The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

THE WORLD WITHOUT ME

– Cut you bad, cut you like Rambo cuts a redneck.

– Yeah, sure, I know. To avoid that, Ill stay over here.

– Cut you like I cut that other motherfucker.

I sat on the stripped mattress.

– Yeah, about him, you may find that its in your best interest not to brag overmuch about how you cut him.

Jaime emptied his nip bottle of Malibu and added the empty to the vast array of them heaped at his feet. To judge by the population density around his chair, and by the paths worn through them between the chair and the door and the bathroom, hed apparently done little since I last saw him other than drink Malibu, void his bladder to make room for more, and stumble to the liquor store on the corner for fresh supplies. Hed most certainly not had the maid in during any of his sojourns out.

He felt in the plastic bag in his lap, found it lacking, turned it inside out, found it still lacking, and dropped it on the floor.

– Well how the fuck ‘bout that. Aint that a bitch?

He pawed in his pockets and found the twenty Id just given him in order to persuade him to let me into the room.

– Need to go hit the store. Back in a sec.

He stood with the great care and instability of the tragically inebriated. I watched him take a step and place his foot squarely on a couple empty bottles that rolled from beneath him, and let gravity take it from there.

– Ow! Fuck! That hurts.

I got off the bed and walked over and held out a hand.

– Cmon.

He took my hand and I pulled him halfway up and let go and watched Newtonian physics at work again.

– Ow! Fuck!

– Sorry. My bad.

I stuck out my hand. He took it. I pulled and let go.

With anticipated results.

– Ow!

– Whoops.

I stuck out my hand. He eyed it. And decided, I imagine, that based on a model of the universe drawn from the Hollywood catalogue, no one could be so cruel as to intentionally abuse a poor drunk in such a manner.

I proved him wrong.

– Ow!

I held out my hand.

He slapped at it. Missed.

– Fuck you. Fuckin.

He got to all fours, crawled to his chair and climbed back aboard, where he knew hed be safe.

– Cut you bad, motherfucker.

I bent over and picked up the knife that had fallen from his back pocket.

– You might want this.

I tossed it on his lap.

He looked at it.

– Right. Thanks.

He picked up the plastic bag from the floor and stuck his hand inside.

– How the fuck ‘bout that.

He dropped the empty bag.

– Fuckin’ tragedy that is.

He pushed himself up, the knife falling to the floor.

– Gonna go hit the store.

I put a finger in his chest and pushed and he dropped back in the chair.

– Jaime, that guy you cut. Talbot.

– Yeah, weakass Talbot, cut him bad.

– What did you steal from Talbot and his friend?

He squinted.

– Fuck you talking ‘bout? Didnt steal shit. ‘M a producer. I facilitate the vision of the talent. Bring it together with the money.

I kicked some bottles aside and picked up something from the floor and held between my thumb and forefinger and showed it to him.

– What about this?

He looked at it, looked hard.

– Fuckin’ almond.

– Right the first time. What can you tell me about it?

He grinned, winked.

– Sa nut.

I nodded.

– Yeah. Dead on. But a little outside the point. What Im getting at here, Jaime, is why would someone kidnap your sister and, just out of pique as far as I can gather, kill Talbot over some nuts?

– I didnt kill Talbot. Jus’ cut his ass up.

– Sure, cut him bad. Cut him like he was a Turkish prisoner in Midnight Express. But his buddy or boss or whatever, the guy who looks like Sam Elliot without the moustache, he killed him.

His eyes flicked back and forth a couple times, looking for connections between things that seemed impossible to unite.

– Killed him? Harris killed Talbot?

– Is Harris a tall cowboy with a big gun?

– Yeah.

– Then Im going to go out on a limb and say that yes, he is the one who killed Talbot.

He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

– Damn. Thats. Damn. Thats fucked up.

– Yeah. Especially when you take into account that he beat him to death with my telephone.

His face scrunched, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, he stuck out his tongue.

I recognized certain signs Id seen many times in college, and took a big step back as he bent over the side of the chair and heaved a half gallon of Malibu rum onto the floor.

I edged from the puddle.

– Think its bad to think about, you should have seen it.

He shook his head.

– No, no, man, aint that bothers me. Just.

He spat.

– Its just that Harris is Talbots uncle thats so fucked up.

He flopped back in the chair, wiped pinkish vomit from his chin, and threw up in his lap.

I went for towels, assuming wed have to shoot this again.

– Almonds, Jaime.

