OOOOOOOOOOOOOO
83
Elena can’t sleep.
Thinking about the girl.
84
Chon on the difference between advertising and pornography:
Advertising gives beautiful names to ugly things.
Pornography gives ugly names to beautiful things.
85
Should be awkward (What did we do last night?!) in the morning but it isn’t.
It’s EZ.
Happy cool.
Chon rolls out first. Goes out on the deck and does his push-ups. Ben still sleepy-warm in the bed. He gets up a few minutes later, hears the shower running and O singing some tune off the radio.
They gather around the breakfast table.
Grapefruit, sliced mango, black coffee.
O smiling happily.
The boys quiet until Ben looks across the table at Chon, holds his thumb and index finger a millimeter apart, and says, “We’re that close to being gay.”
They laugh for half an hour.
Collective dicks.
86
On the radio some airwave jabber-jockey goes on and on about the new prez being a socialist while another mike-monkey “defends” him.
A fight as real and choreographed as a WWF match. The liberal in one corner, the conservative in the other—pick your villain, pick your hero.
Ben likes the new POTUS because the cat smoked weed, snorted crack, wrote about it, and got away with it.
Nobody said dick.
Not in the primaries, not in the campaign, not at all.
And you know why?
Because he was black.
And you have to love that.
No disrespect to Dr. King, Ben thinks, but the giddiest guy on Inauguration Day would have been Lenny Bruce.
Paqu was, like, appalled when Obama got elected.
Like, what’s next, a Mexican?
At least the White House lawn will look good, O comforted her.
87
“I hope he is a socialist,” Ben says. “Socialism works.”
Worked for Ben and Chonny’s, certainly.
Chon doesn’t believe in socialism
or communism or capitalism.
The only “ism” he believes in is
jism.
O, the sacramental vessel of his faith,
laughs.
“What about hedonism?” Ben asks, just enjoying the game because Chon is one of the least hedonistic people he knows. Chon likes his pleasure, no doubt, but he is also a disciplined daily self-torturer who runs miles of beach, swims miles of ocean, does a thousand push-ups and pull-ups and sit-ups and bangs his bare fist into a wooden post until it bleeds (the fist, not the post).
“Nope, not hedonism,” Chon answers. “In my world, there’s only
he do or he don’t ism
because when it comes down to a man getting it done, either
he do, or he don’t.”
O concurs.
Happy she has two he do’s.
“No, I’ve got it,” Ben says. “Nihilism.”
“Nihilism,” Chon says. “Now you might be onto something.”
Okay, that’s pretty funny, O thinks.
88
Then Ben sez—
“I think we should go on a little trip.”
He and Chon looking all conspirational. For two dope dealers, O thinks, they are amazingly transparent. She should have them teach her to play poker with them, take everything they own.
“We?” O asks. Like who is the we in “we”? The two of us—in which case, which us—or we three (kings of Orient are)?
“The three of us,” Ben clarifies. “New life, new beginning.”
“Are we going to Bolivia?” O asks.
“I’m thinking Indo.”
He knows this pretty little village on the ocean. The people are beautiful and friendly. Ben has put a clinic, a school, and a water treatment plant in this village. He has brought in cosmetic surgeons to heal children. The men of the village—small, slight men who wear skirts—carry long, curved blades and love Ben.
“Indo?” she asks.
“Indo,” Ben says.
“I’ll have to do more shopping.”
“Buy cool stuff.”
“I always buy cool stuff.”
“No, I mean cool stuff. For hot, humid weather,” Ben says. “And is your passport up to date?”
“I think so.”
She thinks so because Paqu keeps her passport in a desk drawer so that O doesn’t fuck up and lose it.
Or go someplace.
“Go get your passport, buy some cool clothes, meet us back here at five.”
“Coolie cool.”
89
When O asks Paqu how things with Eleanor are, Paqu gives her an odd, uncomprehending look.
“Eleanor?” O prompts. “Your life coach?”
“Jesus is my life coach now.”
Uh-oh.
Turns out Paqu has joined a megachurch up in Lake Forest. Paqu being Paqu, of course it’s the largest church in the nation.
“Uhhh, do you know anything about Jesus’s life, Mom?” O asks. “Read a biography or anything?”
“Yes, darling, the Bible.”
“Have you gotten to the end, because—”
“I’ve accepted Christ as my personal savior.”
“—it didn’t turn out that well for the guy. You know, the crucifixion thing and stuff.”
Three Things I Will Do Today to Get Myself Nailed to a Cross:
1. Piss off the money changers
2. Piss off the Romans
3. Tell my dad I don’t want to
(Young Jesus hangs from a cross, learning a lesson about trust. “Just get up there, I’ll catch you.”)
