by Don Winslow
“There are limits, Doc.”
“That’s not exactly a Toyota,” Doc answers, pointing at the Porsche.
John sees that there’s no point in arguing-Doc is tooted up. It’s becoming a problem, Doc hoovering his own product. It makes him irrational, unpredictable, prone to mistakes. Maybe one of those mistakes got him popped, John thinks. Maybe it’s true.
It’s a problem. John and Doc aren’t just in the dope business together-they have a restaurant together, a bar, a couple of apartment buildings. John gets popped and the feds could take it all.
They walk through the marina, then across the bridge out toward the long, narrow jetty.
“Taylor’s pregnant,” John says.
Doc says, “They know what causes that now, you know.”
“She was on the Pill.”
“That’s what she told you.”
“You’re saying she got knocked up intentionally?”
“You saying she didn’t?” Doc says. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Grow up.”
John gets what he’s saying. Another word for “baby” is “income.” A fat check once a month for the next eighteen years. Taylor wouldn’t be the first woman to palm the Pill for a payday.
“No,” John says, “she’s getting an abortion.”
“She wants you to stop her,” Doc says.
“You don’t know Taylor.”
(“I have my career to think about,” Taylor said. “I can’t audition if I’m all fat and blotchy and shit.”
John wanted to answer, “What fucking career? Six seconds on Mannix and you haven’t been to an audition in a year.” But he didn’t need another fight.
Quit while you’re ahead, right?
Anyway, she already called the clinic and made an appointment. She only told him because [a] she needed the money to pay for it, and [b] it would be nice if he took her and brought her home.
Which he’s not real keen about doing, but will.)
“Okay.” Doc smiles.
They walk onto the jetty. It gives them a long view-they can see anyone following them, and the cops would need a hell of a microphone to pick up anything at this distance.
“So what’s really up?” Doc asks. “It isn’t just your girlfriend getting knocked up.”
John’s surprised he feels nervous. Has to suck it up to ask, “You have something you want to tell me, Doc?”
“Like what?”
“Like you got busted?”
“The fuck you talking about?” Doc laughs.
Suddenly he looks sneaky to John. Say what you will about Doc, he was never that. He was always straight up, out there, who he was.
John hates it. Says, “If you have a problem, let’s talk about it. We can work it out.”
Doc laughs.
“That’s big of you, junior,” he says. “But save the Beatles songs for somebody else. I’m fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you getting this shit?” Doc asks. “Who you been talking to? Ron? Bobby?”
John doesn’t answer, but Doc knows the answer.
“Look,” he says, “those assholes wouldn’t have known coke from Coca-Cola if it wasn’t for me. I was first at the party. Shit, I started the party. Now the guests want my house.”
It makes some sense, John thinks. If the other guys contaminate Doc, he goes into the dope version of quarantine-people won’t deal with him-and they can move in on his market share.
“They’re working you, J,” Doc says. “Trying to drive a wedge between you and me.”
That also makes sense. Doc and John are fucking Batman and Robin. You can’t fight them together, but split them up…
“I’ll deal with Bobby,” John says.
“No, don’t,” Doc says. Then he does a terrible Godfather imitation. “‘Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’ Stay close to them. Get the lay of the land. Feel them out, find out who’s with me, who’s against me. Can you do that, Johnny, can you do that for me?”
“Sure.”
“You and me,” Doc says. “It’s always been you and me. Always will be. Nobody can get between us, right?”
No, that’s right, John thinks. They go too far back, and Doc’s been
Like a father to me.
“Anyway, look,” Doc says. “I’m working on some shit. I didn’t want to bring it to you until it was more, you know, fully formed, let’s say, but now…”
152
They drive down to Dago.
You haven’t done a buck and change down the 5 through Pendleton in a bloodred Lamborghini, you haven’t had the full California experience.
It’s a… rush.
Especially with Doc steering with one hand and snorting coke off the dashboard with the other. Nevertheless, they make it to San Diego alive and pull off on India Street in Little Italy.
“You develop a sudden craving for meatballs?” John asks.
They walk into a sandwich shop-a few booths and a long counter with red stools. Doc sits down on one of the stools, orders two sausiche sandwiches with peppers and onions, and asks, “Is Chris around?”
“Yeah, somewhere.”
“Do me a favor? Tell him Doc’s here?”
“‘Doc’?”
“That’s me.” Doc grins.
“What are we doing?” John asks.
“Keep your shirt on.”
A few minutes later, a thirtyish guy in a black suit, no tie, comes in and shakes hands with Doc.
“Chris, this is my partner, John.”
Chris offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, John.”
“You, too.”
“Chris, you have a few minutes?” Doc asks.
“Sure,” Chris says. “Let’s take this somewhere else.”
Doc goes to pay for the sandwiches but Chris waves it off. “I got it.”
