by Don Winslow
that people are basically
shit.
38
And now this
Ben thinks as he goes back to the first-class lounge and gets himself an herbal tea.
The BC sends out atrocity videos as a business tool in the heretofore (relatively) pacifist marijuana industry.
Nice.
What next?
He doesn’t even want to think about that.
Yeah, but you’re going to have to, he tells himself, because you’re going to have to respond to it. Chon has a response in mind (well, in hand), but the truth is that there’s no way they’re going to outgun the Baja Cartel. And even if they could, Ben’s not sure that he wants to.
Ben’s not sure of anything right now.
He hears them announce his flight.
39
Threatened with eviction and/or a limit on her platinum card, O agrees to join a life coaching session with Paqu.
Eleanor comes to the house.
“Is she like Domino’s?” O asks Paqu. “If she doesn’t deliver a new life in twenty minutes, it’s free?”
“That will be enough of that.”
So O joins Paqu on the sofa as Eleanor, her silver hair set off beautifully by a deep-lavender silk blouse, passes out file cards as she says, “Three is a very powerful number in our culture and collective psyches, so we are going to use the power of three to enhance our personal power.”
“And there are three of us,” O observes.
“Very sharp, Ophelia,” Eleanor says.
O winces.
Eleanor continues, “The difference between a goal and a dream is a plan of action, so on these cards, I want you to write down three goals you have for yourself for today, and the three achievable steps you will take today to make each one happen.”
Paqu writes:
—Become physically stronger
—Progress toward becoming a life coach
—Prepare a meal that will nourish me physically and spiritually.
O writes:
—Have mind-blowing multiple orgasm.
“I asked for three things,” Eleanor says.
“If I get it right, it will be three things,” O answers.
Eleanor’s tough, though. She doesn’t pull two and a half bills an hour from a slough of jaded SOC trophy wives by being a wimp. She levels her gaze at O and asks, “And what three achievable steps will you take to move you toward your goal?”
O nods and reads:
—Put C batteries on Mom’s shopping list
—Find some time for myself
—Think about the pool boy
40
They pick Ben up at John Wayne Airport.
Chon thinks you gotsta love an airport named for a draft-dodging movie war hero cowboy who trademarked his gay, pigeon-toed mince into a macho money machine. Bought half of south Orange County back in the day, practically owned Newport Beach, like fuck the movies, real estate is where the treasure be.
Aaarrrrhh.
All those cats—Wayne, Hope, Crosby—they bought up big chunks of the California Dream—Newport Beach, Palm Springs, Del Mar—and sold it like they sold their celluloid fantasies. Sunshine, sailing, golf.
Lotsa golf.
Martinis on the green, sly in-jokes, thousand-dollar hookers waiting in the carts, blow-job bets on birdies, bogeys, whatever rich white guy my small dick isn’t as small as your small dick crapola. Get your ball on the green, on the green, on the green green green.
Losers get the sand traps.
Iraq. Stanland.
What’s the club they use to get out of the sand traps? The wedge? Chon wonders. Yeah, as if, wouldn’t that be nice. Stuck in the Stan, just have your caddy hand you your trusty wedge, take a sweet swing, and you’re out on the green.
Martinis and blowies for everyone, my good man.
He and Ben played golf once. Took the pony down to Torrey Pines, got ripped on speed, and did nine holes in like seven and a half minutes, whacking at that ball like Cossacks swinging at heads. Didn’t replace their divots, of which there were many. Ran from shot to shot like they were dodging sniper fire. Hit the ground and roll, come up swinging. Until an indignant steward came and tossed them off.
Thrown off the beautiful greens.
Off the Dream.
The Duke, Der Bingle, and the Bobster don’t want you here anymore.
Ben wanted Chon to object—I’m a war veteran, I fought to protect your right to shoot eighteen holes on a beautiful California morning by the sea by the sea by the beautiful sea you and me you and me oh how happy we’ll be. I bled for these holes. Without men like me, the clubhouse whores would be wearing burqas, my friend.