“Would you pray with me, Ophelia?” Paqu asks.
“Yeah, no. Thanks, though.”
“I’ll pray for you.”
“Where’s my passport?”
This sets off Paqu’s alarm system. “Why?”
“I want it.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m thinking France.”
“What’s in France?”
“I dunno, French stuff. The French.”
“Is it a French man, Ophelia?” Her skin is stretched so tight across her bones you could drum on it.
O is tempted to say that actually she got double-teamed by two perfectly fine all-American guys last night, just to see her face actually go jigsaw puzzle, but she doesn’t. She wants to say that she’s going to Indo with these two men and maybe try to build some kind of life, she wants to say goodbye, but she doesn’t say that, either.
“It’s my passport,” she hears herself whine.
“In the upper left desk drawer in my office,” Paqu says. “But we need to talk about this.”
Yeah, we need to talk about a lot, Mom, O thinks. But we won’t. She goes into Paqu’s office, digs around in the desk drawer, finds her passport, and goes out the back door.
B4N.
90
Ben and Chon get busy.
Lots to do, disengaging.
First they get on the phone, the text, e-mail to all their retailers and tell them to take a vacay, go off the radar for a spell. Lots of bitching, pushback, and questions, but Ben is firm about it.
Trading has been suspended.
Just giving you a heads up.
Heh.
Then he and Chon drive down to Cafe Heidelberg on the PCH and Brooks Street to have coffee and a pastry with Ben’s money guy. They have to pass three Starbucks to get there but Ben won’t go in the joints. He will only buy “fair trade” coffee. Chon has a different idea about what fair trade means. He gives them money, they give him coffee, that’s fair trade. Anyway, he doesn’t care, the Heidelberg is just fine.
He makes Ben drive even though Ben is a shitty driver. But Chon wants his hands free for the Glock on his lap, the shotgun on the floor, and the Ka-Bar in his belt just in case th
ey run into a deer that needs leveling or if things get up close and personal.
Ben thinks the arsenal is excessive.
“It’s a business negotiation,” he says.
“You saw the video,” Chon answers.
“That was Mexico,” Ben says. “This is Laguna Beach. The cops wear shorts and ride bicycles.”
“It’s too civilized here?”
“Something like that.”
“Uh-huh. Then why are we going to Indonesia?”
“Because there’s no point in being careless.”
“Exactly.”
They find a parking spot on Brooks, and Ben fills the meter with quarters. For some reason, Ben always has quarters. Chon never has quarters.
Spin Dry is already at a table outside.
Spin D used to be an investment banker with an established bank in Newport Beach. Then he discovered Ben’s product, and that he could make more money laundering Ben’s profits. The bank was not unhappy to see him go.
Now Spin spends the early-morning hours monitoring the money markets in Asia and the Pacific, and the rest of the time riding his bike, going to the gym, and banging Orange County Trophy Wives who get their Mercedes and jewelry from their hubbies and their cookies from Spin.
Spin is a happy man.
He rode his bike here and he’s dressed in one of those stupid skintight Italian bodysuits with the matching cap.
Chon thinks he looks like an idiot.
“S’up?” Spin asks, because he thinks talking like a surfer who’s been hit in the head too many times will make him not forty-three.
“Not us,” Ben says. “I need to go off the grid for a while.”
Spin wipes the cappuccino foam off his upper lip. “S’cool.”
“Yeah, it’s not, really,” Ben says. “But it’s where we’re at. I need you to set up a new line for me, double-blind, liquidate five hundred K, and I want everything else washed fresh. Whole new cycle, make it go away somewhere for a while.”
“No worries.”
No worries—every time Chon hears “no worries” he worries.
“I want to pick it up clean in Jakarta,” Ben tells Spin. “Half in dollars, half in local currency.”
“Lot of lettuce to be carrying around, boss.”
“It’s okay,” Ben says. “Also, so you can plan your personal finances, I want to tell you that we’re getting out of the old pista secreta.”
“Amigo …” Spin is shocked.
A world without Ben and Chonny’s?
“We’ve had a good run,” Chon says. “You’ve made a lot of money.”
A lot is a lot.
But never enough.
91
O decides to start at Banana Republic.
In South Coast Plaza, natch.
(Don’t geek, we’re not going to go through the whole list again.)
She never sees the car that followed her home, follows her out again. She parks the car and goes in.
Esteban, one of the three men in the car following her, calls Lado.
92
Who is in his office dealing with landscaping shit.
Everybody wants everything done at the same time—which is right now—and they want the same service for less money. They’re all looking for bargains these days, the ones who haven’t just dropped the service—a comical sight, a guero trying to start a weed whacker—but Lado hasn’t been hit too hard. Most of his business is condo associations and he’s also found a little recession niche market—banks and Realtors need foreclosed properties cleaned up in order to sell them.
