The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [80]
—What now?
He took the papers he'd gotten from Homero and slipped them inside the envelope.
—Now we cruise over to Terminal F and check out the can.
I pulled to a stop at Ferry.
—Really?
He bapped my forehead with the documents.
—No, asshole, I'm jerking your chain because I want to spent more time in your company. Yes, really.
He held up the papers.
—That was what Homero was doing, getting the export order changed so we can get that can back.
—What about the buyer?
—What? Fuck him. Some Chink? Fuck does he know? Not like he's paid yet. Verbal agreement means shit. Hell, in my line, a contract barely means shit. Nothing is nothing till the cash is in your hand.
He fingered the papers.
—Think of it, maybe I should get him to front some of the money for the almonds.
I shook my head.
—No way, man. No more complications. I'm gonna pay you off. But that's it. No double dipping. No shenanigans. —Shenanigans?
—Yeah, it means.
—I know what the fuck it means, I'm just trying to figure how someone born this side of a Lucky Charms commercial thinks it's OK to talk like that.
I pointed up and down the street.
—Just tell me which way to the can.
He pointed toward a smaller terminal, beyond a series of huge blue sheds connected by an enclosed conveyer belt through which petroleum coke was being moved to a container vessel.
—Over yonder, at the foot of that there rainbow we'll find me pot-o-gold.
I put the truck in gear. More than slightly delighted at the prospect that getting the truck was going to be considerably less trouble than I'd been afraid of.
Of such delights are dreams made.
Parked just under the 710, we watched the uniformed officers of Customs and Border Protection, plainclothes detectives from Immigration and Customs Enforcement a well-armed Anti-Terrorism Contraband Enforcement Team, and members of the Long Beach Harbor Patrol as they systematically and, I must say quite efficiently impounded every last bit of cargo on Terminal F that had any association with Westline Freight Forwarding.
I pointed at a can.
—That one?
—No.
I pointed at another can.
—That one?
—No.
I pointed at another can.
—That one?
Jaime scooted further down in his seat as another CBP car rolled past us and through the gate.
—No, that's not our can. And why the fuck do you care at this point?
I shrugged.
—I don't know, I just thought it'd be nice to know where that pot-o-gold is.
He peeked over the edge of the window frame and pointed.
—That one. OK, asshole? Can we leave now? I mean, before someone comes over and asks what the hell we're doing here?
I waved a hand at the other cars parked on the edge of the road, the assortment of rubberneckers taking in the spectacle of our government's law enforcement community in the act of seizing control of the assets of what was, I gather, a rather extensive smuggling operation.
—So when you said that everyone knew Westin Nye was the man to talk to when you needed something shipped on the sly out of the Port of L.B., you really meant everyone.
One of the officers walked to the can Jaime had indicated to me. He inspected a seal, checked it against a clipboard in his hand, set the clipboard aside, and popped the seal.
Jaime dropped low again.
—Fuckfuckfuck.
The officer picked up his clipboard and looked from it to the stacked boxes inside.
I scratched my chin.
—So, what do you figure? They must have been onto Nye for a while. You think they had this planned, or did they decide to make a move after he killed himself?
—I don't fucking know, man. Can we just get the hell out of here? Can we just. Oh fuck!
He was looking at the envelope of documents in his lap.
—Fuck, I got to get rid of these.
He pulled the papers out and stuck them through the window.
I grabbed his wrist.
—Hang on, man.
—Hang on, my ass. I can't get caught with these.
I pointed at the officers and the plainclothes agents again.
—Dude, maybe throwing a sheaf of incriminating shipping documents out the window across the street from a huge smuggling bust is a bad call.