But Chon wouldn’t do it. Refused to summon up the righteous indignation. Truth was, he didn’t go to Stanland to defend his country club. He went because he was already in the SEALs when those cocksuckers flew airplanes into the WTC.
He didn’t say that to the steward, though. Guy was already cardiac-paddle-ready, so Chon just said, “Keep it green,” and left without further incident.
Anyway, now he’s at John Wayne Airport. You fly into Orange County, they let you know what you’ve gotten into, pilgrim. Don’t be fooled by the hip surfer thing, you are in Rich Republicanland and you’d better behave accordingly or they’ll let the Duke loose on you.
As if.
Just a short while ago the Republicans were objects of fear and hatred—now they’re just pathetic assholes. Barry took them to the paint and cut their throats. (O-BAM-a!) Now they walk around like white frat boys in Bed-Stuy, talking tough to show they aren’t scared as the urine streams down their chinos into their cordovans. Obama has these dweebs so turned around all they can do is get behind some fat junkie DJ, a gibberish-spewing PsychoBimbette from the Far North, and a tele-dork who gives adrenaline-crazed, 1950s-style “chalk talks” (speaking of little white dicks) like some health-class instructor in a sex-offender unit.
Chon has a mental vid-clip of this clown choking on a chicken bone in a restaurant, rolling on the floor while the black and Spanish waiters and busboys fall all over each other hustling to dial 511.
Of course the Dems will find some dazzlingly random way to fumble at the goal line; they always do (“What did you say your name was, darlin’? Monica?”). In the meantime Chon can’t wait—can’t wait—for the inevitable moment one of these clowns chokes on an open mike and calls Obama a nigger. It’s going to happen, you know it’s going to happen, it’s just a matter of time and it will be a blast to see the dazed befuddled expression on that pasty stupid face as he realizes his career is deader than a Kennedy.
POSTMORTEM CAREER COUNSELOR
And your career died how?
CHUCKLEHEAD
I called Obama a nigger.
POSTMORTEM CAREER COUNSELOR
(Incredulous pause)
Wow.
In the meantime, the GOP just settles for other kinds of buffoonery. Chon’s personal fave is the guv of South Goober banging the chica in South America while claiming he’s on a hiking trip in the Appalachians (on “Naked Hiking Day,” no less).
Then crying about it.
The other thing about Republicans—they cry on TV these days like a twelve-year-old girl who didn’t get invited to a birthday party. (“It’s okay, Ashley—Brittany’s a jerk—everybody loves you.”)
Republicans didn’t used to cry.
Democrats cried and Republicans mocked them for it.
The way it should be.
Ask John Wayne.
Chon used to hate Democrats as weak-kneed yuppie hypocrites, a party of closeted gay men too gutless to come out and stand up for who they are. He still does, but since Iraq—since the Sock Puppet got his leash yanked by Mr. Wilson—who Chon really hates are Republican politicians. Not to put too fine a point on it, Chon thinks they should be hunted down like rabid dogs, shot, and tossed into a common pit, with lime poured over their rotting corpses so they don’t emerge some Halloween nigh
t like the zombies they would otherwise become.
Anyway …
41
They find Ben in baggage claim waiting for his green duffel bag, like he’s still some college kid coming home from a field trip to Costa Rica.
He looks thin like he always does when he comes home. His skin, in that particularly weird, Third World way, is simultaneously tan and pale—dark from the sun with a sub-layer of infection-induced white underneath. What is it this time? Anemia? Hep? Some parasite that’s crept under his toenail into his bloodstream?
Bilharzia.
Ben sees them and smiles.
Big white even teeth.
In a different generation Ben would have been in the Peace Corps. Shit, Ben would have been the director of the Peace Corps, played touch football with Jack and Bobby on the lawn at Hyannis Port, out sailing on the yacht. Tan and smiling. A life of vigor, moral and physical.
