The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

  —Jaime, I'm not saying I want to call the FBI. I'm saying I will call them if you don't help me.

  He took another bite of the crappy diner burrito one should expect when one orders Mexican food at a place called Jim's Burgers.

  —Fuck should I help you? You're threatening to call the cops on me.

  —Other than the brotherly desire to help your sister?

  I poked at my own burrito with the plastic fork.

  —There's the added incentive that I'll still give you the money.

  His ears jumped up a half inch and rotated slightly in my direction.

  —Money?

  —Help me with this, and I'll still give it to you.

  He stuffed the last bite of greasy burrito in his mouth.

  —Come on, man, there was never any question about me helping out. I mean, you want to give me the cash, I'll take it, but it's not like I was gonna let Soledad be fucked up or anything.

  I nodded.

  —Naturally. How could there be any question of that.

  I got up from the table.

  —I'm gonna make a call.

  He wiped his mouth and got up.

  —Take your time, I'm gonna get some of that action.

  He headed for the aging Mortal Kombat machine at the back of the diner, and I headed for the door and out to the parking lot.

  If not for the cranes on the skyline, the corner of Anaheim and North Henry Ford could be in any corroding stretch of the rustbelt. I stood in the middle of the lot and watched a driver pull his truck into one of the stalls at the wash and start hosing the road film off his Peterbilt. Another driver, done with the wash, ambled across the lot to Dreams, the obligatory strip club. I wondered if the same hooker that'd serviced L.L. still worked this spot. She'd be long in the tooth, but that wasn't much of an impairment in this locale. It would likely take a head-to-toe outer coat of leprosy to keep a working girl from scoring a date here at the northeastern rim of the Port.

  And more than that to keep L.L. from giving her a try.

  The hinterlands of the far western edge of the world, Web. I tell you, if I'd been on my toes, those years I wasted teaching I would have spent here learning something about myself. This is a place to test the limits of a man. His endurance and fortitude, his ability to stare into the abyss and have it stare back into him. Look at it, grotesque and magnificent! A paved waste of trade and industry. The end of the road for America, Web. The jumping point to other, older cultures. Inhale. Breathe deep. Smell that? Smell the sea air tainted by oil and gas fumes? That's what the world smelled like when life was first being formed. A place for new beginnings, son, a place to find out who you are. Here, pass me another of those Löwenbräus.

  The edge of the world.

  What better place to try and turn yourself around?

  So I began trying to execute a U-turn at a very narrow part of the road, with oncoming traffic.

  I took the phone Harris had given me from my pocket and dialed.

  —Clean Team.

  —Hey Po Sin, it's me.

  —Young Web. It seems like only yesterday you were falling asleep on the job and letting my van be stolen. Wait, it was only yesterday. My, how time does fly. What can I do for you today?

  I scuffed at some gravel, looked around at one of the garden spots of my childhood in L.L.'s care, thought about the casual damage we inflict on each other by waking up and being ourselves.

  —Po Sin.

  —Still here.

  —Po Sin. I left the office. I was back at the office when the van was stolen. But I lied about leaving.

  Po Sin is a vast man, capable of vast silences. He put one on display for me. I waited for it to drift past, but didn't have the time.

  —Po Sin?

  —I'm here.

  —I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry I didn't do my job.

  There followed a sigh I thought might go on forever.

  Eventually it ended.

  —My kids, Web.

  —Yeah.

  —They need a lot of help. Yong, well, what can I say. That's going to be our whole lives, helping him. And Xing? It's impossible to give her the attention she deserves because of Yong. So she tries to get it other ways.

  —I know.

  —And they're expensive as hell. Kids always are. Care for Yong, therapy, the tutors, Jesus, you have no clue.

  —Sure.

  —Sure. Web. Thanks for the apology.

  —I. Please don't thank me.

  —Web. I said, Thanks for the apology. And now you say?

  —You're welcome?