“A tip?” Doc asks.
“No.”
They walk out onto Laurel Street. The planes coming in to land make a lot of noise. Doc says, “Chris, I wanted John to hear what we’ve been talking about.”
Yeah, John wants to hear what the fuck they’ve been talking about.
Chris says, “I talked with my people, and they’re eager to get in. We’ll take as much product as you can give us, offer national distribution, a certain level of protection.”
“Who are your ‘people’?” John asks.
He realizes that he sounds a little rude.
Chris looks at Doc, like, who’s your little friend?
Doc says, “Chris, give us a minute?”
Chris nods. “I’ll go get a coffee. Just give me a wave when you’re ready.”
When he’s out of earshot, John says, “What the fuck, Doc? The Mafia?”
“The amateur hour is over,” Doc says. “These people can give us national distribution-Chicago, Detroit, Vegas-”
“I thought they worked with the Mexicans.”
“Chris says they’d rather work with white people,” Doc says. The truth is that the Mexicans are bypassing them, dealing directly with L.A., and the San Diego mob wants its own source.
“Jesus Christ, Doc,” John says. “Once you let these people in, you never get them out.”
“That’s all the movies,” Doc says. “They’re businessmen, same as us.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want to do?” Doc asks, “just stand around with our thumbs up our asses, let Bobby and them steamroll us? Fuck that. Fuck ‘the Association.’ That shit’s over. We gotta look out for ourselves.”
He waves to Chris.
Chris comes back out on the sidewalk. “We all on the same page now?”
“Totally.”
Chris looks at John. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They get down to details-price per ounce based on volume, delivery methods, who talks to whom when and how-the nitty-gritty logistics of the dope trade.
Then Doc says, “Chris, I have one other thing.”
<
br /> “Tell me.”
“Some people aren’t going to be happy about this,” Doc says. “They might try to do something about it.”
Chris says, “No problem.”
“No?”
“Your turn to get coffee,” Chris says. “Let me make a phone call.”
Twenty minutes later Chris and another guy walk into the coffee shop.
The guy is middle-aged, professionally dressed, built like a refrigerator.
“Doc, John,” Chris says, “this is Frank Machianno. He’s going to move up to Laguna for a while, keep an eye on things.”
Frank offers his hand to each of them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says.
Very quiet voice.
Competent.
John doesn’t miss it Frank’s a stone killer.
153
John’s coming out of Papa’s Tacos in South Lagoo when Bobby Z rolls up on him in his pickup.
“Hop in,” Bobby says. “We need to talk.”
John’s not so sure they need to talk, but then he remembers Doc’s request to stay close, feel Bobby out, so he gets in.
“You give any thought to what we talked about?” Bobby asks.
“I don’t believe that Doc would flip on us.”
Bobby says, “Someone I want you to meet.”
They drive back north, up into the canyon, and pull over in the parking lot where hikers leave their cars. A white Ford Falcon’s sitting there with a guy in it, and both the car and the man have narc written all over them.
The cop rolls down the window when the truck pulls up. Bobby doesn’t waste any time.
“Tell this guy what you told us,” he says.
“Halliday’s under indictment in the San Diego Federal District,” the cop says. “I don’t have details because it’s sealed, but I know it’s a Class A felony, fifteen to thirty. They’ve had him under surveillance for two years.”
“Tell him the rest,” Bobby says.
“They’ve got him out there proving ‘good intent,’” the cop says. “Man’s a walking sound studio.”
“Will he testify?” Bobby asks.
“He better,” the cop says. “No testimony, no deal. Anything else?”
“Anything else?” Bobby asks John.
John shakes his head.
The narc rolls up his window and pulls out.
“Horse’s mouth,” Bobby says. “He’s Dago DEA.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?” Bobby asks. “I mean, the rest of the guys are going to want to know where you come out on this thing.”
“What thing?”
“We’re not just going to sit back and let Doc give us up one by one,” Bobby says.
John’s reeling.
First, proof that Doc is ratting them out. Shit, he could have been wearing a wire while they were talking in Dana Point, while they were meeting with the people down in Dago. Then there’s what Bobby seems to be saying “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” John asks.
“You wearing a wire, too?”
“Come on.”
“Open your shirt.”
“Fuck you.”
“Open your fucking shirt!”
John opens his shirt and shows Bobby his chest. “Happy?”
Yeah, John thinks, ain’t nobody happy about anything these days. But Bobby seems satisfied that John’s not miked up.
“So where are you at with this thing?” Bobby asks.
“I’m neutral.”
“No such gear on this bus,” Bobby says. “Not to traffic in cliches, but you’re either with us or against us.”
John gets it.
Like the man said You’re gonna have to serve somebody.
154
Sitting back in his chair, Stan puts his fingers together in a prayerful gesture in front of his chin and asks, “How can I help you?”