He swallowed the last of the water from the glass Id gotten for him, and held out the empty.

– They stole ‘em.

I took the glass and passed him a damp towel. The only towel left in the room that wasnt draped over the huge pool of rum puke.

– Stole what?

– Almonds, asshole. Thats what youre asking, right?

I sat back on the bed, at as safe a distance from the stink of his vomit as I could manage. Id contemplated cleaning it up, but decided Id reached my limits on cleaning other peoples messes for the day. In theory, after all, I was here to clean my own mess. Or exert some kind of influence over my own life. Or some shit like that. I thought it best to keep that in mind.

So, by focusing relentlessly on the idea that I may have been responsible for the grinding inertia that was carrying me away from anyone and anything Id ever cared about, I was able to reverse my usual view of things, which made it appear as though I were standing still, resolutely my own man, unchangeable, inured and immune to the blows of life, while the rest of the world went on without me, unable to support the idea that it could not live up to my standards.

But it wasnt easy to maintain that focus, especially when I was having to fight off a series of fantasies wherein I was capable in matters of fisticuffs and gave Jaime the proper thrashing he so clearly deserved.

I coughed into my hand.

– Yes, allowing that I am indeed an asshole, it is what I was asking. Im sure, now that youve had a moment to clear your head, and, you know, upchuck on yourself, that youll understand how I might be confused about the notion of almond thieves.

He rubbed the towel over his bared teeth, scrubbing away a film of bile.

– Asshole, they stole like a can of them.

– Sure, I got that part. See, Harris, before he murdered his nephew, was very clear that he wanted his can back. So Id managed to put together can and almonds and come up with can full of almonds, but Im still not connecting that to kidnapping and killing. Im dim on matters of criminal enterprise. You seem to have this kind of behavior all locked up. Care to enlighten me as to how a can of almonds is worth all the bother?

He stared.

– You are such a huge asshole. You always talk like that?

– Mostly its only when Im stressed. Or when Im not so subtly making fun of someone I think is an idiot. In this case, Im engaged in both endeavors.

– Asshole.

– Yeah, takes one to know one.

– See, that I get.

– Almonds. Can. I mean, are there diamonds hidden below the almonds or something?

He threw the towel on the floor, got up and pulled off his pukey shirt.

– Asshole, a can is a cargo container.

– You buy any almonds lately?

– No.

– Well you should. Theyre like full of good cholesterol.

I watched as he dug clean socks from his backpack.

– Did I mention they kidnapped your sister?

He sat on the bed and pulled the socks on.

– See, because theyre so high in HDL, people are crazy for almonds right now. Put them out on the crafts table and the talent eats them by the handful. Can of almonds is like eight bucks. Like a regular size can, I mean.

He rose and tucked the tails of his clean Ed Hardy shirt into his equally clean Ed Hardy jeans, both garments covered in commodified Ed Hardy tattoo tigers.

– Cali produces so many fucking almonds, like a billion fucking pounds a year or something, business is booming. Its like we export nothing but airplanes and produce. And movies, man.

He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower hed taken.

– All these places, China, Spain, Portugal, India, they love fucking 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? Fucking guess.

I shrugged.

– No idea.

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

– Right, you have no idea. Whos the fucking genius now, asshole?

– You, you, youre the fucking supergenius.

– Right, I am. Deal with numbers, thats 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.

– Fucking right no clue. So let me clue you in, asshole. Forty-four fucking thousand pounds. Want some help with the math?

I didnt 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 hed 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, asshole. Thats how much that truck full of almonds is worth. And as expediter on this deal, Im 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, asshole?

I stood up.

– Its 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 fuck you. Oh! Oh! Those assholes, I am gonna cut their asses. No, man, I am gonna sue their asses!

His hand went to the pocket where his knife could usually be found, didnt 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.

– Shit. I loved that knife.

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

– Its my roommates.

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

I unlocked the door.

– Yeah, hes cool.

I climbed in.

– But he doesnt let me borrow his truck.

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

– Snaking the roomies ride, huh, asshole?

I started her up.

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

Like, which would be worse?

A) Explaining to Chev all the fucked up shit 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 hed 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 asshole riding in the truck with me.

And Soledad.

But that wasnt my fault.

And least I was pretty damn sure it wasnt. Then again, by driving her away after wed had sex, I sent her outside into the arms of the guys who kidnapped her. Lets just say that blame on the last one was difficult to assign 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, youve displayed your puking expertise and I dont want to see you going for a perfect score in my friends truck.

He folded his arms.

