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—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.

—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