I lowered my fist.

He smiled.

– Oh, she didnt tell you that one?

I shook my head.

He nodded.

– Asshole.

And he punched me. A real punch. A roundhouse the Duke would have been proud of.

– What you get for hitting me.

– I slapped you.

– You kicked me.

– Not hard.

– So what? Still you started it.

He finished off the half pint of Malibu hed gone across the street for while I collected myself from the ground after he punched me and reopened, yet again, the cut on my forehead.

– I seem to be developing this brand-new talent for getting my ass kicked.

He tossed the empty bottle on the ground, shattering it over a parking space.

– That a new talent? Way you got it mastered, I figured you to be an old hand.

– Fuck off and tell me where the almonds are.

– Harris is from way up north. Paradise or one of those hick redneck mountain towns like that. Ozarks of the West, man. Guys come down from those hills, they mostly got like three teeth, a wandering eye, cleft palate, and third-degree syphilis. Straight out of Deliverance. Sooooeeeyyy They get as far as L.A., youll see them standing outside the corner 7-Eleven bumming change so they can buy a taco-dog. Losers.

Jaime punctuated his last comment by taking his finger from his nostril and flicking a hard-won booger out the window. I chalked that up to good breeding. Having assumed hed pop it in his mouth for a snack.

– Harris and his clan, theyre mostly hijackers.

I looked from the rearview, where I was eyeballing the latest in a long line of cars with their noses shoved up the rear of the slow-rolling Apache, as we switched from the 405 North to the 110 South to San Pedro.

– Hijackers? What, like, Release twenty of my fellow believers or Ill crash this plane into the Sears Tower"}

He went digging for another nose nugget.

– No, asshole, like, get out of the cab of this fucking truck and give me the manifest or Ill shove this gauge up your ass and blow your torso open. Trucks. They hijack trucks. Boost farm equipment. Tractors. Irrigation pipe. Fertilizer. Do some rustling now and then from what Talbot said.

– Rustling? No way.

– Way. Not like herds or anything. Just when they get a shot at a couple studs, they boost ‘em.

He grinned, flicked more snot.

– Theres a real market for quality bull jizz. Thought about going into that market. My own brand. Jaimes Horny Homegrown.

He pumped his fist in front of his crotch.

– Jizz like mine, probably get a bull pregnant as easy as a chick.

– Cow.

– Huh?

– You dont get bulls pregnant. You get cows pregnant. I mean, if you have a thing for fucking bulls you should just come out in the open with it. Kind of thing was frowned on at one time, but people are far more open and accepting now.

– Fuck you, asshole. Im not gay.

I stuck my hand out the window and flipped off the driver of an overdeveloped Italian sports car as he blasted past us, leaning on his horn.

– I wasnt suggesting you were gay. I was suggesting that you liked to fuck bulls. The two are not in the least related.

– Bulls have dicks.

I looked at him.

– Are we having this conversation?

He stuck his finger in my face.

– Bulls have dicks. If I like to fuck bulls, Im gay.

I turned back to the road.

– Have it your own way.

He leaned into the seat.

– Just saying, I am not gay.

– Like I said, as you wish. Anyone asks, I got the information. Jaime? No, hes not gay. Just likes to fuck bulls.

He popped out of the seat.

– Listen, asshole!

I jammed on the brakes and he flew into the steel dash. I floored the gas and he bounced back onto the seat, cracking his head against the rear cab window.

– Ow! Fuck! Shit! Ow!

I dropped back into my slow, steady, road rage inducing, pace.

– You OK there?

– Ow. Shit, my head, man.

– Yeah. Better chill. Maybe buckle up.

– You did that on fucking purpose.

I nodded.

– Yes, Jaime, I did. And I am, take note, still driving this thing. So you may want to do as I say and chill and buckle up. Because while I may hit like a little girl, I drive like a born and raised Los Angelino. Which means, you know, I think Im the best driver in the universe, when in fact I probably shouldnt be allowed in a bumper car.

– Asshole.

He buckled up.

Crossing the PCH we hit Harbor City. The Harbor Park Golf Course, garden spot of Harbor City if the truth be told, rapidly turning traffic-poisoned brown along the freeway. And on our left, a sudden outbreak of cranes, a thicket of them marking the edge of the Port of Los Angeles.

– So before the aside about bovine human relations, you were talking about Harris?

He rubbed the back of his head.

– Yeah, try this kind of shit with him, hell fuck you up. Unforgiven style.

I thought about my special perspective on the kinds of things Harris would do if he took a disliking to you.

– I dont doubt that. Whered the almonds come from?

He settled back into the seat, careful of his tender shoulder.

– Harris gets tips from drivers sometimes. These two trucks, they were supposed to go out the Port of Oakland. But traffic from the central valley was all screwed up. The drivers had to turn around and park the trucks on the producers property and leave them overnight. So one of the drivers, he called Harris. Told him two semis loaded with almonds were sitting there with nothing but a fence and a German shepherd for security. Hes got some place in Stanislaus County where he can park the trucks once theyre off the lot. The almonds have to be offloaded, repackaged in case the container gets opened, and put back aboard. Some third cousin by marriage or some shit has a place. He cultivates a couple acres of almonds himself. So his wetbacks do all the work for five cents, he labels the almonds like the rest of his crop, and they ship ‘em out.

– Youre half Mexican, yeah?

– What?

– Your mom is Mexican?

– Dude, dont talk about my moms.

– No, I mean.

– And shes American. Im American. Im of half-Mexican descent, but Im full fucking American. Talk about wetbacks all I want. Give me that politically correct bullshit. I hate that shit.

– Yeah. Again, my bad.

– Right it is. Talk about my moms. Fuck you up. Shit.

The Harbor Freeway bent west at a smokestack with the words WELCOME TO SAN PEDRO running down its length. More practical smokestacks and the storage tanks of a refinery covered a hillside, a Naval Fuel Depot or something. On our left, a vista of more towering gantry cranes, a tangle of steel rooted in piled cargo containers, Yongs Legos grown massive and scarred.

– So with all the wetbacks and other resources at their disposal, why do they need someone like you? I thought your game was film.

– Movies, asshole. My business is movies. Films are fag shit comes in from Europe or out of New York. Films dont make box office for shit unless they win the Oscar. Movies are all about the box. I make movies. But, you know, financing comes from all kinds of sources these days. The studio system, in case you missed the news, is totally dead. These days, we like to spread the risk. Get maybe a bank to pick up the bulk of the load. Bring in some private investors for bridge financing while the package takes shape. All that shit. I expedite relationships that help create financing opportunities for my movie projects.

– So Harris wants to get into the industry?

– No, asshole. He wants to pay me to help him ship his almonds overseas, and then I can redirect those funds into these online filmmakers I have a relationship with. These guys, they had a top-ten most-viewed clip on You Tube for over a week. Fucking sensation. They shot this thing about a dog eating its own shit, it was hysterical. Made it for nothing. Im gonna take my cut of the almonds deal, funnel it into my production company, and lock up these guys’ creative output for the next ten years. Im gonna pay these kids a couple grand and theyre gonna make these videos of animals eating their own shit, and Im gonna stream them over a dedicated website where people have to subscribe for the service.