The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– Asshole.

– Yeah, takes one to know one.

– See, that I get.

– Almonds. Can. I mean, are there diamonds hidden below the almonds or something?

He threw the towel on the floor, got up and pulled off his pukey shirt.

– Asshole, a can is a cargo container.

– You buy any almonds lately?

– No.

– Well you should. They're like full of good cholesterol.

I watched as he dug clean socks from his backpack.

– Did I mention they kidnapped your sister?

He sat on the bed and pulled the socks on.

– See, because they're so high in HDL, people are crazy for almonds right now. Put them out on the crafts table and the talent eats them by the handful. Can of almonds is like eight bucks. Like a regular size can, I mean.

He rose and tucked the tails of his clean Ed Hardy shirt into his equally clean Ed Hardy jeans, both garments covered in commodified Ed Hardy tattoo tigers.

– Cali produces so many fucking almonds, like a billion fucking pounds a year or something, business is booming. It's like we export nothing but airplanes and produce. And movies, man.

He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower he'd taken.

– All these places, China, Spain, Portugal, India, they love fucking almonds. Buy like seventy million pounds of California almonds a year. But with increased U.S. demand, they have to pay a higher premium.

He took a bottle of some kind of hair product from his bag, sprayed into his hand, and began shaping his hair into a wedge.

– Know what almonds wholesale for on the open market? Fucking guess.

I shrugged.

– No idea.

He looked in the mirror, tweaked the angle of the fauxhawk.

– Right, you have no idea. Who's the fucking genius now, asshole?

– You, you, you're the fucking supergenius.

– Right, I am. Deal with numbers, that's what I do.

He turned from the mirror.

– Six dollars a pound, man. Know how many pounds of almonds load into a shipping container? A marine container, I mean, a forty-footer.

– No clue.

– Fucking right no clue. So let me clue you in, asshole. Forty-four fucking thousand pounds. Want some help with the math?

I didn't need help with the math. I could do the math. And suddenly, it became very clear why Harris was willing to kidnap Soledad. Less clear about why he'd be so willing to kill his own nephew. But I figured that was a family matter more than anything else, and you just never knew what kind of history was involved there.

Jaime was nodding and smiling.

– Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars, asshole. That's how much that truck full of almonds is worth. And as expediter on this deal, I'm in for ten percent. Twenty-two thousand.

I rubbed my nose.

– That what they offered?

– Huh?

– Ten percent, that what they offered?

– Huh? No. They. Wait. They offered the twenty-two. Said that was ten percent of the total haul.

– But. Never mind.

He came toward me.

– Never mind what, asshole?

I stood up.

– It's just that six times forty-four thousand is two hundred sixty-four thousand.

He stood there.

I filled in the gap in his misunderstanding.

– Ten percent of that is twenty-six thousand and four hundred American greenbacks. But you go ahead and crunch the numbers and see what you come up with.

– What? The fuck you. Oh! Oh! Those assholes, I am gonna cut their asses. No, man, I am gonna sue their asses!

His hand went to the pocket where his knife could usually be found, didn't find it there.

I pointed at the towel-covered mess on the floor.

– Last I saw it, it was there.

He stared at the lump under the towel.

– Shit. I loved that knife.

– Nice ride. Could be a movie car. Make some extra ducats renting it out.

– It's my roommate's.

– Yeah, he lets you borrow it? Must be pretty cool, let you borrow a ride like this.

I unlocked the door.

– Yeah, he's cool.

I climbed in.

– But he doesn't let me borrow his truck.

Jamie got in and ran a hand over the custom leather bench seat Chev had put in.

– Snaking the roomie's ride, huh, asshole?

I started her up.

Granted, yes, I had taken Chev's prized truck without permission. Granted this could be interpreted as snaking. But I was playing a perspective game with myself here.

Like, which would be worse?

A) Explaining to Chev all the fucked up shit that was taking place? In which case he would feel obliged to become involved, and perhaps put himself at risk. In which case he might get hurt. In which case my already questionable mental stability might come crashing all around me. Or B) Taking his truck and risking that he'd be utterly and finally through with me and amputate himself from me in the same manner he had amputated himself from L.L.? In which case my already question able mental stability might come crashing all around me.

OK, same net result. But option B had the wonderful advantage of being the one in which there was no actual risk to anyone except me and the asshole riding in the truck with me.

And Soledad.

But that wasn't my fault.

And least I was pretty damn sure it wasn't. Then again, by driving her away after we'd had sex, I sent her outside into the arms of the guys who kidnapped her. Let's just say that blame on the last one was difficult to assign accurately. So I was going to dodge it as long as humanly possible.

Jaime pointed at the liquor store.

– Just pull in over there.

I shook my head.

– No.

– What? Why not?

– Because you just got sober enough to communicate. Plus, you've displayed your puking expertise and I don't want to see you going for a perfect score in my friend's truck.

He folded his arms.

– This is my production, man, you want to go indie on it, be my guest. But I don't get a pick-me-up, you're gonna get fuckall from me in the way of help getting my sister back.