by Don Winslow
The crows take your eyes and the peasants take your shoes and commend your soul to God, but who can say with any certainty that crows don’t pray over carrion flesh? They are the smartest of birds; perhaps sensitivity comes with intelligence, maybe they feel for the dead that sustain them.
He’s trained for this moment, of course.
Escape and Evade School, a name so redolent with irony it makes him want to weep. The second they open the door to take him out his muscle memory will take over, but he knows that he’s still weak from his wounds, freshly injured by his fight with Crowe-his chances are bad, but he’ll take the chance-the opportunity-to bring more meat with him to the crows.
I can damn well take you with me.
The car turns off the highway onto a dirt road, and Chon feels his muscles stiffen and forces them to relax.
The old man has a gun, which will be mine in the half second it takes to grab it. Shoot the gunman through the back of the seat, then the driver, then John.
He runs this film clip through his mind until it’s smooth and perfected and his body has memorized the sequence.
The car pulls off onto a narrower road, and Chon sees the glow of lights that must come from a house. As they bounce up the rocky road to the top of a hill he sees that it’s more accurately a compound.
A high adobe wall snakes up and down the hillside.
Shards of broken glass on top of the wall reflect off the spotlights.
Two armed guards, machine pistols slung over their shoulders, stop the car in front of a wooden gate. The driver says something to one of the guards in what sounds to Chon like an eastern European language, and the car goes through into the compound.
The house is large, two-story, of very basic rectangular Mediterranean design. The west windows look out over the bluff onto the ocean.
John gets out of the car.
“Don’t try any of your Special Forces chop-sake bullshit,” he says to Chon. “It’s Mexico. You don’t have anywhere to go.”
Chon isn’t so sure about that.
He isn’t so sure he couldn’t kill the two guys in the car, make it over the wall, and walk the hundred or so miles through the Baja desert.
The bigger problem is Ben.
Effectively a hostage.
Maybe O, too, if she’s with him.
He watches his father walk into the house.
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“Leonard,” Dennis says, “does your boy Chon have a cell phone?”
Ben doesn’t answer.
“Jesus Christ,” Dennis says, “for once in your life, trust somebody-even a narc. Does he have a cell phone?”
Ben doesn’t name names.
He names numbers.
273
Another guard opens the door for John.
John steps into the foyer as
Doc comes down the stairs.
Yeah, Doc.
Laguna Beach 1991
274
John walks down Ocean Avenue toward the beach and feels strange.
Strange to see the ocean, strange to walk outside and not see coils of barbed wire and guard towers, strange to not think about who is walking behind him and what they might want.
Ten years in the federal lockup in Indiana, and now he’s back in Laguna.
A free man.
Ten years of a fourteen-year sentence before the pardon came through, but now he’s out-no parole officer bullshit. No one to report to every time he wants to drain a beer or take a dump.
He walks over to the lifeguard tower, then up the boardwalk.
Roger Bartlett is already there.
“Hi, John,” Roger says. “Welcome home.”
“Yeah.”
“And thanks for meeting me here,” Roger says, “instead of in the office.”
Yeah, John thinks, banks are morally sensitive.
John snorts. “We’ve put money in every bank in Newport, Laguna, Dana Point, you name it. Shit, I was fifteen I was delivering bags of cash to you assholes. Nobody complained. Wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t have the funds to lend to anyone.”
We built this city on rock-and-roll bull shit.
They built a good chunk of this city on dope. Cash that went into the banks and came out as mortgages for houses, stores, businesses. Built it up pretty good during the ten fucking years he spent in the hole for selling something somebody wanted to buy.
Comes home, there’s a ten-year-old stranger sitting on the couch, Taylor tosses him the keys, says He’s your kid now, and walks out the door. Hasn’t been back since and it’s been two weeks.
He looked at the kid and said, “Hello, John.”
Kid answered, “My name is Chon.”
Fuckin’ little asshole.
And thanks for all the cards and letters and visits, Chon.
Of course, he puts that on Taylor. Divorced him eighteen months into his stretch. He signed the papers-what difference did it make?
Now he looks at Roger, who seems a little nervous, a little edgy, and says, “I want my money.”
“It’s all there for you, John,” Roger says quickly. “It’s been earning interest, performing nicely.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-two grand.”
“The next words out of your mouth better be ‘April Fool’s,’ motherfucker.”
“You think pardons are cheap?” Roger asks. “Check it out with Meldrun, he’s logged every fucking hour. Not to mention judges, congressmen. Everyone has their hand out. And Taylor? You think she doesn’t come around every other week? I’ve never seen her in the same dress twice, by the way. Christ, I thought my wife could shop. And you have a kid, John, in a private elementary school-”
“Yeah, well, that’s going to stop.”
