The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 35

He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower he'd taken.

-All these places, China, Spain, Portugal, India, they love f.u.c.king almonds. Buy like seventy million pounds of California almonds a year. But with increased U.S. demand, they have to pay a higher premium.

He took a bottle of some kind of hair product from his bag, sprayed into his hand, and began shaping his hair into a wedge.

-Know what almonds wholesale for on the open market? f.u.c.king guess.

I shrugged.

-No idea.

He looked in the mirror, tweaked the angle of the fauxhawk.

-Right, you have no idea. Who's the f.u.c.king genius now, a.s.shole?

-You, you, you're the f.u.c.king supergenius.

-Right, I am. Deal with numbers, that's what I do.

He turned from the mirror.

-Six dollars a pound, man. Know how many pounds of almonds load into a shipping container? A marine container, I mean, a forty-footer.

-No clue.

-f.u.c.king right no clue. So let me clue you in, a.s.shole. Forty-four f.u.c.king thousand pounds. Want some help with the math?

I didn't need help with the math. I could do the math. And suddenly, it became very clear why Harris was willing to kidnap Soledad. Less clear about why he'd be so willing to kill his own nephew. But I figured that was a family matter more than anything else, and you just never knew what kind of history was involved there.

Jaime was nodding and smiling.

-Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a.s.shole. That's how much that truck full of almonds is worth. And as expediter on this deal, I'm in for ten percent. Twenty-two thousand.

I rubbed my nose.

-That what they offered?

-Huh?

-Ten percent, that what they offered?

-Huh? No. They. Wait. They offered the twenty-two. Said that was ten percent of the total haul.

-But. Never mind.

He came toward me.

-Never mind what, a.s.shole?

I stood up.

-It's just that six times forty-four thousand is two hundred sixty-four thousand.

He stood there.

I filled in the gap in his misunderstanding.

-Ten percent of that is twenty-six thousand and four hundred American greenbacks. But you go ahead and crunch the numbers and see what you come up with.

-What? The f.u.c.k you. Oh! Oh! Those a.s.sholes, I am gonna cut their a.s.ses. No, man, I am gonna sue their a.s.ses!

His hand went to the pocket where his knife could usually be found, didn't find it there.

I pointed at the towel-covered mess on the floor.

-Last I saw it, it was there.

He stared at the lump under the towel.

-s.h.i.t. I loved that knife.

-Nice ride. Could be a movie car. Make some extra ducats renting it out.

-It's my roommate's.

-Yeah, he lets you borrow it? Must be pretty cool, let you borrow a ride like this.

I unlocked the door.

-Yeah, he's cool.

I climbed in.

-But he doesn't let me borrow his truck.

Jamie got in and ran a hand over the custom leather bench seat Chev had put in.

-Snaking the roomie's ride, huh, a.s.shole?

I started her up.

Granted, yes, I had taken Chev's prized truck without permission. Granted this could be interpreted as snaking. snaking. But I was playing a perspective game with myself here. But I was playing a perspective game with myself here.

Like, which would be worse?

A) Explaining to Chev all the f.u.c.ked up s.h.i.t that was taking place? In which case he would feel obliged to become involved, and perhaps put himself at risk. In which case he might get hurt. In which case my already questionable mental stability might come crashing all around me.

Or B) Taking his truck and risking that he'd be utterly and finally through with me and amputate himself from me in the same manner he had amputated himself from L.L.? In which case my already question able mental stability might come crashing all around me.

OK, same net result. But option B had the wonderful advantage of being the one in which there was no actual risk to anyone except me and the a.s.shole riding in the truck with me.

And Soledad.

But that wasn't my fault.

And least I was pretty d.a.m.n sure it wasn't. Then again, by driving her away after we'd had s.e.x, I sent her outside into the arms of the guys who kidnapped her. Let's just say that blame on the last one was difficult to a.s.sign accurately. So I was going to dodge it as long as humanly possible.

Jaime pointed at the liquor store.

-Just pull in over there.

I shook my head.

-No.

-What? Why not?

-Because you just got sober enough to communicate. Plus, you've displayed your puking expertise and I don't want to see you going for a perfect score in my friend's truck.

He folded his arms.

-This is my production, man, you want to go indie on it, be my guest. But I don't get a pick-me-up, you're gonna get f.u.c.kall from me in the way of help getting my sister back.

I punched him.

Now, I don't want to mislead, it wasn't like it was a bone-crunching roundhouse that would have made the Duke proud, but I do want it recorded that I finally lost my cool and did punch the f.u.c.ker. Well, hit hit might be a better word. OK, more accurately, it was kind of a slap. might be a better word. OK, more accurately, it was kind of a slap.

But I slapped him h.e.l.la hard, man.

He touched his shoulder where I'd slapped him.

-What the f.u.c.k was that?

I slapped him again.

He raised a hand.

-Dude.

I slapped him again.

He slapped me back.

-Cool it, a.s.shole.

Then I kind of lost my cool for real and turned on the seat so my back was against the door and brought up my feet and started kicking him.

He opened his door and jumped out.

-a.s.shole, what the f.u.c.k?

I came out of the truck after him.

-She's your sister, f.u.c.ker.

He ran around to the other side of the Apache, trying to keep it between us.

-So what?

I ran after him and we circled the truck.

-So you are the biggest d.i.c.k ever and you got involved in some stupid s.h.i.t with some real criminals and now she's kidnapped and you're acting like it doesn't matter.

He stopped running, turned to face me.

-a.s.shole, what are you talking about?

I ran up to him, stopped, fist c.o.c.ked to throw my first real punch since junior high.

-I'm talking about taking some f.u.c.king responsibility for your actions, a.s.shole.

Irony noted.

He had his own fist primed and ready to fly.

-a.s.shole, taking responsibility? taking responsibility? I mean, it's not like she wasn't involved in this s.h.i.t from the beginning. I mean, it's not like she wasn't involved in this s.h.i.t from the beginning.

I lowered my fist.

He smiled.

-Oh, she didn't tell you that one?

I shook my head.

He nodded.

-a.s.shole.

And he punched me. A real punch. A roundhouse the Duke would have been proud of.

-What you get for hitting me.

-I slapped you.

-You kicked me.

-Not hard.