  —Something like that. So, my kids are expensive and hard work. So, I don't have time for another one. Especially not one who costs me more money by fucking up. Understand?

  —Yeah.

  —Time to grow up, man. Yeah?

  —Yeah. I seem to be hearing that from a lot of people lately.

  —Could be there's a reason for that.

  —Yeah.

  —OK. Well, one way or another, we'll deal with the van. After the little errand you and Gabe did last night, I don't think I'll be talking Morton into returning it, but it was insured. In the end, it'll cost me some hassle and a little higher premium. And better to bring the shit with Morton to a head now than later. Not that any of that is meant to make you feel better, but that's about how it sizes up. That it? Got it all off your chest?

  I looked around me, saw the horizon, the place where the ocean spilled over the sharp edge of a flat world, the sucking drain that flood would draw me into if I didn't get turned about soon.

  And I cranked the wheel hard over.

  —It's not just that I left the office. I left the office and got into some stupid shit. And that's why the van was stolen. Morton didn't steal it. Some other guys did. Some really dangerous guys. They have it.

  No pause this time.

  —Motherfucker!

  —They have it and they have something else.

  —Motherfucker!

  —They have the girl.

  —Motherfucker what?

  —Po Sin, they have Soledad. And I want to help her. And.

  —Motherfucker.

  —And I need your help.

  Which, when you think about it, wasn't the kind of request you'd expect would make him pause again, as opposed to continuing to say his favorite word when called upon to express how near he was to a stroke.

  But it did.

  And we had a conversation. And I promised to call again soon. And then I made another call, this one yet more pleasant. If you can imagine bliss.

  —Hi, is Soledad there?

  —What?

  —Can I talk to Soledad, please?

  —Who is this?

  —It's the guy you sent to get your almonds.

  —The what? Oh, right. Hey Harris, it's the guy.

  The phone on the other end was fumbled around.

  —You got my can?

  A tricky question given the circumstances, but I was prepared.

  —We're ready to make the swap.

  —Who's we?

  —Me and Jaime.

  —That jackass? Didn't say a word about that jackass bein' involved.

  —No, you didn't, but you did tell me to get you your can and your almonds, and seeing as I had no clue what you were talking about, I thought it best I involve someone with some expertise on the subject.

  —Hn. Funny.

  I watched Jaime through the smeared window glass of Jim's, as his Mortal Kombat fighter pulled out the spine of its opponent.

  —What's funny?

  —Funny you didn't mouth off like that when you were in the same room with me.

  —Well, I can explain that. See, you were in the same room with me, and you had a gun, that inspired me to pretty much keep my mouth shut. Now, in this case, I'm on a phone, so it's a slightly different situation and I'm feeling less inclined to worry about you shooting me if I say the wrong thing. Seeing as you can't and all.

  —Hn. Ye
ah, mouthin' off. OK, well, you're right, can't do nothin' ’bout that over this phone. Not to you anyway. If you can follow that without it bein' spelled for you.

  Having been a teacher, I didn't need it spelled for me.

  —I understand.

  —Good, 'cause without you here in person for me to take my aggression out on, I might need to settle for what's at hand.

  —I said, I understand.

  —Good. So, s'pose you want to talk to your girl.

  —She's not really my girl.

  —Not the picture she paints.

  I stopped walking nervous circles around a garbage can.

  —Really? Like, what did she say?

  —You can ask when you get here with the almonds.

  —You just said I could talk to my girl.

  —No, I said, s'pose you'd like to talk with your girl. Way you do that is to get over here with my can. 'Sides, just said she's not your girl.

  —I know what I said.

  —So, what's to talk with her?

  —Just tell me where to go.

  He told me and I let my jaw drop the appropriate amount.

  —You're fucking kidding me.

  —Hell would I be kidding you?

  I scooped my jaw up.

  —No reason. Anyway, it's not you, it's just God playing fun with me.

  —Boy.

  —Yeah.

