The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [75]
—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!
I stopped for the red light, looked at Jaime.
—Soledad's?
—Her pops, asshole.
—You hooked him up with Harris?
—What? No. You listen to anything? Told you I'm in movies. Old man Nye, he was a professional. Shipping and trade, man. Westline Freight Forwarding, man. That's what he did. You have something going overseas, Pacific Rim, you pay him a fee and he lines up shipping, all the paperwork, even find a buyer for some products. All that shit.
—But how's he? How'd they find him? I mean, why'd they go to a guy like that to smuggle almonds? Why'd they?
The light turned green. I didn't move.
—Why? Asshole, anyone with any savvy knows Westin Nye is the man to go to you got shit that needs to come clean through the Port of Long Beach. That's just smuggler's 101 in this state.
Drivers honked.
—So you worked for him?
—Fuck no. Asshole. I mean him, not you. I mean, he was OK, but he wouldn't let me work for him. No. I only got involved after he bit it.
He turned and flipped off the cars behind us, looked back at me.
—I mean, I never would have had this opportunity if Soledad hadn't asked me to step in after her pops ate his own bullet.
I looked at the road, took my foot from the brake and drove under the banners. The biggest one in red paint, Jenny, I promise I'll never do it again!
OTHER THINGS BLOWN
Down Gaffy, under crisscrossing phone lines, between once decorative and now weedy palms, past a glut of gas stations and fast-food places and the Ono Hawaiian BBQ, just across from the Payless Supershine Car-wash, but before the Club 111 at the Holiday Inn, Jaime pointed at the curb.
—Here.
And I parked us outside the one-stop shopping opportunity promised at the Bait-n-Liquor.
—Where's the can?
—Around. This is the first stop.
He opened the door and I grabbed his arm.
—I'm not waiting while you get stocked up on Malibu and go all shitfaced on me again.
He looked at my hand.
—Dude, I could just beat the hell out of you if I wanted to.
I didn't let go.
—Yeah. You could. So what?
He pulled his arm free.
—So come in. Fuck do I care. Just keep your mouth shut. Let a man conduct some business.
So I went in with him.
The shop was, as advertised, devoted to both bait and liquor. Although liquor seemed to have the upper hand.
Jaime raised his chin at the old salt central casting had sent up to play the proprietor.
—Homero.
Homero looked away from the screen of the laptop he was playing Free-Cell on, pushed up the brim of his fishing cap and took the pipe from between his teeth.
—Jaime.
He stuck out his hand. Jaime looked at it, took it.
Homero smiled.
—You come down to do some fishing, boy?
Jaime ducked his head.
—No, no, man. Just saying hey. Business, she calls as usual. No leisure.
Homero nodded, waved a fly from in front of his face.
—Sure, man. You want leisure, you got to grow old. No one young should be standing still. Sitting around with a fishing pole in your hand, that's for old men like me. You got to hustle up there, eh? Dog-eat-dog, that business, eh?
—You know it, man. And the more success, the harder you got to work. Everyone, they come for you.
—Gunning for the top dog. Yes, yes.
Homero smiled and nodded.
Jaime shifted from foot to foot.
—Homero, that stuff? You know?
The old man rubbed the stem of his pipe across his lips.
—Yes, yes.
—I need that now. It ready?
Homero tugged at the collar of his baggy V-neck T.
—Yes, yes.
He turned back to the laptop, closed his card game, opened a browser and typed in an address. From beneath the counter he uncoiled a cable and plugged it into the laptop. His index finger slipped across the touch pad as his thumb tapped left-right a few times, and a printer began to whir as the carriage zipped back and forth. The printer clicked