The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (29 page)

—Where's my girl?

—Where's my can?

I looked at Harris, and I reminded myself about his really big gun and the way he'd used my phone to kill someone. I took into careful account that more was at risk in this motel room than just my miserable existence, and I formulated a response that was calculated to bring calm to a fraught situation.

—Could you shut the fuck up for a second and tell me where my girl is?

I raised a finger.

—Not that I really think she's my girl, I know that was an asinine thing to say just that I'm a little hyped up right now and some weird things are liable to come out of my mouth.

Harris came across the room and kicked me in the shin and I bent to grab it and he rapped me on the back of my head with the butt of that really big gun I was supposed to be remembering he had.

I curled on the carpet, one hand on the lump growing from my shin, one on the lump growing from the back of my head, white light pulsing at the edges of my vision with every beat of my heart.

Harris looked down at me.

—Had a conversation, didn't we, about you and that mouth and bein' in the same room?

I nodded and felt my brain flop around inside my skull.

He nodded back.

—Don't keep that conversation in mind, weird things are liable to come out of my gun.

His driver, appropriately dressed in Wrangler jeans, a sleeveless Raiders T, and a meshback trucker's cap with Yosemite Sam on the front, barking
Back Off!
, opened the door.

—It ain't out there. Ain't on the street, ain't up on Anaheim. No truck, no can. Just this pecker.

He shoved Jaime into the room.

Jamie stumbled in, tripped over my legs and went on his ass.

—Fuck off me, hick.

The driver flipped him off.

—Fuck you, pecker.

I got up on one elbow and looked at Jaime.

—I told you to stay out of sight.

He untangled his legs from mine.

—I was staying out of sight! I was way down at the corner staying out of sight. No one told me Mr. Big Ten Four over there was gonna come poking around.

Mr. Big Ten Four hitched up the waist of his jeans.

—Pecker was lurking, Harris.

I rubbed my head.

—He wasn't lurking, he was just keeping an eye out in case you guys tried to pull something.

Mr. Big Ten Four reached in his back pocket and came up with Jaime's pistol.

—Was too lurking, man. With this on ’im.

Harris scratched the thin stubble on the crown of his head, lightly put the toe of his boot in my side.

—Looks like we're not the ones trying to pull nothin'. Looks like we're the ones showed up with what we're supposed to have. That bein' the girl.

He pointed at me and Jaime.

—As opposed to some jackasses who didn't show up with what they were supposed to have. That bein' a load of almonds.

Mr. Big Ten Four waggled Jaime's gun.

—And they're lurking.

Harris nodded.

—Looks like you ain't got your shit together at all here. Looks like you're trying desperate measures with some kind of ambush.

I pointed at Jaime.

—He wasn't lurking. He wasn't setting up an ambush. He was staying out of the fucking way. I told him to wait out there so he wouldn't screw things up.

Jamie punched me in the shoulder.

—Fuck you say.

Harris shrugged.

—Just had your boy out there hangin' about with a piece on him?

I pushed off the floor, trying not to put too much weight on the leg he'd kicked.

—Listen, man, you were saddled with this piece of deadweight as an associate,
would you want him anywhere near the room where business was being attended to?

Jaime got himself up.

—Fuck you talking about,
deadweight?
This is my project!

I looked at him, looked back at Harris.

—You know I had to explain to him how you guys were nicking him on the ten percent thing? Seriously. I had to tell him it was happening, and then I had to do the math for him.

—Fuck you, asshole, that's bullshit. He's lying.

Harris rubbed his knuckles across the line of his jaw and covered the bit of a smile that crossed his mouth.

—Yeah. That started more as a joke. Bet my nephew that jackass wouldn't know he was bein' taken'. Mostly in the way of fun, you understand. Didn't really expect him not to know his numbers.

Jaime raised his arms over his head.

—I knew that! I knew it was a bet! I was, man, I was playing you guys! Man, like, thinking,
These fools think they got it over me, but I'm funnin' them like they don't even know.
I pulled a double twist in you. Total
Usual Suspects.