“Whatever,” Roger says. “I’ve done my best for you. We all have. You’re free. Enjoy your life.”
“Cash me out.”
“John, you don’t want to-”
“Cash me out.”
275
John moves to a smaller house and puts “Chon” into public school.
Then he looks up an old buddy and goes back into the marijuana business and reaches out to another former associate to leverage thirty grand into three hundred g worth of product.
It takes time to lay that much off, though.
Time to get back in the market.
John was back in the dope trade for about three weeks when Chon was walking down Brooks Street, a car rolled up, and a guy told him to get in. They drove him to an old ranch out in Hemet and kept him there until John paid what he owed.
Three hundred K.
Chon was out there for a month, having a pretty good time looking at Penthouse magazines, sneaking roaches, and driving an ATV around the place, then Big John came to pick him up personally.
“See how much I love you?” Big John asked when they were in the car.
“See how much I care?” Chon answered, holding up his middle finger.
Big John slapped him across the face.
Hard.
Chon didn’t fucking flinch.
A week later, John’s walking down the street when a car pulls up, they tell him to get in, and they drive him down to Mexico.
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Way the fuck down past TJ, Rosarito, and Ensenada, down along the Baja Peninsula.
John is thinking he’s going to get a bullet in the back of the head, but then they pull up this hill, then over the top, and there’s a big house surrounded by an adobe wall, and they pull through the gate into the compound.
Doc comes out the door.
No shirt, baggy khaki cargo shorts, huaraches.
Hugs John like his long-lost son.
“You could have just called me,” John says.
“Would you have come?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Doc looks good for a dead man. A few strands of white in the hair, which has retreated off his forehead a few inches. John hasn’t seen him in over ten year
s, not since the faked suicide and Doc’s disappearance into the “program.”
“I thought you’d be selling aluminum siding in Scottsdale,” John says.
“Fuck that shit,” Doc says. “I bailed the first chance I got, came down here. Freedom is precious, my son.”
“Tell me about it,” John says. “You ratted me out, Doc.”
Doc shakes his head. “I protected you. Bobby, those other pricks, they were going to kill you. I took you out of it, somewhere safe.”
“Ten years, Doc. My wife is gone, my kid is a stranger-”
“You never wanted either of them in the first place,” Doc says. “Be honest.”
“What do you want, Doc?”
“I want to help you,” Doc says. “Make it up to you.”
“How?”
“You kept the faith, Johnny,” Doc says. “You’re like my own blood. I want to bring you in on something. Shit, I need to bring you in on something.”
277
You’re fucking up, Doc tells him, doing it the same old way. That’s how we got busted, how we got jammed.
It’s a loser’s game, it always ends the same.
We don’t want to be in the drug business.
We want to be in the turf business.
278
“What do you need me for?” John asks after Doc lays it out for him.
“I need someone I can trust up there,” Doc says. “Someone to run the day-to-day. I mean, I can’t come el norte, I’m freaking Napoleon down here.”
“I have a record,” John says.
“As John McAlister,” Doc says. “Get a new ID. Get five of them, who cares? It’s easy enough to do. Set up a shell business, look gainfully employed, and fly under the radar. John, we’re talking real money.”
“And how do I move the money to you?” John asks. “I can’t be running down to Mexico without attracting attention.”
“The system’s all set up,” Doc says. “There’ll be sort of a board of directors, you know, some of the old ‘gang,’ for major decisions. But you’ll be the CEO. It’s all set up. All you have to do is plug in.”
John plugs in.
279
As soon as John’s car leaves, Kim comes out of the house. She’s beautiful in a white caftan with embroidered flowers, her hair long, her feet bare.
“What did he say?” she asks Doc.
“What do you think?” Doc asks.
Kim shakes her head.
“What?”
“I don’t like him,” Kim says. “I never have.”
“I love him,” Doc says. “He’s like a son to me.”
“You have a child.”
“That I never see.”
“I’m not living in Mexico,” Kim says. “I’d go insane.”
“I’d like to see her sometime.”
“It’s better this way,” Kim says. “I have to get back soon. Shall we go in?”
They go into the house and upstairs to the bedroom. The shades are pulled and the thick walls keep it relatively cool.
Still, they are sleek with sweat as they make love.
Don Winslow
The Kings Of Cool
Baja, Mexico 2005
Well, Papa, go to bed now, it’s getting late,
Nothing we can say will change anything now.
— BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, “INDEPENDENCE DAY”
280
The room is big and perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean.
Spotlights illuminate the beach and the breakers.
A foot trail runs from the compound down to the beach, and John sees a quiver of long-boards leaning against the wall of the deck.
Doc wears a Hawaiian shirt over an old pair of khaki shorts and huaraches. A ball cap even though it’s night.
He’s vain, John thinks, covering up the receding hairline.
