—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? Didn't 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 I'm 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 didn't 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 I'm 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. That's. Damn. That's 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 I'd 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 it's bad to think about, you should have seen it.
He shook his head.
—No, no, man, ain't that bothers me. Just.
He spat.
—It's just that Harris is Talbot's uncle that's 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 we'd have to shoot this again.
—Almonds, Jaime.
He swallowed the last of the water from the glass I'd 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 wasn't draped over the huge pool of rum puke.
—Stole what?
—Almonds, asshole. That's what you're asking, right?
I sat back on the bed, at as safe a distance from the stink of his vomit as I could manage. I'd contemplated cleaning it up, but decided I'd reached my limits on cleaning other people's 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 I'd 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 wasn't 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. I'm sure, now that you've had a moment to clear your head, and, you know, upchuck on yourself, that you'll 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 I'd managed to put together can and almonds and come up with can full of almonds, but I'm still not connecting that to kidnapping and killing. I'm 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 it's only when I'm stressed. Or when I'm not so subtly making fun of someone I think is an idiot. In this case, I'm 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. They're 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 they're 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. It's like we export nothing but airplanes and produce. And movies, man.
He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower he'd 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. Who's the fucking genius now, asshole?
—You, you, you're the fucking 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.
—Fucking right no clue. So let me clue you in, asshole. Forty-four fucking 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 v
ery 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, asshole. 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, asshole?
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 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, 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.
—Shit. 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, asshole?
I started her up.
Granted, yes, I had taken Chev's 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 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 asshole riding in the truck with me.
And Soledad.
But that wasn't my fault.
And least I was pretty damn sure it wasn't. Then again, by driving her away after we'd had sex, 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 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, 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 fuckall 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 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 I'd 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.
—She's 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 she's kidnapped and you're acting like it doesn't 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.
—I'm talking about taking some fucking responsibility for your actions, asshole.
Irony noted.
He had his own fist primed and ready to fly.
—Asshole, taking responsibility? I mean, it's not like she wasn't involved in this shit from the beginning.
I lowered my fist.
He smiled.
—Oh, she didn't 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 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 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., you'll 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 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?
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 I'll 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.
—There's a real market for quality bull jizz. Thought about going into that market. My own brand. Jaime's 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 don't 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. 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 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, 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 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 I'm the best driver in the universe, when in fact I probably shouldn't 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.
The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death Page 18