The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– Sorry. My bad.

I stuck out my hand. He took it. I pulled and let go.

With anticipated results.

– Ow!

– Whoops.

I stuck out my hand. He eyed it. And decided, I imagine, that based on a model of the universe drawn from the Hollywood catalogue, no one could be so cruel as to intentionally abuse a poor drunk in such a manner.

I proved him wrong.

– Ow!

I held out my hand.

He slapped at it. Missed.

– Fuck you. Fuckin'.

He got to all fours, crawled to his chair and climbed back aboard, where he knew he'd be safe.

– Cut you bad, motherfucker.

I bent over and picked up the knife that had fallen from his back pocket.

– You might want this.

I tossed it on his lap.

He looked at it.

– Right. Thanks.

He picked up the plastic bag from the floor and stuck his hand inside.

– How the fuck ‘bout that.

He dropped the empty bag.

– Fuckin’ tragedy that is.

He pushed himself up, the knife falling to the floor.

– Gonna go hit the store.

I put a finger in his chest and pushed and he dropped back in the chair.

– Jaime, that guy you cut. Talbot.

– Yeah, weakass Talbot, cut him bad.

– What did you steal from Talbot and his friend?

He squinted.

– Fuck you talking ‘bout? Didn't steal shit. ‘M a producer. I facilitate the vision of the talent. Bring it together with the money.

I kicked some bottles aside and picked up something from the floor and held between my thumb and forefinger and showed it to him.

– What about this?

He looked at it, looked hard.

– Fuckin’ almond.

– Right the first time. What can you tell me about it?

He grinned, winked.

– 'Sa nut.

I nodded.

– Yeah. Dead on. But a little outside the point. What I'm getting at here, Jaime, is why would someone kidnap your sister and, just out of pique as far as I can gather, kill Talbot over some nuts?

– I didn't kill Talbot. Jus’ cut his ass up.

– Sure, cut him bad. Cut him like he was a Turkish prisoner in Midnight Express. But his buddy or boss or whatever, the guy who looks like Sam Elliot without the moustache, he killed him.

His eyes flicked back and forth a couple times, looking for connections between things that seemed impossible to unite.

– Killed him? Harris killed Talbot?

– Is Harris a tall cowboy with a big gun?

– Yeah.

– Then I'm going to go out on a limb and say that yes, he is the one who killed Talbot.

He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

– Damn. That's. Damn. That's fucked up.

– Yeah. Especially when you take into account that he beat him to death with my telephone.

His face scrunched, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, he stuck out his tongue.

I recognized certain signs I'd seen many times in college, and took a big step back as he bent over the side of the chair and heaved a half gallon of Malibu rum onto the floor.

I edged from the puddle.

– Think it's bad to think about, you should have seen it.

He shook his head.

– No, no, man, ain't that bothers me. Just.

He spat.

– It's just that Harris is Talbot's uncle that's so fucked up.

He flopped back in the chair, wiped pinkish vomit from his chin, and threw up in his lap.

I went for towels, assuming we'd have to shoot this again.

– Almonds, Jaime.

He swallowed the last of the water from the glass I'd gotten for him, and held out the empty.

– They stole ‘em.

I took the glass and passed him a damp towel. The only towel left in the room that wasn't draped over the huge pool of rum puke.

– Stole what?

– Almonds, asshole. That's what you're asking, right?

I sat back on the bed, at as safe a distance from the stink of his vomit as I could manage. I'd contemplated cleaning it up, but decided I'd reached my limits on cleaning other people's messes for the day. In theory, after all, I was here to clean my own mess. Or exert some kind of influence over my own life. Or some shit like that. I thought it best to keep that in mind.

So, by focusing relentlessly on the idea that I may have been responsible for the grinding inertia that was carrying me away from anyone and anything I'd ever cared about, I was able to reverse my usual view of things, which made it appear as though I were standing still, resolutely my own man, unchangeable, inured and immune to the blows of life, while the rest of the world went on without me, unable to support the idea that it could not live up to my standards.

But it wasn't easy to maintain that focus, especially when I was having to fight off a series of fantasies wherein I was capable in matters of fisticuffs and gave Jaime the proper thrashing he so clearly deserved.

I coughed into my hand.

– Yes, allowing that I am indeed an asshole, it is what I was asking. I'm sure, now that you've had a moment to clear your head, and, you know, upchuck on yourself, that you'll understand how I might be confused about the notion of almond thieves.

He rubbed the towel over his bared teeth, scrubbing away a film of bile.

– Asshole, they stole like a can of them.

– Sure, I got that part. See, Harris, before he murdered his nephew, was very clear that he wanted his can back. So I'd managed to put together can and almonds and come up with can full of almonds, but I'm still not connecting that to kidnapping and killing. I'm dim on matters of criminal enterprise. You seem to have this kind of behavior all locked up. Care to enlighten me as to how a can of almonds is worth all the bother?

He stared.

– You are such a huge asshole. You always talk like that?

– Mostly it's only when I'm stressed. Or when I'm not so subtly making fun of someone I think is an idiot. In this case, I'm engaged in both endeavors.