The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– 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. Yeah, 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 flan 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.