The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

  —Web.

  —Some farmer's leavin' a stack of irrigation pipe at the same southwest corner of a citrus orchard for a week, we hear about it from one of his wetbacks and send Talbot with a couple hands to pick it up. He comes back with a truckload of PVC. Ask him, Where's the pipe, he points at the plastic in the truck. That he don't even know the points of the compass to find the right corner is one thing.

  —Web.

  —But that he can't tell between PVC and steel is another.

  —Web.

  The legs of his chair came down.

  —Boy, will you acknowledge the girl, for peace sake?

  I rubbed my shin where he'd kicked me.

  —I don't want to talk to her.

  She clapped her hands to her head.

  —Why? What the hell did I do?

  I pulled up my pant leg and looked at the big purple lump.

  —She knows what she did.

  —No, I don't, I really don't!

  I looked at Harris.

  —She so knows what she did.

  She got up.

  —What I did? What I did? What I did was like you! What I did was need someone to hold me.

  She came across the room at me.

  —What I did was fuck you and have you freak out in the morning and I walked outside when you told me to get away from you and got kidnapped by the Oakridge Boys!

  Harris leaned forward in his seat.

  —Settle down now.

  —You fucked asshole?

  We looked at Jaime, still wedged between the bed and the wall, but newly roused from the nap he'd been taking.

  She stuck a finger in my face.

  —Yes, I did. And it was nice. And I needed it. And I thought he was cool and safe. But he's acting like every asshole I've ever fucked, by turning into a dick now that he's gotten some.

  Harris knocked on the table.

  —Said settle down.

  Jaime flipped me off.

  —Knew you were an asshole.

  I raised my hands.

  —Hey hey I tried to talk you out of it.

  —Oh yeah, you tried so hard!

  I got off the bed.

  —I did! I did! I knew it was screwed up and I tried, but you were all over me.

  —All over you! OK, sure, I was all over you. But I. Shit. I. Oh, Web.

  —Settle down!

  Harris grabbed her by the hair and swung her around and slapped her and shoved her face down onto the carpet. Jaime started to push up from between the bed and wall and Harris planted his heel in the back of Soledad's neck and Jaime dropped back to the floor.

  I didn't move.

  Not being used to violence happening around me until recently, I didn't have a chance to move. But that didn't make Harris any more reluctant about planting the barrel of his revolver under my chin.

  The barrel of a gun, it's cold to the touch.

  I felt a vibration down that cold steel barrel as he cocked the hammer and the cylinder rotated and a live round slid into alignment with my brain. He pushed up and brought my eyes to his.

  —Do you know why you are alive?

  Well, there are questions and there are questions, yes? Sometimes you get asked the same question you've been asking yourself for a year. So you have the answer right there at your fingertips.

  As did I.

  —Man, I do not. I really don't.

  He chucked my chin with the barrel.

  —You are alive to clean up the mess after I kill these two. Because you have screwed me over.

  A radio switched on and Waylon Jennings started singing “Lonesome, On'ry and Mean.”

  Harris let a few bars play

  —Come with me.

  He backed toward the table, the gun still under my chin, and I came along with him, hoping he wouldn't trip. He reached back for his cellphone, felt for it, opened it and the song stopped playing.

  —Hello?

  Behind his sealed lips, Harris ran his tongue over his teeth.

  —And?

  He listened for a bit, nodded a little.

  —See you then.

  He took the phone away, snapped it shut.

  —Hn.

  The cold barrel came away from my skin.

  —Back up.

  I did.

  He pointed at the bed.

  I sat.

  He nodded.

  —Well, can was there, ready to roll. And he is rollin'. Which, I have to say that is an interesting turn of events.

  He started to bring the gun back up.

  —Not that it really changes much for you all.

  The door swung open and Mr. Big Ten Four crashed through and stumbled into the wall next to the bathroom door and left a bloodstain when his battered face slapped against it. Harris twisted, the barrel of the gun rotating away from us and toward his partner.

  —What the hell?

  Mr. Big Ten Four slid down the wall, streaking blood, one arm out, pointing toward the door. Harris continued to swivel, bringing the gun around, looking for the threat.

  But by the time he got there and faced the door, Po Sin was inside it, the pistol that had looked so big in Gabe's hand the night before looking like a toy in his own.

  —Motherfucker.

  Harris didn't move.

  Po Sin took another step inside.

  —Motherfucker, don't point that gun at me.

  Harris didn't move.

  Po Sin put out a hand and shoved the door closed.

  —Motherfucker, I am a tempting target, but do not point that gun at me.

  Harris didn't move.

  And then Harris took Po Sin's advice and did not point the gun at him. Instead, he twisted ’round and pointed it at Soledad on the floor.

  —Anyone does any damn thing and I'm gonna do the obvious.

  Po Sin's lower lip swallowed his upper.

  —Motherfucker.

  Here's the thing about witnessing something truly awful.

  It sucks.