But that was a different generation.
O runs up to him, throws her arms around his shoulders, wraps her legs around his waist. It’s no prob, she weighs, like, nothing.
“Bennnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!”
The other passengers turn and look.
Ben holds her up with one arm, pivots, and extends his other hand to Chon.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
His bag comes down the conveyor belt. Chon picks it up, hefts it on his shoulder, and they walk out past the statue of
The Duke—
And, by the way—
Fuck him.
42
The Coyote Grill
In south Laguna Beach
Just an exterior stairway up from Table Rock and the condo.
They sit out on the balcony. A rectangle of blue Pacific down below them, fishing boats cruising the edge of the kelp beds, Catalina lying fat and lazy (a spoiled house cat) on the edge of the world.
Nice nice.
Sun shining and the air smells of fresh salsa.
It’s Ben’s favorite place when he’s home. His hang. But he doesn’t eat a lot today, just pushes his food around the plate and nibbles on a tortilla and Chon thinks he probably has some gut malady. Rumbling intestines and frequent trips to the john. Load up on magazines because Ben is going to get a lot of reading done.
Chon has a burger. He hates Mexican food. His opinion is that all Mexican food is the same, it’s just wrapped differently.
O eats like a horse.
Big plate of nachos with chicken, fish tacos with yellowtail, rice, and black beans. Having Ben home gives her even more than her usual ravenous appetite. (Her two men around her.) It’s almost disgusting watching her shovel the food into her mouth. Paqu would hemorrhage through her fucking ears if she saw this.
Which would make O even hungrier.
Ben orders an iced tea but Chon tells him clear liquids are better. You have the trots, only drink fluids you can see through. Ben gets a lemonade and mostly just chews on the ice.
“Where have you been?” O asks between gulps.
“All over,” Ben answers. “First I was in Myanmar.”
“Myan … ?”
“—mar,” Ben says. “Used to be Burma. Go to Thailand and take a left? I ended up in Congo.”
“What was in Congo?” Chon asks.
Ben gives him that Apocalypse Now look. Brando before the Pudding Pops.
The horror.
43
Home home.
Welcome home.
Ben walks into the big living room and instantly starts checking it out, doing a mental inventory to see what vodka-and-speed-propelled damage Chon has done.
But the place looks good.
Pristine.
“You brought a cleaner in,” Ben says.
“One of Paqu’s anal retentives,” O says.
“It looks nice,” Ben says. “Thanks.”
Paqu’s house cleaners generally go in one of two directions—have nervous breakdowns and quit, hopefully stealing something of value on their way out the door; or are obsessive-compulsives who are totally into meeting her impossible standards. O brought one of the latter types in to sterilize Ben’s crib.
Now they sit on the sofa and smoke up. Look out at the ocean. Look out at the ocean. Look out at the ocean …
Chon says he’s going for a training swim.
That means a long swim, couple of miles at least, plus the walk back. He leaves the room, comes back with his trunks on, and says, “Later.”
They watch him walk out onto the beach and jump into the water.
No toe-dipping for Chon.
44
Or for O.
“How long has it been,” she asks Ben, “since you’ve had a woman?”
“A few months.”
“That’s too long.”
She kneels in front of him, unzips his fly, licks butterfly wings up and down him. He stops her and asks, “How does Chon feel about this?”
“It isn’t his tongue, isn’t his mouth.” And swallows him deep, slides her lips up and down his beautiful warmwood cock, feels him harden, loves her power to make that happen, bobs her head up and down, knowing he’ll dig the sight of that, guys love the sight of that (seeming) submission; she sees his fingers grip the sofa cushion.
“You want to come in my mouth,” she asks, “or in my pussy?”
“In you.”
She takes his hand and leads him into the bedroom. Pulls her dress up over her head, slides her panties down her legs, and kicks them off. Takes off his shirt, his jeans, his boxers and pulls him down on top of her.
