The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

He put the lid back on the cooler and came back to the front of the store with the dripping bag.

I made way for him and he walked past, wiping one hand on his T.

– Or mackerel. A nice bloody piece of mackerel for rays and for sharks.

He circled back around the counter, untwisting the neck of the bag.

– Jaime, what did I teach you for croaker? When your mama left you with me? What did I teach you?

Jaime never stopped looking at the booze.

– Mussels. Bloodworms. Ghost shrimp. Live ghost shrimp for croaker.

Homero smiled, putting a hand inside the bag and coming out with a zippered vinyl bank envelope.

– Mussels are easiest. Dig them up.

He showed Jaime the envelope.

– But ghost shrimp are best.

Jaime reached for the envelope, the old man pulled it back.

– Still owe a hundred.

Jaime knuckled the corner of his mouth.

– Gave you a grand.

– Yes, yes. Paid the grand. That was for the paperwork.

He nodded at the cooler full of squid.

– For storage, it's another hundred.

Jaime looked at me.

– You got a C?

– What?

– You want this deal greenlighted or what? I need a hundred fucking dollars.

I went in my pocket for what was left of the cash Po Sin had paid me the last couple days, what I hadn't spent or given to Chev.

– I got seventy-nine and some change.

I walked over and dropped it on the counter. Jaime looked at it, looked at the old man.

The old man shrugged and handed Jaime the envelope.

– You owe me the rest.

He scooped the money from the counter.

– Don't forget, ghost shrimp for croaker.

Jaime headed for the door, I followed.

Homero opened his cash register to put the money inside.

– And tell your mama I said hi.

Jaime pushed out the door, mouth closed, waiting for me at the truck until I unlocked his door. He jerked it open and climbed in.

I walked around and got in and put the key in the ignition.

– Uncle or something?

He shook his head.

– Mom's first pimp.

He looked at me.

– Croaker is the worst fucking fish in the world. Rather eat shit.

He looked out the window at the old man waving from inside the shop.

– Rather eat shit like a fucking dog.

– What went wrong?

Jaime took his eyes from the water below us as I worked the Apache up the steep incline of the bridge, past the parti-colored bulk of a Swedish cruise ship moored on our right.

– Mean, what went wrong? Motherfucker turned her out. That's what went wrong. Not that I give a fuck. Bitch wanted to whore, that's her business. Not like she stuck with it anyway. Moms is talent. Adult films. Got a name.

Feeling, I will admit, more than a bit awkward, I clarified.

– No, I mean, what went wrong with the almond deal? Why'd you cut Tal-bot and all that?

He played with the zipper on the envelope.

– That shit. What went wrong. What went wrong with that shit was Soledad's dad went totally off script and started improvising. Killed himself. Fuck do you think went wrong?

– But you didn't get involved until he was already.

– Yeah. So? Still, motherfucker had been alive, it all would have worked out.

I kept my own counsel, unable to find a hole in his logic.

He provided enlightenment.

– Not my business, this shit. I'm a dream merchant, yeah? Commodities aren't my thing. I mean some X, sure, but not produce. Took me a bit of time because they needed someone on the other end.

– Like who?

– Like a buyer. Harris, he lost his buyer on the other end, the one his relative had him hooked up with. He came down here, it wasn't just that he needed to get the load shipped, he needed a new buyer. Soledad's pops supposed to have one all lined up.

– So?

– So? So whatever the buyer's name was ends up splattered all over the wall with the rest of the contents of Westin Nye's brain. Asshole. You, not him.

We crested the midpoint of the bridge and the Ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach rolled away below us, spiked with endless cranes, crossed with rail sidings, piled with containers. Industrial wasteland parceled and fenced and knitted together by wide roadways traveled by caravans of eighteen-wheelers, all of it reeking of oil and exhaust.

L.L. loved it down here. Wrote it into any number of unmade screenplays.

One of the great American metaphors, Web. The outer reach of manifest destiny, the point from which we ship the material instruments of our cultural dominance. The physical bookend to the work we do in Hollywood. Fuck, you could shoot an amazing chase scene here. Blow the shit out of The French Connection.

Other things could be blown the shit out of at the port. I remember drinking a milk shake in a diner between a truck wash and a strip club up on East Anaheim Street while L.L. had his pipes cleaned by one of the strippers who worked both long-hauler conveniences.

I put aside my reverie.

– So, no buyer. What else went wrong?

He looked back at San Pedro, over the bridge and across the water.

– I couldn't find a forwarder who would handle the load. Turned out I was gonna have to deal with people I didn't want to have to deal with. Horn ero. And he wanted that grand for the paperwork, up front. Seeing as all my liquid capital is tied up with the YouTube kids, I'm a little cash poor just now. So I had to move some X and that took time.

– You blew your end of the deal.

– I did not blow my end. Obstacles came up that I hadn't been able to avoid. Shit took longer than I thought. They wanted turnaround like yesterday. But from working in the industry, I'm geared toward things moving at a steady pace. I'm used to weighing the pros and cons of decisions when millions could be at stake. Someday. These guys, they want to sell shit and get paid right away.

– Strange how thieves might be in a hurry.

– Fucking cool it with the smartass, asshole. Here, over here.

– Here?

– Yeah.

We came off the 47 onto Ocean Boulevard, past the twin domes of the waste reclamation plant, a monstrous installation far too evocative of colossal and perfectly symmetrical breasts for Jaime not to comment.

He pointed.

– Looks like big tits.