I shoved my hands deep in my pockets and shook my head.

—This is what I'm talking about. Who wants this around when you're trying to get things done? I figured having him outside and otherwise occupied was the way to go.

Harris nodded.

—Yeah, I can see that.

Jamie slapped the air.

—Hell with you! Hell with you!

Then Mr. Big Ten Four butted in.

—Harris.

—Yeah?

—Why's the pecker need a gun he's just supposed to be out of the way? How ’bout that, Mr. Smartypants?

I let the Mr. Smartypants comment slide. A major achievement for me.

—It's not loaded.

Everyone looked at the gun.

I shrugged.

—Check it, man. It's not loaded.

Mr. Big Ten Four popped the clip loose, like a man used to doing such things, and showed us all the absence of ammunition.

Everyone looked at me.

—Hey, who wants a mental defective like this to have a loaded weapon? I just let him hold it ’cause I know it would shut him up.

It wasn't that hard for Harris and Mr. Big Ten Four to get Jaime off me, and they didn't hurt him doing it, but I wouldn't have felt all that bad if they had.

—Asshole! You are such an asshole!

Harris shoved him down into the space between the wall and the bed.

—Just sit your ass there and shut the hell up, jackass. Fact is, you're lucky to have this guy lookin' out that you don't bite off more than you can chew. But you keep openin' your mouth to take a bite and I'm gonna smash all your teeth out. You hear me?

Jaime gave me a stare.

—Yeah, I hear you.

—Good.

Harris turned to me.

—So. Just remains a large detail to be settled.

He came over, close by.

—Like where's my can?

I shook my head.

—I don't have it.

Mr. Big Ten Four took off his hat and slapped his thigh.

—Cocksucker!

Harris pointed at something behind me.

—See what's over there?

I took a look and saw the room phone.

—Yeah. I see it.

—Want to tell me a little more?

I nodded.

—Yes, I do.

I took the envelope from the back of my jeans, unzipped it and pulled out the papers.

—It is signed sealed and delivered and waiting for someone to pick it up.

He took the papers from me, looked them over, spoke as he did so.

—A man of less faith than my own might suspect this was a setup.

He looked up from the papers.

—Any reason you didn't just bring the almonds right here?

—Other than we weren't able to get a truck and a driver? No.

—Could have hired a driver. They're all over the damn place here.

I looked at Jaime.

—Thanks again, rocket scientist.

He balled his fists, but broke with tradition and kept his mouth shut.

I looked back at Harris.

—This is what happens when you depend on the weak-minded for professional counsel.

—Sure, but what say you go out to one of the bars around here, hire yourself some out of work and in-need long-hauler, and go fetch that can for me? Just drive out there and hitch up and bring it back.

I rubbed my forehead.

—Man, I, man, just, OK, look, look, I would not know where to begin with that shit. I mean, this?

I held my arms out.

—Guns? Assholes like Jaime there? Guys like you two? Kidnappings? Things like what went down with Talbot in my kitchen? That's all well outside my experience. I'm not the kind of guy walks into a trucker bar and hires a driver to take a load of hot almonds off a dock.

—Seems you're improvising pretty well so far.

I clapped my hands three times.

—Well, thanks! I appreciate the vote of confidence. And I'm not saying I couldn't manage, I'm just saying that by the time I have that shit taken care of, that terminal could be locked down for the night. Yeah? Whereas, your boy here can zip over there right now and be in and out and we can all go the fuck home.

Harris gave it a little contemplation.

Mr. Big Ten Four on the other hand, who was turning out to be a bit sharper than the stereotype led me to expect, had more observations to offer.

—He's talking pretty goddamn fast, you ask me.

Harris dragged a thumbnail down one of those long creases in his cheek.

—Watch the Lord's name there.

—Sorry.

—But you are right, he's chattering a little fast. Little fast.

I wagged my head.