  Here's the thing about witnessing a small child being shot in the side of her face and having most of the rest of her face smeared on your clothes and covering her body with yours because some part of your brain has registered the fact that she has been hit by a bullet and you suddenly find out that you are more than willing to have the next bullet hit and kill you if it means that she'll not be harmed any further.

  The thing about that is that it hurts when the next bullet doesn't come.

  You end up thinking about it a lot. When you're not thinking about that second bullet, the one you knew might come, and therefore could do something about, you are actually, in point of fact, still thinking about it. You don't really think about anything else.

  Some of your brain, in order to keep you focused on things it needs you to do, like breathing and eating and such, builds little façades to place over the surface of the world. Perfectly detailed overlays that mimic the world you lived in before you had little girl face on your clothes. Illusions as painstakingly crafted as the relic Old West street fronts on studio back lots. Scrims of normalcy that keep you walking and talking and breathing and eating.

  And because that's what you perceive, the hyper reality you inhabit, it's the behavior of everyone around you that seems out of sync.

  I'm OK, man. What the hell is everyone else's problem? Why is everyone acting so weird?

  But some other part of your brain knows it's a fake. And knows, as well, who is responsible for the fake. And knows that you can't keep existing in a fake world propped on wobbly jack-stands in front of the real.

  Sooner or later a stiff wind will come and blow it down on top of you.

  That part of the brain sends out messages, bits of code meant to remind you of what's behind the sets. Scrawled missives.

  Don't get comfortable. This all has to come down someday. Don't open that door, there's nothing behind it!

  The gap between those two parts of the brain is dark and deep. Narrow, but wide enough by some
inches to fall into and be lost.

  But you're not thinking about any of that. The two worlds you're walking in are just background to one thing, one thought carved into endless variation.

  Where is that second bullet?

  And when is it going to hit me?

  And make me useful again?

  Always you're looking, whether you know it or not, for that opportunity, that chance to do it over again. A dream that will never come true. A shot at taking the bullet.

  And saving the innocent girl.

  Or a girl not so innocent.

  I looked at the gun pointing at Soledad.

  Heartbeat.

  And I got off the bed.

  Heartbeat.

  And I laid my body over hers.

  Heartbeat.

  —Boy.

  I looked up at Harris.

  He centered the gun on my back.

  —This thing is plenty big to go through the both of you.

  —Web.

  Soledad had twisted her face out of her armpit.

  I tried to smile at her, but expect I grimaced.

  —Hey.

  —Web, did you just pee on me?

  —Yeah.

  —Thought you were pee shy in front of girls.

  —I kind of got terrified out of it.

  Harris snapped his fingers.

  —You, Chinaman, put that weapon on the floor before I shoot these two with one bullet.

  Po Sin put the weapon on the floor.

  —And kick it on over.

  Po Sin kicked it over.

  —And sit your big ass down.

  Po Sin sat his big ass down.

  —OK. For the moment, we're all gonna stay pretty much like this till my boy over there comes to. Then we'll figure out how this all sorts.

  He squatted and reached for the pistol near his feet and Gabe came out of the bathroom with the sap I'd seen in his glove box and smashed Harris' gun hand and the revolver dropped and hit the floor and Harris kept reaching for the pistol at his feet and Gabe kicked it clear and brought his knee up into Harris' face and Po Sin was up and moving and Gabe put the sap across Harris' knee and the cowboy went down and Gabe dropped and sat on his chest and took the sap and shoved it into Harris' mouth till it had to be at the back of his throat and Po Sin came over and looked down at me and Soledad.

  —Get up.

  We got up.

  Harris gagged. Gabe took out the sap and forced Harris' head to the side and waited for the vomiting to subside before putting it back in.

  Po Sin watched for a second then turned back to us.

  —That the brother?

  I looked at Jaime's feet sticking out from under the bed where he'd crawled to hide.

  —Yeah.

  He bent and grabbed an ankle and dragged Jaime squirming into the light.

  —Get up.

  Jaime stood, one big bundle of flinching muscles.

  —Uh, hey uh.

  Po Sin pointed at Harris and Gabe.

  —See that?

  Jaime nodded.

  —Sure.

  Po Sin shook his head.

  —No you don't.

  Jaime nodded.

  —No, no I don't. I do not.

  Po Sin looked the room over.

  —Anything in here belong to any of you three? A hat? Keys? Phone? Check your pockets, make sure you have everything you came in with.

  Jaime pawed his pockets.

  —I got everything, sir, I have all my stuff.

  Po Sin looked at me and Soledad.

  —You two?

  We nodded.

  He pointed at the door.

  —OK, get out.

  Harris jerked and tried to knee Gabe in the back and Po Sin took a pillow from the bed and tossed it to Gabe and Gabe muffled Harris' face and Po Sin stepped on the cowboy's ruined gun hand and there was a noise from behind the pillow.

  Jaime bolted for the door. I pushed Soledad ahead of me, detouring to unzip one of the duffels and pull out a thin Harbor Inn bath towel. Jaime and Soledad went out. I closed the door to a crack and stood just inside.

  —Po Sin.

  He looked up.

  —Yeah.

  —What are you gonna?