He sees the caller ID and walks outside to take the call.
Gives the Nike response—Just Do It.
These boys are good, they know what to do.
93
O decided to go all Kristin Scott Thomas with the travel wardrobe.
Spare but sensual.
Lotsa white and khaki. What she can’t find is that hat—big, floppy, packable, but still sexy—so she decides to leave SCP and drive over to Fashion Island in Newport Beach.
She gets back in her car, turns the key, and feels the blade at the back of her neck.
“Just drive, chica.”
She drives where the voice tells her, across Bristol into Costa Mesa, down some streets and to the back side of a little strip mall, where a Mexican in a baseball cap gets in the passenger side and jabs a needle in her thigh.
94
Chon gets the e-mail with the attached vid-clip.
Calls Ben over.
It’s O.
Sitting in a chair in a nondescript room.
Ugly yellow walls.
A chain saw at her feet.
95
Then the vid artist does this really cute thing—
O’s head just pops off her shoulders and starts floating around the screen.
A phone number comes up.
96
Ben hits the number.
Asks, “What do you want?”
Chon says, “Give me the phone.”
Ben isn’t doing that. For Chon to say, “Fuck you,” and then they really separate O’s head from her body.
Reality versus virtuality.
“I need proof of life,” Ben says.
A phrase he remembers from some movie.
No problem
Skype.
97
O looks scared.
Of course she does.
Scared and stoned. They gave her something.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Did they hurt you?” Chon asks.
Ready to rip.
O says, “No, I’m okay.”
Ben says, “I’m so sorry about this.”
“It’s okay.”
Her image goes off the screen.
Replaced by audio.
98
An electronically altered voice says, “Let me speak with Mr. Let’s Cut the Shit.”
“I’m here.”
“Let’s cut the shit, shall we? You will make the first delivery to me, at the price I demand, within the next five hours or you will receive an e-mail that you will not like.”
“No problem.”
“Really? Because it was a problem before.”
“It’s not now.”
“Good. Now let me speak to Mr. Fuck You.”
“I’m on,” Chon says.
“You insulted me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”
“Whatever you want,” Chon says.
“I assume you have a pistol. Get it.”
Chon gets his .38. “I have it.”
“Stand in front of the camera where I can see you.”
Chon does.
“Now stick it in that big mouth of yours,” the voice says.
They can hear O scream, “Chon, donnnn’t!!!”
But they also hear a chain saw start up and the voice say, “Her hands first …”
“I’m doing it, I’m doing it!”
Ben’s in shock. Weird, sick, nightmare shock.
Chon opens his mouth and swallows the barrel.
“Now pull the trigger.”
Chon squeezes the trigger.
99
“Stop!”
“Jesus Christ.” Ben’s knees give out from under him and he’s suddenly sitting on the floor with his face in his hands.
“Take the gun out.”
Chon slowly pulls the barrel from his mouth. Slowly because he feels like he’s moving underwater, and also because he doesn’t want to fuck up and shoot himself taking the gun out of his mouth.
“The next time that I ask you to do something, I assume that I will not hear ‘Fuck you’?”
Chon nods.
“Good. There is a man in San Diego who is giving me a problem. You will be called with details. If I don’t hear about his death within five hours, I will kill your friend. Buenos dias.”
Audio goes dead.
Screen goes blank
.
100
What to do, what to do?
Go to the FBI?
The DEA?
Ben is perfectly willing to do that, even though it would doubtless mean years in prison for him, if that would save O. But it wouldn’t—it would only kill her. If the feds could handle the cartels, they would have shut them down already.
So that’s out.
Their other alternative is …
Nada.
They’re fucked.
This is Ben’s mistake, and it goes back a long way. Ben always figured that he could live with a foot in two worlds. One Birkenstock in the officially criminal marijuana-dealing demimonde and the other in the world of civilization and law.
Now he knows that he can’t.
He has both feet stuck in the jungle.
Chon never harbored such illusions.
Chon has always known that there are two worlds:
The savage
The less savage.
The savage is the world of pure raw power, survival of the fittest, drug cartels and death squads, dictators and strongmen, terrorist attacks, gang wars, tribal hatreds, mass murder, mass rape.
The less savage is the world of pure civilized power, governments and armies, multinationals and banks, oil companies, shock-and-awe, death-from-the-sky, genocide, mass economic rape.
And Chon knows—
They’re the same world.
“What are we going to do?” Ben asks.
“As soon as the intel comes in,” Chon says, “I’m going to hop in my car and kill whoever they ask me to. You’re going to get your ass off the floor and deliver the dope.”
“You’re going to kill someone for him?!”