Charlie Huston - The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– 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.

– 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, he'll 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 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 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.

– 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 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, Yong's 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 don't 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. 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 shit, and I'm 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 I'll expand after we attract more capital. Kids are gonna make me rich. And I'm gonna own everything they do. Fuckers 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?

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

– You'll probably get rich off shit-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 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 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 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 didn't want to have that shit 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 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 Soledad's 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!