“How’s life?” John asks.
“Life is the same,” Doc says. “Luxurious exile. I surf, I fish, I grill the fish, I watch shitty Mexican TV, I go to bed. I get up at least once in the night to piss. I’m not going to ask how life is with you.”
“Things have gotten a little out of hand.”
“No shit?” Doc asks.
Doc has a deep tan that looks darker against his snow-white hair. It hangs down to his shoulders, but it’s still white. Deep lines in his face, deep lines under his eyes from squinting into the sun. He looks like an old surf bum.
“I’ve got enough fucking agita down here right now,” Doc says. “This whole thing with the cartel.”
“I still think siding with the Berrajanos was a mistake.”
“They’re going to win,” Doc says, “and I have to live down here, whoever’s on the fucking throne. You want a soda? I got Diet Pepsi and Diet Coke.”
“I’m good.”
“When did people start saying that?” Doc asks, going to the refrigerator and taking out a Diet Coke.” ‘I’m good,’ instead of ‘No, thanks.’”
John doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.
Doc pops open the can and takes a long drink. Then he sits down on the couch and says, “We had us some times, didn’t we, Johnny?”
“Yeah, we did, Doc.”
“Those were some days,” Doc says, shaking his head, smiling. “ Good times. Your kid, what do they call him…”
Chon.
281
“‘John’ wasn’t good enough for him?” Doc asks.
“You remember the sixties?” John asks. “Everybody was ‘Rainbow’ and ‘Moonbeam.’”
“This ain’t the sixties,” Doc snaps. “It’s two-thousand-and-fucking-five, and whatever the hell your kid’s name is, he’s a problem. Let me tell you something-I’m spending my last years sipping a drink on the beach and watching the sun go down, not in some cell in Pelican Bay.”
“I told him to back off.”
“He killed two of our guys tonight,” Doc says. “That sound like backing off?”
“He saved us the trouble.”
“They were still our guys,” Doc says. “We can’t let people think it’s okay to do that.”
He finishes his soda, crumples up the can in his big hand, and tosses it into a little blue plastic wastebasket with the recycling logo on it. “You know what has to happen here.”
“We’re talking about my kid, Doc.”
“Why I wanted to talk with you,” Doc says. “Get a sense of, you know, where you are with this.”
“What do you want, my permission?”
“I don’t need your permission, Johnny,” Doc says, fixing him with a stare. “It’s going to happen. The only question is whether it happens to just him and his buddy, or to you, too.”
John just looks at him.
“We’re not asking you to pull the trigger,” Doc says.
John stares at him for a few seconds, then he gets up. “I’m not even that sure he’s my kid.”
He walks out the door.
282
Of all the corkers God pulled off in the Old Testament, the real howler was Abraham and Isaac.
Had the angels rolling on the floor
Moaning
Stop. My ribs. Stop.
283
John opens the passenger door and says, “Someone wants to talk to you, see if we can work something out.”
He takes Chon into the house.
Boland goes in with them.
284
To Chon, Doc Halliday looks like any middle-aged geezer hanging around the beach hoping against hope to pick up a young chick.
“I thought you were dead,” Chon says.
Doc grins, looks at John, says, “He’s so much your fucking kid.”
John nods.
“I want my friend left alone,” Chon says. “He can’t hurt you.”
Doc walks up close to Chon. Looks for a long time into his eyes and then says
285
INT. DOC’S MEXICAN HOUSE — NIGHT
DOC
Look, kid, I brought you down here to try to
talk some sense into you because I love your father. When he hurts, I hurt, do you understand that?
Chon doesn’t answer.
DOC (CONT’D)
So if you can look me in the eye and promise me-that you’ll walk away and let this go — then vaya con dios.
CHON
What about Ben?
DOC
What about who?
Chon stares at him.
DOC (CONT’D)
So, do we have a deal? I’m giving you the gift of life here, kid.
CHON
Keep it.
286
Doc turns to John, shrugs, and says, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he isn’t your kid.”
“No, he is.”
He pulls the pistol and shoots Doc square in the forehead.
Don Winslow
The Kings Of Cool
287
In the words of Lenny Bruce “Into the toilet-for good, this time.”
Don Winslow
The Kings Of Cool
288
Doc totters for a second.
A statue pushed off a plinth
Then falls
And as he topples
Boland swings his Glock up to blow John off the earth.
And would, except
The room goes suddenly black
And there is only
Darkness and chaos.
289
chaos (n., from the Greek kaos) The formless or void state preceding the creation of the universe.
290
Highly trained Baja state policemen who know their work, Lado’s men blow the generator, plunging the compound into darkness, the only light now coming from the lamps on their helmets and the night-vision scopes on their rifles as their teammates blast a hole in the compound wall.
