Charlie Huston - Sleepless

He had good reason to love his grandmother, as she’d undoubtedly just saved him from a severe maiming. Watching the Cambodian carefully set his meal atop the roof before boosting himself back onto his watchtower, I was sure she had seen as clearly as I the easy menace of a death squad veteran. Though she would have remembered the look from National Republican Alliance soldiers; it was much the same in the face of a former Khmer Rouge.

Vinnie completed the sale of the disputed fish to the Chinese housewife, gave the pan a final toss, emptied it into a wad of paper, and passed my dinner to me, steam rising, oil and fluid from the mussels already seeping through the bottom.

I tossed one of the smelts in my mouth, the skin popping, soft flesh all but melting, tiny bones crunching.

A perfect moment. But for the murderer atop the car.

Two of us in such close proximity was a grave imbalance of things. But such was the world now. It was not rare to find two sets of hands covered in so much blood dining at the same establishment. And it would become less rare with every passing day. Our numbers would grow. That was the shape of things.

Sad world.

Vinnie took advantage of a pause in the line of customers and pulled a can of Tecate from one of the coolers, popping it open as he came around the counter and lowered himself onto another of the buckets.

“Mara Salvatrucha cocksuckers. That kid, he brought his grandmother here to try and start shit. One of their jefes was by last week. They’re trying to lay claim to the fish trade. They already take a piece of every job down on the ports. All those empty shipping containers that piled up in ’08, ’09, MS-13 is running protection on the Inland Empire drought refugees FEMA has been stuffing into those things. Those are the lucky ones. Newcomers are being housed in the cars that never got off the docks when the dealers went belly up. Anyway, they run the ports, they think they should have a piece of anything that comes out of the Pacific. This punk, tattoos on his eyelids, like red monster eyes on his eyelids. His thing is, he tells you what he wants, what he’s gonna take from you, then he goes eye to eye with you, but he closes his eyes. Supposed to freak you out, those monster eyes, plus the idea that he’s so tough he can close his eyes in front of you and not worry about what you’re gonna do. Vireak there was over at the port-o-potties. And don’t think it was some damn coincidence that the asshole came around to baksheesh me while Vireak was taking a crap. So he tells me there’s a new tax on fish. They’re gonna be needing one pound out of every three I bring into the carnival. One-third of what my uncle Paulo and my cousins catch on my boat. A third of what I buy from the guys who ride their catches over from the piers every sundown. Guys who still hang their lines over the rail and put their catches in wicker creels and ride it here on bicycles. Not just from Venice and Santa Monica; I got a guy who rides up from Huntington. One-third. So he tells me that’s the new tax, and then he puts his face close to mine, and he closes his eyes. And stands there waiting for me to fold.”

I sucked a mussel from its shell, bit into it.

Vinnie took a long drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of a thick forearm stained with a faded blue network of nautical tattoos.

“So what I did was-”

He smiled, showing big square teeth the color of old scrimshaw.

“I went back to work. Asshole is standing there, ten, twenty seconds, half a minute maybe. People who’d been watching this go down, they’re starting to giggle. I’m fileting some yellowtail for the sushi guy down the way, asshole is standing there with his eyes closed. And he’s not alone. Got his posse with him. Three more assholes with face tattoos, standing there, they don’t know what to do. Looking at each other. What do we do? I don’t know. What they know is, none of them wants to be the one to tap jefe on the shoulder, have him open his eyes and see I’ve just thrown him a steaming pile of disrespect. No one wants to be looking at him when he realizes just how much face he’s lost. So they all stand around, the crowd is laughing now, and then the asshole opens his eyes.”

Vinnie spit between the scuffed toes of his chef’s clogs.

“He wanted to make a move pretty bad. But I had the filet knife in my hand, the meat hook right there where I could get to it. Him and his boys were packing God knows what, but none of them had fisted up. He knew he made a move, he was gonna get opened up asshole to gullet whether his boys capped me or not. So we did the Salvadoran/Italian-American standoff thing for a few seconds. Then Vireak came back from the crapper.”

He chugged the rest of his beer, crushed the can, tossed it back into the cooler he’d taken it from, and belched.

“And that was pretty much that. They shoved some old ladies around, stole a few oranges from the produce cart over there, swore I’d be eating my own cock within the week, and fucked off.”

He took a box of Ukrainian knockoff Salems from a pocket of his black-and-white checked pants and lit one with a disposable Chiapas Jaguares lighter.

“That asshole today was the first any of them have come back. Promise you, the play was supposed to be that he brought his grandma because she always starts some kind of argument with the baker or the butcher over prices. He was gonna step in, shank me, and get the fuck out. No one told him that even if he stuck me he was gonna end up dealing with Vireak. No one told him shit because I guarantee you that he’s someone’s asshole baby cousin and no one is looking out for his ass. They figure maybe he gets lucky and puts the knife in me and I take a dirt nap. Whether or not he gets wasted they don’t give a shit. Main thing is, they want me to know it’s not over. But they wanted at least for him to get his blade out and cut me a little. Something. Didn’t count on grandma being more savvy than all their asses combined. That old broad, she knew what the score was. Got her niño out of here. Good for her. Not that the world couldn’t have afforded one less asshole around, but good for her getting him out.”

He took a long drag and sent a plume of smoke up into the night.

“Good for her.”

I poked through the empty mussel shells, trying to find one I might not have already eaten, looking for a last shrimp or smelt hidden at the bottom, but alas, it was not to be. I balled the now sopping paper around the shells and tossed it into another of the white plastic buckets.

“Delicious, Vinnie.”

He flicked ash from his cigarette with a thumb callused and scarred by a thousand fishhooks.

“You let me, I’ll make you something for real. One of those bass, I’ll score it, pour some olive oil over it, rub in some sea salt and some pepper, shove a couple lemons inside, and drop the whole thing on the grill just like that. Get some red potatoes from the potato lady, wrap ’em in foil, drop ’em in the coals. Some arugula from the lettuce lady. When the bass is done, skin is crispy, the eyes are starting to pop out, I’ll put the fish over the greens, toss the potatoes with some oil and salt and pepper and some dill, put ’em on the side, give you a lemon. Eat it just like that. Grilled bass alla salad. Shit, I’ll even give you a real fork. You say the word, you can have that whenever you want.”

I held up my hands.

“It sounds more than delightful.”

I gestured at my rumpled slacks and jacket.

“But I’d have to come properly attired for such a feast. Evening clothes. Nothing less would do.”

He smiled.

“You do that; you put on your tux and come down here. I’ll find a tablecloth. Somewhere in here, someone is selling linens. I’ll get a tablecloth and a napkin you can tuck in your collar. Real class.”