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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 very 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