– This is my production, man, you want to go indie on it, be my guest. But I dont get a pick-me-up, youre gonna get fuckall from me in the way of help getting my sister back.

I punched him.

Now, I dont want to mislead, it wasnt 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 fucker. Well, hit might be a better word. OK, more accurately, it was kind of a slap.

But I slapped him hella hard, man.

He touched his shoulder where Id slapped him.

– What the fuck was that?

I slapped him again.

He raised a hand.

– Dude.

I slapped him again.

He slapped me back.

– Cool it, asshole.

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.

– Asshole, what the fuck?

I came out of the truck after him.

– Shes your sister, fucker.

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 dick ever and you got involved in some stupid shit with some real criminals and now shes kidnapped and youre acting like it doesnt matter.

He stopped running, turned to face me.

– Asshole, what are you talking about?

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

– Im talking about taking some fucking responsibility for your actions, asshole.

Irony noted.

He had his own fist primed and ready to fly.

– Asshole, taking resfonsihilityi I mean, its not like she wasnt involved in this shit from the beginning.

I lowered my fist.

He smiled.

– Oh, she didnt tell you that one?

I shook my head.

He nodded.

– Asshole.

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.

– So what? Still you started it.

He finished off the half pint of Malibu hed 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 ass kicked.

He tossed the empty bottle on the ground, shattering it over a parking space.

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

– Fuck 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. Sooooeeeyyy They get as far as L.A., youll see them standing outside the corner 7-Eleven bumming 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 assumed hed pop it in his mouth for a snack.

– Harris and his clan, theyre 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 Ill crash this plane into the Sears Tower"}

He went digging for another nose nugget.

– No, asshole, like, get out of the cab of this fucking truck and give me the manifest or Ill shove this gauge up your ass 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.

– 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.

– Theres a real market for quality bull jizz. Thought about going into that market. My own brand. Jaimes Horny Homegrown.

He pumped his fist in front of his crotch.

– Jizz like mine, probably get a bull pregnant as easy as a chick.

– Cow.

– Huh?

– You dont get bulls pregnant. You get cows pregnant. I mean, if you have a thing for fucking 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.

– Fuck you, asshole. Im 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 wasnt suggesting you were gay. I was suggesting that you liked to fuck bulls. The two are not in the least related.

– Bulls have dicks.

I looked at him.

– Are we having this conversation?

He stuck his finger in my face.

– Bulls have dicks. If I like to fuck bulls, Im 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, hes not gay. Just likes to fuck bulls.

He popped out of the seat.

– Listen, asshole!

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! Fuck! Shit! Ow!

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

– You OK there?

– Ow. Shit, my head, man.

– 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 Im the best driver in the universe, when in fact I probably shouldnt 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, hell 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 dont doubt that. Whered 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 producers 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. Hes got some place in Stanislaus County where he can park the trucks once theyre 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.

– Youre half Mexican, yeah?

– What?

– Your mom is Mexican?

– Dude, dont talk about my moms.

– No, I mean.

– And shes American. Im American. Im of half-Mexican descent, but Im 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, Yongs 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 dont 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 You Tube for over a week. Fucking sensation. They shot this thing about a dog eating its own shit, it was hysterical. Made it for nothing. Im 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. Im gonna pay these kids a couple grand and theyre gonna make these videos of animals eating their own shit, and Im 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 Ill expand after we attract more capital. Kids are gonna make me rich. And Im gonna own everything they do. Fuckers didnt 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 dont know, thirteen maybe. But they have talent. Raw. Think its easy to get a dog to eat its own shit? Let alone a, I dont 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. Thats 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?

– Youll probably get rich off shit-eating animals.

He grinned.

– Yeah, and thats 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 Im 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 habitues of the movie-making community swap pitches, I couldnt really argue with him.

– Sure, when youre an Internet success, you can parlay it into a TV show.

– Feature, man.

– Sure. But its light on plot details. Like howd 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, Im 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 didnt want to have that shit sitting around while his cousins cousins cousins 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 Soledads 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.

– Soledads?

– Her pops, asshole.

– You hooked him up with Harris?

– What? No. You listen to anything? Told you Im in movies. Old man Nye, he was a professional. Shipping and trade, man. Westline Freight Forwarding, man. Thats 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 hows he? Howd they find him? I mean, whyd they go to a guy like that to smuggle almonds? Whyd they?

The light turned green. I didnt 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. Thats just smugglers 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 wouldnt 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 hadnt 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 Ill never do it again!