The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [76]
He held them up, both sheets dense with print, and pointed at a bar code.
—They're gonna have to scan this. Your driver gotta show his license, but this is what they're going to scan. OK?
He came from behind the counter and passed the papers to Jaime.
Jaime took them and folded them in half.
—That other thing?
Homero nodded and walked to a row of Styrofoam coolers sitting on upended milk crates down one wall of the shop.
He waved me aside.
—Make way, make way.
I scooted and he shuffled past, down the row of coolers to the last one.
He took the lid off and set it aside and looked back down the shop at Jaime.
—You talk to your mama?
Jaime was staring at the rum bottles behind the counter, he kept staring at them.
—Sure. All the time.
The old man stuck his hand into the cooler.
—Good. You're a good son.
He pulled his hand from the cooler, the tentacles of a small squid wrapped around his wrist, a plastic bag dripping water between his fingers.
—Your mama, she take care of you, then you take care of your mama. So many sons, they don't know that.
He peeled the squid free, looked at me.
—For the sharks. Gray smoothhound. Leopard.
He dropped the squid back inside the cooler.
—Maybe for guitarfish.
He put the lid back on the cooler and came back to the front of the store with the dripping bag.
I made way for him and he walked past, wiping one hand on his T.
—Or mackerel. A nice bloody piece of mackerel for rays and for sharks.
He circled back around the counter, untwisting the neck of the bag.
—Jaime, what did I teach you for croaker? When your mama left you with me? What did I teach you?
Jaime never stopped looking at the booze.
—Mussels. Bloodworms. Ghost shrimp. Live ghost shrimp for croaker.
Homero smiled, putting a hand inside the bag and coming out with a zippered vinyl bank envelope.
—Mussels are easiest. Dig them up.
He showed Jaime the envelope.
—But ghost shrimp are best.
Jaime reached for the envelope, the old man pulled it back.
—Still owe a hundred.
Jaime knuckled the corner of his mouth.
—Gave you a grand.
—Yes, yes. Paid the grand. That was for the paperwork.
He nodded at the cooler full of squid.
—For storage, it's another hundred.
Jaime looked at me.
—You got a C?
—What?
—You want this deal greenlighted or what? I need a hundred fucking dollars.
I went in my pocket for what was left of the cash Po Sin had paid me the last couple days, what I hadn't spent or given to Chev.
—I got seventy-nine and some change.
I walked over and dropped it on the counter. Jaime looked at it, looked at the old man.
The old man shrugged and handed Jaime the envelope.
—You owe me the rest.
He scooped the money from the counter.
—Don't forget, ghost shrimp for croaker.
Jaime headed for the door, I followed.
Homero opened his cash register to put the money inside.
—And tell your mama I said hi.
Jaime pushed out the door, mouth closed, waiting for me at the truck until I unlocked his door. He jerked it open and climbed in.
I walked around and got in and put the key in the ignition.
—Uncle or something?
He shook his head.
—Mom's first pimp.
He looked at me.
—Croaker is the worst fucking fish in the world. Rather eat shit.
He looked out the window at the old man waving from inside the shop.
—Rather eat shit like a fucking dog.
—What went wrong?
Jaime took his eyes from the water below us as I worked the Apache up the steep incline of the bridge, past the parti-colored bulk of a Swedish cruise ship moored on our right.
—Mean, what went wrong? Motherfucker turned her out. That's what went wrong. Not that I give a fuck. Bitch wanted to whore, that's her business. Not like she stuck with it anyway. Moms is talent. Adult films. Got a name.
Feeling, I will admit, more than a bit awkward, I clarified.
—No, I mean, what went wrong with the almond deal? Why'd you cut Talbot and all that?
He played with the zipper on the envelope.
—That shit. What went wrong. What went wrong with that