the man to go to you got shit that needs to come clean through the Port of Long Beach. That's just smuggler's 101 in this state.

Drivers honked.

—So you worked for him?

—Fuck no. Asshole. I mean him, not you. I mean, he was OK, but he wouldn't let me work for him. No. I only got involved after he bit it.

He turned and flipped off the cars behind us, looked back at me.

—I mean, I never would have had this opportunity if Soledad hadn't asked me to step in after her pops ate his own bullet.

I looked at the road, took my foot from the brake and drove under the banners. The biggest one in red paint,
Jenny, I promise I'll never do it again!

Down Gaffy, under crisscrossing phone lines, between once decorative and now weedy palms, past a glut of gas stations and fast-food places and the Ono Hawaiian BBQ, just across from the Payless Supershine Car-wash, but before the Club 111 at the Holiday Inn, Jaime pointed at the curb.

—Here.

And I parked us outside the one-stop shopping opportunity promised at the Bait-n-Liquor.

—Where's the can?

—Around. This is the first stop.

He opened the door and I grabbed his arm.

—I'm not waiting while you get stocked up on Malibu and go all shitfaced on me again.

He looked at my hand.

—Dude, I could just beat the hell out of you if I wanted to.

I didn't let go.

—Yeah. You could. So what?

He pulled his arm free.

—So come in. Fuck do I care. Just keep your mouth shut. Let a man conduct some business.

So I went in with him.

The shop was, as advertised, devoted to both bait and liquor. Although liquor seemed to have the upper hand.

Jaime raised his chin at the old salt central casting had sent up to play the proprietor.

—Homero.

Homero looked away from the screen of the laptop he was playing Free-Cell on, pushed up the brim of his fishing cap and took the pipe from between his teeth.

—Jaime.

He stuck out his hand. Jaime looked at it, took it.

Homero smiled.

—You come down to do some fishing, boy?

Jaime ducked his head.

—No, no, man. Just saying hey. Business, she calls as usual. No leisure.

Homero nodded, waved a fly from in front of his face.

—Sure, man. You want leisure, you got to grow old. No one young should be standing still. Sitting around with a fishing pole in your hand, that's for old men like me. You got to hustle up there, eh? Dog-eat-dog, that business, eh?

—You know it, man. And the more success, the harder you got to work. Everyone, they come for you.

—Gunning for the top dog. Yes, yes.

Homero smiled and nodded.

Jaime shifted from foot to foot.

—Homero, that stuff? You know?

The old man rubbed the stem of his pipe across his lips.

—Yes, yes.

—I need that now. It ready?

Homero tugged at the collar of his baggy V-neck T.

—Yes, yes.

He turned back to the laptop, closed his card game, opened a browser and typed in an address. From beneath the counter he uncoiled a cable and plugged it into the laptop. His index finger slipped across the touch pad as his thumb tapped left-right a few times, and a printer began to whir as the carriage zipped back and forth. The printer clicked twice and went silent and he reached under the counter and came out with a couple pieces of paper.

He held them up, both sheets dense with print, and pointed at a bar code.

—They're gonna have to scan this. Your driver gotta show his license, but this is what they're going to scan. OK?

He came from behind the counter and passed the papers to Jaime.

Jaime took them and folded them in half.

—That other thing?

Homero nodded and walked to a row of Styrofoam coolers sitting on upended milk crates down one wall of the shop.

He waved me aside.

—Make way, make way.

I scooted and he shuffled past, down the row of coolers to the last one.

He took the lid off and set it aside and looked back down the shop at Jaime.

—You talk to your mama?

Jaime was staring at the rum bottles behind the counter, he kept staring at them.

—Sure. All the time.

The old man stuck his hand into the cooler.

—Good. You're a good son.

He pulled his hand from the cooler, the tentacles of a small squid wrapped around his wrist, a plastic bag dripping water between his fingers.

—Your mama, she take care of you, then you take care of your mama. So many sons, they don't know that.

He peeled the squid free, looked at me.

—For the sharks. Gray smoothhound. Leopard.

He dropped the squid back inside the cooler.

—Maybe for guitarfish.

He put the lid back on the cooler and came back to the front of the store with the dripping bag.

I made way for him and he walked past, wiping one hand on his T.

—Or mackerel. A nice bloody piece of mackerel for rays and for sharks.