The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [95]
So instead I headed up the 110 toward home.
—I was getting these calls, these guys I knew my dad had a deal going with. He'd gotten involved with these truckers or something. It was a quick thing, I guess. Cash. A lot of it. And Dad, he liked the fast action, so he took it on. And now they called and I told them he was dead and they started freaking out. Threatening to go to the cops and. I don't know. I should have realized they wouldn't do that, but I was. Confused. I didn't. The cops. They would have dug into everything once they found out Dad was involved in that. I mean, these days, post 9/11, any kind of smuggling and I figured they'd dig up his whole life. I didn't want people to know. What had happened before. I didn't want them to know I had known. And that I'd confronted him. And what happened after. I.
She jammed the heels of her hands against her eyes and pressed.
I took the interchange to the 10 West, the traffic loop circling, a lone apartment building jutting high enough from its center for me to be able to see into an uncovered window on the top floor, a glimpse of a woman in front of a vanity mirror, rubbing away the day's makeup.
Soledad uncovered her eyes, looked around.
—Where are we?
I pointed north.
—I need to make a stop.
—Jaime stole the gun.
She was staring out the window at the gated faces of the businesses along Fairfax.
—I mean, I assume he did. He knew my dad had two. A set of them. Those pistols. They were fancy or something. Dad knew Jaime liked that kind of shit and showed them to him once. After I called and asked if he could help with the truckers and their fucking almonds and he came over, he must have stolen it from Dad's desk. The one the cops hadn't taken. The one Dad hadn't used.
We passed the Silent Movie Theater just before Melrose. Her Grave Mistake on the marquee.
Soledad read it and turned and smiled at me.
—Now that's funny.
—I was with him at the motel. When I called you to clean up after Talbot. I didn't take a cab down there. I went with him to meet the guys to make sure Jaime didn't completely screw things up. I mean, by then I was a little more clearheaded. Fuck. If it had just been a matter of sending the almonds on their way, I could have done that. If it had been legal, I could have done that. But I didn't know what to do with a load like that. What precautions to take. And Jaime, he's the only, you know, shifty character I know.
She blew her nose into an already damp Kleenex.
—Except for my dad, I mean.
We crossed Sunset, climbed toward Hollywood Boulevard.
—And he screwed it up. I kept telling him to settle down, we'd pay for the stupid motel room and the food and whatever. But he'd been drinking. And he has to have things exactly his way. It's like he gets a picture of how it should all work, and if it doesn't work that way he freaks out. More baggage from our mom.
I took a left onto Hollywood.
—I met her first pimp.
She looked at me.
—Homero?
I stopped at the light.
—The bait dealer.
She nodded.
—Yeah. He and my dad did business sometimes. He introduced Dad to our mom. He's a scumbag. And there's a good chance he's Jaime's dad. Still.
She rapped the side of her head against the window.
—If I'd been thinking, I would have called him about the almonds.
The light turned green. I veered right and merged into northbound traffic again.
—Jaime did. It didn't seem to help.
She chewed a nail.
—Not much Jaime does ever seems to help. And he needs so much help himself. He needs something for himself. To make him, I don't know, to give him some kind of reason. Not that that's an excuse. The way he treated you that night. Web. I didn't mean to. I wasn't trying to cause trouble when I called. But that mess in the room. It would have caused problems. I was still thinking about police. And what they'd find. I wasn't thinking about. About anything. Except not wanting people to know.
I touched