—Talking a little fast?
Man, you are lucky you can put together a thing I'm saying. You're lucky I'm talking in a pitch audible to human ears.
Talking a little fast?
I'm not just talking a little fast, I'm simultaneously pissing and shitting my pants out of fear. I'm on the extreme edge of losing all cool and just falling apart. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing here and I am borderlining as we speak. I, man, I clean shit for a living! Before that, before a couple days ago, I slacked for a living. Before that, I was, man, I was, I was, I was a fucking elementary school teacher! I am out of my depth and beyond my ken! You think this is a setup? Man, this is nothing. This is me trying to dogpaddle. This is me trying to keep my head out of the water.

I dropped onto the bed, my arms hanging, my head down, I breathed.

—Man.

I looked up.

—This is me just trying to keep everyone alive. That's all I want here. I just want everyone, not just me and the girl, not just retard there, but all of us alive and well and waving each other off into the sunset. That's all. That's my plan. That's what I'm in this for.

Harris looked me over, cocked his head at Mr. Big Ten Four, scratched his earlobe with the big revolver that had never left his right hand since he cracked me with it, and gave an inclination to his head that might be considered a nod among the tersest of the world.

—OK, boy. OK.

He tucked the revolver into his belt.

—I think we have a deal on that part.

He passed the papers over to Mr. Big Ten Four.

—All we need to settle now.

He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.

—Is our bill for this room and our meals the last few days.

Jaime brought his head up.

—Fuck that! Don't do it, asshole, don't you give in on that shit! I'll fucking kill you, you give in on expenses!

I held up a hand.

—Chill, Jaime.

I looked at Harris.

—Let me see the girl.

He shook his head.

—Said payment's due.

—And I heard you. And I'm saying let me see the girl. It's time.

He pursed his lips, let a little air out through his nose, and wiggled a finger at the bathroom door.

Mr. Big Ten Four grunted and walked over and knocked on the door.

—Come on out.

There was a rustle from inside. I waited, doing my best to keep the few bites of Jim's Burgers burrito down where they belonged. My brain painting pictures of how bad she was gonna look.

And the door opened.

And Soledad came out.

And she looked just fine.

Tired as hell. Tearstained. Wrinkled and wrung out and in need of several showers. But other than that, just fine.

—Hey Web.

I got off the bed and went over to her. I reached out a hand. I unbuttoned the pocket of the Mobil shirt she'd put on after we slept together. And I pulled out the fold of hundreds L.L. had left for me between the pages of
Anna Karenina.

I turned from her and walked to Harris and held out the money.

—This cover it?

He took the bills and counted them.

—And then some.

He hitched a shoulder at Mr. Big Ten Four.

—Call when you got ’er rollin' back here.

Mr. Big Ten Four went out of the room. Harris grabbed a seat next to the door. Jaime continued to give me stink eye. And, still being pretty sure Soledad had lied to me about something, and being pretty pissed about it as well, I did my best to ignore her.

Not looking at her, being the best way I knew to keep my brain from forcing me to remember what she looked like naked and how smooth and downy the skin was at the small of her back.

—I didn't even want to bring the tweaked-out little bugger along.

—Web.

—Mean, his mom hadn't been in my business about how he needed someone to reach out a hand and get him on his feet if he was ever gonna get free of that crap, it never would have crossed my mind to take him on the road and put him to work. My sister just kept up on me ’bout how the best thing for him would be to get out of town and away from all his tweaker friends, so I went ’gainst my better judgment and had him ride with my crew when we hit the road for the season.

—Web.

—Guess it didn't pan out the way his mom hoped.

Harris blew out his cheeks.

—Gonna have a hell of a time explaining that to her. Not so much he died, boy had
early grave
tattooed on his shoulder. Not just making conversation there, he actually had the words
early grave
tattooed on his shoulder. He asked for it, he got it. Still.

—Web.

—Still, it's gonna be a bitch explaining how he died. S'pose I'll say he got crushed under a train or something. Tell her we were taking a load off a boxcar on a sidin' and he tripped up and went under another as it was pulling out on the opposite tracks. Somethin' long those lines. Make it clear why there's no body to bring back.