  —Don't go making jokes about God with me. I don't have that kind of humor.

  —No. I didn't think you did.

  —And tell that jackass Jaime, he don't come up with what he owes us for the room here and our meals, this whole thing's gonna go up in his face.

  And he hung up.

  I closed the phone, looked back through the window at Jaime, still pumping his fist with every ripped limb, and walked down to the edge of the parking lot and looked west up Anaheim.

  I looked back inside Jim's to make sure Jaime was well stocked with quarters, and then walked a couple blocks along Anaheim to Flint and took a left at the used-truck lot; a dirt yard fenced with corrugated steel and barbwire, filled with big rigs. Less than a block down from there, past a row of turquoise stucco bungalows, I found the Harbor Inn. I walked down the alley that ran along the north side and looked at a back wall dotted with little bathroom windows. I continued down the alley that wrapped around the whole building. No doors other than the emergency exit at the back. The Harbor Inn, a long two-story corridor of rooms, windows on the outer walls. I looked at the rear southeast corner, on the ground floor. I looked down another alley that ran away to the east, a passage of ridged cargo container steel, chopped from abandoned cans. I walked back to the street. Looked at the road-beaten rig with Yosemite Sam painted on the hood parked at the curb across the street between two campers. I nodded at the guy standing out front of the Inn with a Heineken in his one hand and a Tijuana Bible in the other.

  The first thing I noticed about holding a gun for the first time in my life was that the damn thing was heavy. The second thing was that shaking it and just kind of handling it didn't make any noise like it does in the movies and on TV where you'd swear guns must be full of little tiny moving parts that click and rattle all the time. A real gun only makes noise when you do something to it. Like work the slide or snap the safety off, or pull the trigger. The last thing I realized about a gun was that holding one felt seriously fucking cool and dangerous at the same time. I didn't like that feeling.

  I found a button on the side of the gun that was far enough from the trigger to make me feel reasonably secure nothing terrible would happen if I pushed it. I thumbed it in and the end of the clip popped out of the bottom of the grip. I pulled it free, finding more resistance than I expected, and set the gun on the seat. One by one I flicked the bullets from the clip and into the palm of my other hand. Having seen what they do to a body, I didn't much want to touch them, but I did. Once the clip was empty I dribbled the shells into the breast pocket of my bowling shirt, and then slipped it back into the gun and pressed until I felt a firm click. I had the gun back in the glove box when I remembered something from one of L.L.'s screenplays. I took the gun out and looked at it. I made sure the little safety lever was firmly set to o, and, taking care to aim the damn thing out the open door of the Apache at the ground away from Jim's or the truck wash or Dreams, I pulled the slide back and watched the bullet Jaime had been stupid enough to keep chambered pop out and arc behind the seat and down into the hollow where Chev stored his tool bag.

  —Shit.

  I gentled the slide back into place and found that the hammer was cocked. I placed my thumb over it, and, for what I swore would be the only time in my life, I pulled the trigger of a gun. Nothing happened, of course. I mean, there was a snap and the hammer came loose and I lowered it into place, but the gun didn't go off by some weird alignment of having a hidden bullet and my thumb not being strong enough to hold the hammer back or anything like that. But until I put the thing back in the glove box, I kept expecting it to fire of its own will and send a round ricocheting over the parking lot and through a window and into someone else's life.

  But that didn't happen. Which was a huge relief.

  Next I made a final call to Po Sin and told him what he needed to know. Beyond that information, there seemed to be little excuse for conversation. Especially seeing as he was clearly still contemplating bailing on the whole deal.

  I thought it best not to think about what that could mean. And succeeded in doing so. Not thinking about bad things being a gift of mine.

  Finally, I got out of the truck and walked to the storm drain in the middle of the lot and dropped the bullets down between the grates to splash into the dirty soapy runoff from the truck wash.

  —What's up?

  I looked up at Jaime as he came from the diner.

  I shrugged.

  —Just killing time.