“Are you wet?” Ben asks.
Pure Ben, always considerate. Ben never wants to hurt anyone.
“God, yes. Feel me.”
Opens herself to let him see
her glistening.
“God, O.”
“You want to fuck me, Ben?”
“Oh yes.”
“Fuck me, sweet Ben.”
Sweet sweet Ben so slow and gentle so strong and gentle, so warm so fucking fucking fucking warm, his brown eyes looking into hers questioning, asking if this pleasure can be real asking if this pleasure can be really found and his smile an answer, the answer yes because his smile makes her come a small one, the first small wave.
The mermaid on her arm strokes his back, the green sea vines entwine him and hold him to her, sweet sticky trap, dolphins surfing on his spine as he rides her, their salty sweat meeting and mixing, slicking them together, sticking them together, little frothy white bubbles joining his cock and her cunt.
O loves his hardsoft cock in her, loves gripping his shoulders as he moves in and out; in his ear she whispers, “I missed this.”
“Me, too.”
“Sweet, sweet, sweet Ben, fucking me.”
The “me” triggers another climax, it’s the “me” of it, this beautiful, wonderful, sweet, loving man, it’s “me” he wants to fuck, his beautiful warm brown eyes looking into “mine,” his hands on my back his cock in my pussy.
She comes again and tries to slow down but can’t, but can’t, she gives up on the control she wanted to make this slow for him make it last for him but can’t and she jacks her hips to push her clit into his pubic bones and circles her hip to grind it there his cock deep inside her.
“Oh, Ben. Oh!”
Her fingers, a crab scuffling across the wet sand, race down to his ass, search for and find the crevice, a tidal pool, she pushes a finger in and hears him groan and feels him shoot deep inside her his back muscles shudder, and then again, and then he falls on her.
The mermaid smiles.
The dolphins fall asleep.
So do Ben and O.
45
Ben gently untangles himself from her moist arms.
Gets out of bed, puts on his jeans and shirt, and steps into the living room. Through the big window he sees Chon sitting out on the deck. Ben goes to the fridge, grabs two Coronas, and goes out.
Hands Chon a beer, leans against the white metal railing, asks, �
�Good swim?”
“Yeah.”
“No sharks?”
“Not that I saw.”
No surprise—sharks are afraid of Chon. Predators recognize each other.
Ben says, “We make the deal.”
“Mistake.”
“What,” Ben says. “You worried their dick is bigger than our dick now?”
“Our dick?”
“Okay, our dicks. Our collective dick. Our joint dick.”
“Redundant,” Chon says. “Let’s just keep our dicks separate.”
“Okay, they won,” Ben says. “And what did we lose? We got out of a business we want to get out of anyway. I’m telling you, Chon, I’m bored with it. Time to move on. Next.”
“They think we’re afraid of them.”
“We are.”
“Separate dicks?” Chon says. “I’m not.”
“We’re not all you,” Ben says. “We don’t all chew up and spit out fifteen terrorists before breakfast. I don’t want a war. I didn’t get into this thing to fight wars, kill people, get people killed, get their heads lopped off. This used to be a pretty mellow gig, but if it’s going to get to this level of savagery, forget it. I don’t want to be a part of it. They think we’re afraid of them? Who fucking cares? This isn’t fifth grade, Chon.”
Yeah, it isn’t, Chon thinks. It isn’t a pride thing, an ego thing, or a dick thing.
Ben just doesn’t get how these people think. He can’t wrap his rational head around the reality that these people will interpret his reasonableness as weakness. And when they see weakness, when they smell fear, they attack.
They pour it on.
But Ben will never get that.
“We can’t beat the cartel in a shooting war, the math just doesn’t pencil,” Ben says.
Chon nods. He has guys he could recruit, good people who can take care of business, but the BC has an army. Still, what are you going to do? Grab the KY, bend over the railing? Prison love?
