The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

– 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.

She unfolded her legs.

– What?

– Don't what me. Don't. Just. Just tell me that's not a bullet from your gun. Tell me you were never involved with Harris and Talbot and that other hick. Tell me you didn't drag me into all this shit to make it end like this.

– End like?

I banged the dash and the bullet jumped and fell into the footwell.

– Like this! Like it's all cleaned up! Like those guys are out of the picture and you don't have to worry about them. Like! Jesus! Like. You know.

I spread my arms.

– This.

I dropped my arms.

She bent and picked up the bullet and rolled it between her fingers.