The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 36

-So what? Still you started it.

He finished off the half pint of Malibu he'd gone across the street for while I collected myself from the ground after he punched me and reopened, yet again, the cut on my forehead.

-I seem to be developing this brand-new talent for getting my a.s.s kicked.

He tossed the empty bottle on the ground, shattering it over a parking s.p.a.ce.

-That a new talent? Way you got it mastered, I figured you to be an old hand.

-f.u.c.k off and tell me where the almonds are.

-Harris is from way up north. Paradise or one of those hick redneck mountain towns like that. Ozarks of the West, man. Guys come down from those hills, they mostly got like three teeth, a wandering eye, cleft palate, and third-degree syphilis. Straight out of Deliverance. Deliverance. Sooooeeeyyy They get as far as L.A., you'll see them standing outside the corner 7-Eleven b.u.mming change so they can buy a taco-dog. Losers. Sooooeeeyyy They get as far as L.A., you'll see them standing outside the corner 7-Eleven b.u.mming change so they can buy a taco-dog. Losers.

Jaime punctuated his last comment by taking his finger from his nostril and flicking a hard-won booger out the window. I chalked that up to good breeding. Having a.s.sumed he'd pop it in his mouth for a snack.

-Harris and his clan, they're mostly hijackers.

I looked from the rearview, where I was eyeballing the latest in a long line of cars with their noses shoved up the rear of the slow-rolling Apache, as we switched from the 405 North to the 110 South to San Pedro.

-Hijackers? What, like, Release twenty of my fellow believers or I'll crash this plane into the Sears Tower Release twenty of my fellow believers or I'll crash this plane into the Sears Tower?

He went digging for another nose nugget.

-No, a.s.shole, like, get out of the cab of this f.u.c.king truck and give me the manifest or I'll shove this gauge up your a.s.s and blow your torso open. get out of the cab of this f.u.c.king truck and give me the manifest or I'll shove this gauge up your a.s.s and blow your torso open. Trucks. They hijack trucks. Boost farm equipment. Tractors. Irrigation pipe. Fertilizer. Do some rustling now and then from what Talbot said. Trucks. They hijack trucks. Boost farm equipment. Tractors. Irrigation pipe. Fertilizer. Do some rustling now and then from what Talbot said.

-Rustling? No way.

-Way. Not like herds or anything. Just when they get a shot at a couple studs, they boost 'em.

He grinned, flicked more snot.

-There's a real market for quality bull j.i.z.z. Thought about going into that market. My own brand. Jaime's h.o.r.n.y Homegrown.

He pumped his fist in front of his crotch.

-j.i.z.z like mine, probably get a bull pregnant as easy as a chick.

-Cow.

-Huh?

-You don't get bulls pregnant. You get cows pregnant. I mean, if you have a thing for f.u.c.king bulls you should just come out in the open with it. Kind of thing was frowned on at one time, but people are far more open and accepting now.

-f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole. I'm not gay.

I stuck my hand out the window and flipped off the driver of an overdeveloped Italian sports car as he blasted past us, leaning on his horn.

-I wasn't suggesting you were gay. I was suggesting that you liked to f.u.c.k bulls. The two are not in the least related.

-Bulls have d.i.c.ks.

I looked at him.

-Are we having this conversation?

He stuck his finger in my face.

-Bulls have d.i.c.ks. If I like to f.u.c.k bulls, I'm gay.

I turned back to the road.

-Have it your own way.

He leaned into the seat.

-Just saying, I am not gay.

-Like I said, as you wish. Anyone asks, I got the information. Jaime? No, he's not gay. Just likes to f.u.c.k bulls. Jaime? No, he's not gay. Just likes to f.u.c.k bulls.

He popped out of the seat.

-Listen, a.s.shole!

I jammed on the brakes and he flew into the steel dash. I floored the gas and he bounced back onto the seat, cracking his head against the rear cab window.

-Ow! f.u.c.k! s.h.i.t! Ow!

I dropped back into my slow, steady, road rage inducing, pace.

-You OK there?

-Ow. s.h.i.t, my head, man.

-Yeah. Better chill. Maybe buckle up.

-You did that on f.u.c.king purpose.

I nodded.

-Yes, Jaime, I did. And I am, take note, still 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 b.u.mper car. 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 b.u.mper car.

-a.s.shole.

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 s.h.i.t with him, he'll f.u.c.k you up. Unforgiven Unforgiven style. 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 s.h.i.t 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 f.u.c.king American. Talk about wetbacks all I want. Give me that politically correct bulls.h.i.t. I hate that s.h.i.t.

-Yeah. Again, my bad.

-Right it is. Talk about my moms. f.u.c.k you up. s.h.i.t.

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 ma.s.sive 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, a.s.shole. My business is movies. Films are f.a.g s.h.i.t comes in from Europe or out of New York. Films don't make box office for s.h.i.t 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 s.h.i.t. I expedite relationships that help create financing opportunities for my movie projects.

-So Harris wants to get into the industry?

-No, a.s.shole. 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. f.u.c.king sensation. They shot this thing about a dog eating its own s.h.i.t, 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 s.h.i.t, and I'm gonna stream them over a dedicated website where people have to subscribe for the service.

-Wait, a website dedicated to s.h.i.t-eating animals?

-No, a.s.shole, dedicated to humorous clips. s.h.i.t-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. f.u.c.kers 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? kids?

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

-They got a parakeet to eat its own s.h.i.t?

-Well, no, still working on that one. But they got mad footage of dogs eating their own s.h.i.t. They mix Alpo into it. That's the secret.

Beyond the ma.s.sed 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 s.h.i.t-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 s.h.i.t-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 habitues 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 a.s.shole. 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 s.h.i.t 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 f.u.c.ked him up and took off with the loaded truck. But the third cousin, he 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. 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. He found you.

-What? h.e.l.ls no. He found Soledad's dad.

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

I stopped for the red light, looked at Jaime.

-Soledad's?

-Her pops, a.s.shole.

-You hooked him up with Harris?