For the more unpleasant work, still, sadly, a necessity, he hired a couple of bikers from the Mongols outlaw motorcyle club, earning their devotion when he paid for their rehab to cure a nasty crystal meth addiction.
He instituted a profit-sharing plan that gave everyone in the organization a big fat bonus. Roberto had even set up retirement plans for anyone who wanted to participate. That way your money would be laundered for you and you’d have something to live on when you decided to retire or got out of prison.
Roberto wasn’t just respected, he was loved. Occasionally he would remember what it had been like to be Bob. But as time passed that was less and less often. He had been born a Bob. He had grown into a Roberto.
Roberto made his way toward the freeways, huge, slow-moving rivers of steel and glass. He popped a CD into the stereo. A stern yet reassuring voice came over the speakers and began to teach him how to conjugate verbs in español.
All around the city, the jacaranda trees were in full bloom. Fantastic explosions of purple, courtesy of Brazil, they dotted the landscape and reminded Roberto that he lived in a special place. A tropical place with palm trees and sunshine. A city where roses and cacti grew side by side and bright orange-and-purple birds of paradise sprang up out of cracks in the sidewalk.
The sun was beginning to make its way west, the light filtering through the jacaranda trees, splashing the city in gold and lavender. Roberto listened carefully to his CD. He repeated the words in Spanish. It was like a magical mantra.
The beautiful language of revolution.
Roberto loved this city. With its millions of people from hundreds of countries, speaking ninety different languages, Roberto felt truly at home. People came here to find transformation. They surrendered their past and looked for a future. They lived sin banderas, without flags, they weren’t Mexicans or Cambodians, Peruvians or Laotians, Salvadorans or Koreans, Africans or Americans, Pakistanis or Ecuadorians, Thai or Argentine; they were Angelenos.
Roberto was happy to be alive. He was happy he lived in Los Angeles, city of the future, hope of the world.
Amado walked out into the hallway and plugged some coins in the soda machine. He was getting used to this one-armed thing. It wasn’t going to be as bad as he’d thought. At first he hadn’t thought he’d be able to wipe his ass again. Now he could do all kinds of stuff. Well, he couldn’t move heavy objects like Norberto’s big dead body, but he could do lots of other stuff.
Acknowledgments
THE AUTHOR WOULD like to thank Morgan Entrekin, Mary Evans, Brian Lipson, Jamison Stoltz, Deb Seager, and Eric Price for their enthusiasm, energy, and encouragement in making this book possible.
Mark Haskell Smith is the author of Moist, Delicious, and Salty, and an award-winning screenwriter. He lives in Los Angeles.
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