– Wait, a website dedicated to shit-eating animals?

– No, asshole, dedicated to humorous clips. Shit-eating animals will be the initial draw, but Ill expand after we attract more capital. Kids are gonna make me rich. And Im gonna own everything they do. Fuckers didnt know enough to negotiate points or anything.

I got a feeling about something. And I had to ask.

– Jaime. How old are these kids?

– I dont know, thirteen maybe. But they have talent. Raw. Think its easy to get a dog to eat its own shit? Let alone a, I dont know, a parakeet?

– They got a parakeet to eat its own shit?

– Well, no, still working on that one. But they got mad footage of dogs eating their own shit. They mix Alpo into it. Thats the secret.

Beyond the massed containers, the long humped spine of the Vincent Thomas Bridge stretched from the mainland across the water to Terminal Island.

– As much as I hate to admit it, Jaime.

– What?

– Youll probably get rich off shit-eating animals.

He grinned.

– Yeah, and thats just one aspect.

I took us past the turnoff to the bridge, heading toward San Pedro.

– Yeah. Imagine. So, I see where you have this thing all mapped out from an industry angle, but Im still unclear on where the connection comes from. You know, Central Valley agro-hijackers meet shit-eating-animal entrepreneur.

– Heh, sounds like a pitch. Pretty good one, too.

Having spent my earliest formative years at L.L.s feet, and at his always bent elbow, listening to various habitues of the movie-making community swap pitches, I couldnt really argue with him.

– Sure, when youre an Internet success, you can parlay it into a TV show.

– Feature, man.

– Sure. But its light on plot details. Like howd you and Harris hook up?

– Just ways and means. Contingencies and eventualities.

Up ahead, the freeway drifted to a stop at a traffic light at the top of Gaffey Street.

– Translation, man, Im an asshole. Remember?

– Man, I remember. It was the wetbacks that did it. Warehouse up north got busted by La Migra. Took all the workers out. Only half the almonds had been turned around. Harris didnt want to have that shit sitting around while his cousins cousins cousins whatever got a new crew together. He told him to keep the second load of almonds and the other truck instead of a cash payment for the services. They had an argument. Harris may or may not have fucked him up and took off with the loaded truck. But the third cousin, he was the connection for the freight forwarder up there. The guy who could contract a shipping line and get the load onto a terminal and through the Port of Oakland to the buyer on the other end. That meant he had to find an alternate shipping route.

– Contingencies and eventualities. He found you.

– What? Hells no. He found Soledads dad.

At the stoplight, a caged pedestrian bridge crossed over the intersection. Kids hang banners there sometimes. Class of 2008 Rocks! Welcome Home Sgt. Alberto Juarez. Happy Birthday Tina!

I stopped for the red light, looked at Jaime.

– Soledads?

– Her pops, asshole.

– You hooked him up with Harris?

– What? No. You listen to anything? Told you Im in movies. Old man Nye, he was a professional. Shipping and trade, man. Westline Freight Forwarding, man. Thats what he did. You have something going overseas, Pacific Rim, you pay him a fee and he lines up shipping, all the paperwork, even find a buyer for some products. All that shit.

– But hows he? Howd they find him? I mean, whyd they go to a guy like that to smuggle almonds? Whyd they?

The light turned green. I didnt move.

– Why? Asshole, anyone with any savvy knows Westin Nye is the man to go to you got shit that needs to come clean through the Port of Long Beach. Thats just smugglers 101 in this state.

Drivers honked.

– So you worked for him?

– Fuck no. Asshole. I mean him, not you. I mean, he was OK, but he wouldnt let me work for him. No. I only got involved after he bit it.

He turned and flipped off the cars behind us, looked back at me.

– I mean, I never would have had this opportunity if Soledad hadnt asked me to step in after her pops ate his own bullet.

I looked at the road, took my foot from the brake and drove under the banners. The biggest one in red paint, Jenny, I promise Ill never do it again!

Down Gaffy, under crisscrossing phone lines, between once decorative and now weedy palms, past a glut of gas stations and fast-food places and the Ono Hawaiian BBQ, just across from the Payless Supershine Car-wash, but before the Club 111 at the Holiday Inn, Jaime pointed at the curb.

– Here.

And I parked us outside the one-stop shopping opportunity promised at the Bait-n-Liquor.

– Wheres the can?

– Around. This is the first stop.

He opened the door and I grabbed his arm.

– Im not waiting while you get stocked up on Malibu and go all shitfaced on me again.

He looked at my hand.

– Dude, I could just beat the hell out of you if I wanted to.

I didnt let go.

– Yeah. You could. So what?

He pulled his arm free.

– So come in. Fuck do I care. Just keep your mouth shut. Let a man conduct some business.

So I went in with him.

The shop was, as advertised, devoted to both bait and liquor. Although liquor seemed to have the upper hand.

Jaime raised his chin at the old salt central casting had sent up to play the proprietor.

– Homero.

Homero looked away from the screen of the laptop he was playing Free-Cell on, pushed up the brim of his fishing cap and took the pipe from between his teeth.

– Jaime.

He stuck out his hand. Jaime looked at it, took it.

Homero smiled.

– You come down to do some fishing, boy?

Jaime ducked his head.

– No, no, man. Just saying hey. Business, she calls as usual. No leisure.

Homero nodded, waved a fly from in front of his face.

– Sure, man. You want leisure, you got to grow old. No one young should be standing still. Sitting around with a fishing pole in your hand, thats for old men like me. You got to hustle up there, eh? Dog-eat-dog, that business, eh?

– You know it, man. And the more success, the harder you got to work. Everyone, they come for you.

– Gunning for the top dog. Yes, yes.

Homero smiled and nodded.

Jaime shifted from foot to foot.

– Homero, that stuff? You know?

The old man rubbed the stem of his pipe across his lips.

– Yes, yes.

– I need that now. It ready?

Homero tugged at the collar of his baggy V-neck T.

– Yes, yes.

He turned back to the laptop, closed his card game, opened a browser and typed in an address. From beneath the counter he uncoiled a cable and plugged it into the laptop. His index finger slipped across the touch pad as his thumb tapped left-right a few times, and a printer began to whir as the carriage zipped back and forth. The printer clicked twice and went silent and he reached under the counter and came out with a couple pieces of paper.

He held them up, both sheets dense with print, and pointed at a bar code.

– Theyre gonna have to scan this. Your driver gotta show his license, but this is what theyre going to scan. OK?

He came from behind the counter and passed the papers to Jaime.

Jaime took them and folded them in half.

– That other thing?

Homero nodded and walked to a row of Styrofoam coolers sitting on upended milk crates down one wall of the shop.

He waved me aside.

– Make way, make way.

I scooted and he shuffled past, down the row of coolers to the last one.

He took the lid off and set it aside and looked back down the shop at Jaime.