  I started back to the truck.

  —We should get going.

  —Fine by me. Where's my gun?

  I got in and knocked on the glove box.

  —In there. But for fuck sake don't shoot anyone with it.

  He took the gun out. —Shoot anyone? It's a gun. That's what it's for. I mean, what am I supposed to use with Harris to make him give Soledad back so I can get the fucking money you owe me?

  —We don't need a gun, we have a plan.

  —Fucking plan? You never told me about a plan. A gun is better than a plan. A gun is a guarantee. What you -planning to do when your -plan doesn't work and you need something to persuade Harris to go along?

  I took out the envelope with the shipping documents.

  —I thought we'd use these.

  He grabbed the envelope from me and stuck it in my face.

  —Asshole, they seized the terminal. The law has the almonds.

  I had a sudden flashback to the classroom. The effort it could take on some days to explain rudimentary principles of the English language to twelve-year-olds.

  —Jaime, I know this is an abstract concept, but follow me here. Harris, he doesn't know the almonds were seized.

  —Yeah, but.

  —Jaime. He. Does. Not. Know. The. Almonds. Were. Seized.

  He opened his mouth. Froze. Nodded.

  —Yeeeaaah, man. He doesn't know. Yeah, that's good. Hey asshole, that's really fucking good. Great twist, man, great twist.

  He slapped the envelope on his thigh.

  —Will it work, asshole? Will he take the papers instead of the can?

  I stared at him.

  —Um, wasn't this the way it was supposed to work in the first place?

  —Well yeah, but I never knew if it'd really work. Think it will?

  I thought about the options, couldn't come up with any in particular.

  —Yeah, it'll work.

  —Well it doesn't work, we got the gat as backup.

  —You shouldn't need the gun. All you need to do is stay out of sight.

  He gave me a squint.

  —What's
that stay out of sight shit?

  —I'm sure you'll be shocked to discover that Harris doesn't like you.

  —Fuck him anyway. Like I like his hick ass.

  —Just so. That being the case, I'd rather not have two armed men who hate each other in the same room while I'm negotiating for Soledad's release.

  —Man, I got a stake in this.

  —Yeah, it's your project, I know. And your stake is guaranteed. What isn't guaranteed is that Harris will deal straight. So if things go off, I want some backup. Follow me?

  He cocked an eyebrow and nodded slowly.

  —Yeah, backup, I follow. I like that. Buddy cop action. 48 Hours. That works, it sells. And that's it, that's all I got to do to get my pay?

  I nodded.

  —Yeah. Just stay out of sight, keep your eyes open, make sure no one backdoors me while I'm inside. And be ready in case I call for help.

  He gave the gun a spin on his index finger.

  —So we do need the gun.

  —We don't need the gun. Just be ready in case I need help.

  —Be ready with the gun.

  —Jaime!

  —Chill, chill, I'm just fuckin' with you. I'll be cool and keep my eyes open and I'll be ready. And that's all, right?

  —That and be yourself.

  He leaned back and tucked his hands behind his head.

  —Bein' myself is what I do best. Star quality.

  He pointed at the keys in my hand.

  —So we rolling or what?

  I pocketed the keys.

  —Naw.

  —What, we just gonna sit around here?

  I got out and started down the street.

  —Nope. We'll walk.

  And we did, walked back to the Harbor Inn where the bad guys were holed up waiting for the showdown.

  BENEATH A RAGING EYE

  —Where's my girl?

  —Where's my can?

  I looked at Harris, and I reminded myself about his really big gun and the way he'd used my phone to kill someone. I took into careful account that more was at risk in this motel room than just my miserable existence, and I formulated a response that was calculated to bring calm to a fraught situation.

  —Could you shut the fuck up for a second and tell me where my girl is?

  I raised a finger.

  —Not that I really think she's my girl, I know that was an asinine thing to say just that I'm a little hyped up right now and some weird things are liable to come out of my mouth.