The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 39

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

He tilted his head.

-OKaaaaaay. So, Mr. Scary a.s.shole, 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 s.h.i.+t. 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. nothing. You will, in fact, be getting your sister. You will, in fact, be getting your sister.

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

-OK, fine. So how do we?

He picked up the gun.

-With this. Motherf.u.c.kers 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 Boyz N the Hood if I'm not mistaken. 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. .h.i.tting 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.

-Bulls.h.i.+t. 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 s.h.i.+t. 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 f.u.c.king 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.

-f.u.c.k that.

-Fine, f.u.c.k it. Forget the deal then. Go shoot it out. Get all the respect you want. s.h.i.+t wears well in the grave.

-Maaan.

He set the gun on the dash.

-s.h.i.+t. f.u.c.king sister. f.u.c.king 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. s.h.i.+t. 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 s.h.i.+t.

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, a.s.shole?

-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 doc.u.ments.

-No, a.s.shole, I'm jerking your chain because I want to spent more time in your company. Yes, really. 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? f.u.c.k him. Some c.h.i.n.k? f.u.c.k does he know? Not like he's paid yet. Verbal agreement means s.h.i.+t. h.e.l.l, in my line, a contract contract barely means s.h.i.+t. Nothing is nothing till the cash is in your hand. barely means s.h.i.+t. 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? -Shenanigans?

-Yeah, it means.

-I know what the f.u.c.k 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 c.o.ke 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 a.s.sociation 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 f.u.c.k 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, a.s.shole? Can we leave now? I mean, before someone comes over and asks what the h.e.l.l we're doing here?