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

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 fuck 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, asshole? Can we leave now? I mean, before someone comes over and asks what the hell we're doing here?

I waved a hand at the other cars parked on the edge of the road, the assortment of rubberneckers taking in the spectacle of our government's law enforcement community in the act of seizing control of the assets of what was, I gather, a rather extensive smuggling operation.

– So when you said that everyone knew Westin Nye was the man to talk to when you needed something shipped on the sly out of the Port of L.B., you really meant everyone.

One of the officers walked to the can Jaime had indicated to me. He inspected a seal, checked it against a clipboard in his hand, set the clipboard aside, and popped the seal.

Jaime dropped low again.

– Fuckfuckfuck.

The officer picked up his clipboard and looked from it to the stacked boxes inside.

I scratched my chin.

– So, what do you figure? They must have been onto Nye for a while. You think they had this planned, or did they decide to make a move after he killed himself?

– I don't fucking know, man. Can we just get the hell out of here? Can we just. Oh fuck!

He was looking at the envelope of documents in his lap.

– Fuck, I got to get rid of these.

He pulled the papers out and stuck them through the window.

I grabbed his wrist.

– Hang on, man.

– Hang on, my ass. I can't get caught with these.

I pointed at the officers and the plainclothes agents again.

– Dude, maybe throwing a sheaf of incriminating shipping documents out the window across the street from a huge smuggling bust is a bad call.

He pulled his hand back inside.

– OK, OK, but get us the fuck out of here.

I looked one last time at the scene, then put the Apache in gear and pulled into the road and turned around.

I hooked my thumb back at the load of almonds.

– By the way?

– Yeah?

– Once we gave them the paperwork and whatnot and they released the container?

– Yeah?

– Where were we going to get a truck, and do you know how to drive one?

He scooted lower in his seat.

– Just shut the fuck up.

– I'll take that as, it never even occurred to you.

– Harris has a truck and a driver.

– Yeah, but I just noticed he's not with us.

– Asshole, I know. I wanted to make sure they had the can out of the stacks and on a chassis and ready to roll. Far as Harris goes, all we needed to give him was these papers.

I paused at a stop sign.

– They would have gone for that?

He stared at the papers in his hand.

– Never gonna know now. Shit. Cost me a fucking G. Never gonna see that cash again.

I pointed us back at the 47.

– Jaime, not that I want to bother you with details at a time like this, but I think you're missing the point here.

He shook his head.

– No, man, I ain't forgot, I know this also means I'm out the twenty-two.

I didn't bother to make my point more clear. I mean, why bother? I was gonna force him to help me get his sister back no matter what, so why not let him wallow in his own misery for a while?

Someone screamed, more people screamed. I looked back at the terminal and saw a handful of small ragged men and women scattering from one of the cans, more of them popping from its top, the assorted officers of the law chasing them, brandishing arms and yelling commands. Something fell from the top of the fence along the road, got up and sprinted in front of us and I pounded the brake to keep from running over the fleeing Chinese boy in filthy clothes. A siren fired up and a LBHP vehicle took off after him.

Jaime shook his head.

– Fuckin’ Chink wetbacks, man. Two weeks in a can and take their chances on the other side.

He pointed at the terminal where the CBP officers had the illegals down on the ground.

– Soledad's old man, he liked to have a finger in every pie, man.

– Cops? Why the fuck would you call the cops?

I fingered my knife and thought about sticking it in his ear. But it was plastic and would probably break before it went deep enough to hit his brain. And beside, even if I jammed it in there, I was uncertain it would do any real damage.

– No, you're right, Jamie, come to think of it, kidnapping is really more of a matter for the FBI.

– The FBI? Why would you want to call them?

I looked at my plastic fork, thought about jabbing him in the eye with it to get him to focus for a second. I settled for talking slowly instead.

– Jaime, I'm not saying I want to call the FBI. I'm saying I will call them if you don't help me.

He took another bite of the crappy diner burrito one should expect when one orders Mexican food at a place called Jim's Burgers.

– Fuck should I help you? You're threatening to call the cops on me.

– Other than the brotherly desire to help your sister?

I poked at my own burrito with the plastic fork.

– There's the added incentive that I'll still give you the money.

His ears jumped up a half inch and rotated slightly in my direction.

– Money?

– Help me with this, and I'll still give it to you.

He stuffed the last bite of greasy burrito in his mouth.

– Come on, man, there was never any question about me helping out. I mean, you want to give me the cash, I'll take it, but it's not like I was gonna let Soledad be fucked up or anything.

I nodded.

– Naturally. How could there be any question of that.

I got up from the table.

– I'm gonna make a call.

He wiped his mouth and got up.

– Take your time, I'm gonna get some of that action.

He headed for the aging Mortal Kombat machine at the back of the diner, and I headed for the door and out to the parking lot.

If not for the cranes on the skyline, the corner of Anaheim and North Henry Ford could be in any corroding stretch of the rustbelt. I stood in the middle of the lot and watched a driver pull his truck into one of the stalls at the wash and start hosing the road film off his Peterbilt. Another driver, done with the wash, ambled across the lot to Dreams, the obligatory strip club. I wondered if the same hooker that'd serviced L.L. still worked this spot. She'd be long in the tooth, but that wasn't much of an impairment in this locale. It would likely take a head-to-toe outer coat of leprosy to keep a working girl from scoring a date here at the northeastern rim of the Port.

And more than that to keep L.L. from giving her a try.

The hinterlands of the far western edge of the world, Web. I tell you, if I'd been on my toes, those years I wasted teaching I would have spent here learning something about myself. This is a place to test the limits of a man. His endurance and fortitude, his ability to stare into the abyss and have it stare back into him. Look at it, grotesque and magnificenti A paved waste of trade and industry. The end of the road for America, Web. The jumping point to other, older cultures. Inhale. Breathe deep. Smell that? Smell the sea air tainted by oil and gas fumes? That's what the world smelled like when life was first being formed. A place for new beginnings, son, a place to find out who you are. Here, pass me another of those Löwenbräus.