  —We're gonna find out where my van is. I don't think it will take long. But you probably don't want to watch.

  —And that's?

  —What?

  —That's all, just find out where?

  Po Sin crossed the room.

  —Go home, Web. Nothing's gonna happen here.

  He opened the door and pushed me out.

  I stuck my foot in the door.

  —Hey man, just, you know. Not too much. I mean. I called for help, but.

  —That's right, you called for help. Help came. Now we're just gonna clean things up a little.

  And he closed the door in my face, cutting off my view as one of Harris' hands flailed and knocked Gabe's sunglasses from his face to reveal that single inked tear, dark beneath a raging eye.

  WHAT SHE THOUGHT OF THAT

  —I mean, is this how you think partners behave, asshole?

  I flicked the blinker and shifted onto the exit ramp.

  —We're not partners.

  Jaime folded his arms a little tighter.

  —Apparently fucking not. Partners let each other in on the plan. Partners have some trust between them. You think I could get anything done in the industry if I did business the way you do, just giving people half the information and not even telling them the details of what happens in the third act? I could not.

  I came off the ramp and took a right.

  —Seeing as you're a complete fuckup, Jaime, I thought it best not to tell you that what I really needed you to do was to get found sneaking around so they'd think they caught us messing with them and not be worrying about us trying to pull something else. Seeing as you have an obvious gift for doing the absolutely wrong thing, I figured that if I told you you needed to get caught doing something suspicious, you'd probably end up in the greatest hiding place known to man. If I'd told you to let yourself get caught, you'd probably still be hiding in some damn storm drain or something.

  —Well no shit! What asshole lets himself get caught?

  I pulled into the parking lot and stopped.

  —How relieved I am to know I was correct.

  He looked around.

  —What's this?

  —Your motel.

  He didn't move.

  —I thought we might go grab a drink or something. You know, wrap party. Kind of review the events and see how the numbers add up.

  Soledad opened the door and got out.

  —Come on, Jaime.

  —Yeah, but.

  He looked from me to her and back.

  —Well, let's all go get something to eat first? Yeah?

  She tugged his sleeve.

  —Come on, little brother.

  —Shiiit.

  He got out.

  —Hey, hey, asshole, so how ’bout my cash? My ten percent.

  I rubbed my forehead.

  —I don't have it.

  —Well. What? That's not cool. I got a hotel bill to pay here. I got to pay for those sheets. Expenses eating my capital.

  He pointed at Soledad.

  —She got anymore in that shirt?

  I looked at her.

  —No. That's all there was.

  —Man, you owe. None of this would have worked out without me. You owe. That cash is to pay my talent. This was my project!

  I adjusted the Harbor Inn bath towel I'd wrapped around myself when I stripped off my pee-soaked jeans and drawers and dropped them in the bed of the Apache.

  —I know what I owe, Jaime. I'll pay it. Now please, fuck off.

  He flapped his arms.

  —Yeah, fuck yourself, asshole. Just you better come up with my dough.

  He started for the motel.

  —C'mon, sis, get my stuff from my room and grab my ride. We can skip the bill. I put
it on your dad's credit card anyway. And he won't mind. I can crash in Malibu tonight, yeah?

  I looked at Soledad.

  —You want to ride with him?

  She looked at her brother's retreating back.

  —No.

  —Should I bother asking if you want to ride with me?

  She wiped at a clot of eye snot.

  —Yeah.

  —So you want to ride with me, or what?

  —Yeah.

  —Get in.

  She got in and slammed the door and Jaime turned and watched as I rolled toward the exit.

  —Oh, oh yeah, go on, you two, go have fun. Fuckin' ditchers! Get rid of me and go do your thing!

  He walked behind the truck and we drove slow across the lot.

  —Just better get me that cash, asshole! You don't, know what happens!

  I pulled out, Jaime at our heels.

  —Cut you, asshole! Fucking cut you!

  We drove.

  She fiddled with the chrome knob on Chev's antique truck radio, watching the little red line scan the frequencies, stopping when she found a woman's voice singing something slow and very sad in Spanish.

  She looked through the windshield at the sign announcing the 405 and 110 interchange.

  —You gonna take me home?

  I stayed lined up for the 405 North.

  —Someplace you'd rather be?

  She pulled her feet up on the seat and hugged her knees.

  —You take me to your home?

  I jerked the wheel over, skidding onto the shoulder fifty yards from the split in the freeways. The truck stalled out, headlights spotted on a spider-web of graffiti covering the tall cinder-block wall edging the freeway, traffic barreling past, Spanish song playing on the old speakers.

  We looked at each other.

  Eyes on mine, she put her head on her knees and started to sing along with the radio. I looked away and stretched my arm behind the seat and felt around and came out with a nine-millimeter bullet like the one that killed her father. I showed it to her.

  —Know it?

  She stopped singing.

  —It's a bullet.

  I set it carefully on the dash, business end pointing at the sky.

  —Yeah. In somewhat more detail, it's a bullet from the nine-millimeter pistol you gave your brother.