This man slept with my wife, Stan thinks, and now he’s coming to me for help? It will be a pleasure to turn him down, cite ethical reasons, and refer him elsewhere.
“It’s Doc,” John says.
“What about him?”
“He’s out of control,” John says.
“I don’t think that Doc would agree to come in and-”
“I’m not asking you to ‘treat’ him,” John says in a tone that makes it clear what he thinks about psychotherapy. Then he tells him about the possibility that Doc has been arrested and might be making a deal with the feds.
“I don’t see how that’s my business,” Stan says.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Let me explain it to you,” John answers. “If Doc talks, he’s not just going to give them dealers and customers-he’s going to name investors.”
Stan goes a little pale, and they both know why. He and Diane had taken some of the insurance money from the Bread and Marigolds Bookstore settlement and invested it in the Association.
Stan figured he’d missed the big coke train once, he wasn’t going to let it pull out of the station without him again. The money from the coke paid for the house, the nice little life, the modest wine cellar.
He and Diane are shareholders. They’re not involved in the day-to-day, even the year-to-year, but on major decisions, they have to be consulted.
And killing the king is kind of a major decision.
“What are you asking me to do?” Stan asks.
“Sign off.”
“On?”
John just stares at him.
“Oh,” Stan says, getting it.
John mocks him. “Oh.”
Stan sits there, staring at the neat row of books on the shelves. Books that are supposed to have the answers.
“No one’s asking you to do anything,” John says. “Just give your okay.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You take your chances,” John says.
Stan looks stricken. “I never thought…”
“What?”
Stan fumbles. “I never thought I’d ever have to be involved in something like this. ”
“Who did, Stan?” John asks. “If you want to talk to Diane about it-”
“No,” Stan says quickly. “We don’t need to bring her into this.”
John shrugs. Then, “So.”
“Do what you need to do, John.”
John nods and gets up.
Love and peace, he thinks.
He’s in the doorway when he hears Stan say, “When you had sex with my wife, did she like it?”
“I had sex with Diane?” John asks.
Must have been stoned.
It was the seventies, Stan.
155
Kim is surprised to see him.
“John,” she says, “what a delightful surprise.”
In a voice to make sure he knows that it is a surprise, but by no means a delight.
That she isn’t the girl he knew from the cave.
Or the drug mule with cocaine strapped to her body.
Or the wannabe debutante performing fellatio at a party.
She’s a wealthy young divorcee, long separated and well insulated from that life. The fact that she has invested some of her divorce settlement into a common business does not make them peers.
He is a dope dealer.
She is a businessperson.
“I won’t keep you long,” John says.
It made him laugh, he had to go through a security kiosk to get to her house on Emerald Bay. Now she stands outside her front door, looking cool, blonde, and beautiful in a summer dress and jewelry.
Princess fucking Grace.
Come off it, he thinks.
I sold coke to buy my place.
You sold your gash.
In the words of Lenny Bruce-“we’re all the same cat.”
“What can I do for you?” she asks.
“It’s about Doc.”
“Doc?”
You remember Doc-he used to fuck your mother in a cave whil
e you lay there humming? He strapped cocaine next to your precious twat and then boosted you onto the first step of the social ladder? He turned your little investment into a small fortune?
That Doc?
“Is he unwell?” she asks, apparently recovering her memory.
“I guess you could say that,” John answers.
He runs through the whole thing again.
Kim’s quicker on the uptake than Stan.
And more decisive.
“I don’t owe Doc anything,” she says, bending over to inspect the job that the Mexican gardeners did on the flower bed. “In fact, I barely remember him.”
But, like Stan, she has to get in a parting shot as he walks away “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever come here again,” she says. “And if we should ever run into each other in public…”
“Got it,” John says.
It’s the eighties.
156
Yeah, okay, so he has the sign-offs, but
So what?
Getting permission is one thing, doing it another.
They’re Surfers Slash Dope Dealers
Not Killers
Not Gangbangers
Not one of them-not Ron, not Bobby- none of them has ever walked up to another human being and pulled the trigger. One thing to see it in the movies, something else to do it, and none of them can even contemplate it.
So they’ll have to sub it out.
Yeah, but to who?
Again, it seems to be an automatic in the movies-everyone seems to know someone who kills people-but in real life?
Laguna?
(To the extent it replicates real life.)
You have, what, respectably married middle-aged gay guys who run art galleries and do hits on the side? Murder followed by Brie, wine spritzers, and a soak in the tub?
You have some gangs up in the northern part of the county.
Mexicans in Santa Ana
Vietnamese in Garden Grove
But how do you approach them?
How do you go to them and say we want you to kill this guy
Our old friend Doc?
It doesn’t matter John explains to BZ
Out behind the break at Brooks Street.
