“Lado,” she says. “I have a job for you.”
“Si, madrone.”
She’s decided.
190
Chon tosses his cane on the sand and limps toward the water.
Swimming is the best exercise to get him back in shape. Stretches his muscles, breaks up his scar tissue, improves his cardio, but puts no weight on the wounds.
The water is cold, but he doesn’t wear a wetsuit.
Not sure he could even pull one on, and anyway, he likes the pain of the sharp cold.
He starts swimming with easy overhead strokes, not pushing it.
Rhythmic, strong.
Peace lasted exactly one night.
Now it’s back to war.
191
EXT. STAIRCASE — TABLE ROCK BEACH — DAY
BEN and DUANE stand on a landing halfway down the long set of stairs. Waves smash against Table Rock.
Duane pats Ben down to make sure he’s not wearing a wire. Satisfied DUANE
What do we have to talk about?
BEN
I need to have a going-out-of-business sale.
DUANE
You just don’t fucking learn, do you?
BEN
Look, I have all this inventory DUANE
Your problems are your problems.
BEN
My problems are your opportunity.
DUANE
Speak.
BEN
I’ll sell cheap. Fifty cents on the dollar. To you.
DUANE
Why the fuck would you do that?
BEN
I wouldn’t, except what choice do I have? I can’t find a fucking buyer, they’re all too scared they’re going to end up dead in their cars.
DUANE
(smiling)
I wouldn’t know anything about that.
BEN
Yeah, okay. Look, the point is-you win. Just give me a chance to get some of my money out.
Ben watches anxiously as Duane considers this.
DUANE
Let me think about it.
BEN
Think quick. I’m dying here.
192
Chon follows Old Guys Rule away from the meeting.
OGR gets into his four-door Dodge Charger and heads north on the PCH, back up toward Laguna, turns south onto Arroyo and then onto Lewis up into Canyon Acres. Eventually he pulls into a driveway.
I could do him now, Chon thinks.
The VSS Vintorez sniper rifle-with a scope he doesn’t need and a sound suppressor he does-rests under a blanket on the passenger seat. It would be a simple matter of rolling down the window, waiting until OGR gets out of the car, and putting two in his head.
Yeah, except it doesn’t necessarily solve anything, Chon thinks. It does get justice for the murders, and it definitely sends a message that we’re not to be fucked with, but OGR is more the gofer type, not the boss.
OGR gets out of the car and goes in.
It’s a nice house-California bungalow-small and well maintained. But nothing about it says “kingpin.” Nothing about it says the owner is taking a “licensing fee” from every successful dope dealer in the OC and San Diego.
Unless, Ben thinks, OGR is just a guy who has a cop buddy and they thought they’d do a shakedown on a gullible pot grower.
The other possibility is that OGR is a big player who’s smart enough to lie low. Live under the radar until he has enough stowed away to pull out and go to some island paradise.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thinks.
Just take the next step, like get OGR’s name.
He puts in a call to an old buddy from the Stan.
193
Ben answers his phone.
Hears OGR say, “We’ll take your shit off your hands, but at thirty cents on the dollar.”
“You sure you don’t want to fuck me in the ass, too,” Ben asks, “while you’re at it?”
“You say one more word, it’s twenty-five.”
“Thirty-five,” Ben says. “Come on, don’t be a dick-you’re making huge money on this.”
“What kind of weight we talking?” OGR asks.
“Jesus, on the phone?”
“I’m clean,” OGR says. “Hey, if you’re not…”
“One twenty, give or take.”
“Pounds?!”
“No, gallons, dickwad.”
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
“We on, or not?”
“I’ll get back to you with a time and place,” OGR says.
“Bring cash,” Ben says.
194
Chon’s buddy-late of the SEALs, now with the Oceanside PD-calls him back.
“I ran the address.”
His name is Duane Alan Crowe, forty-eight years old, occupation: roofing contractor.
“You want me to ask around?” Chon’s buddy asks. “See if he’s on anyone’s radar?”
Chon tells him no thanks. Last thing he wants is to let anyone in OC know there’s interest in Crowe.
“Hey, I owe you.”
Chon pulled him out of the shit in Helmand one time.
“You owe me nothing.”
Friends look out for friends.
Way it is.
195
Chon watches Crowe come out of his house, a big briefcase in his hand, and get into his car.
11:30 at night
About fucking time.
Chon is used to sitting still waiting to spring ambushes, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.
He follows Crowe as he drives off.
196
Guy is standing out front, waiting for OGR to pick him up.
Brian Hennessy is wearing a short jacket, and Chon can see the gun bulge underneath.
Sloppy prick, he thinks.
Brian gets into Crowe’s car.
Chon follows them out to the 405.
197
Californians can have entire conversations using mostly numbers.
“The 133 to the 405 to the 5 to the 74” being fairly typical.
Crowe turns east on the 74 and drives up into the range of hills that flank the coastal plain.
No-man’s-land.
Surprisingly rural for this part of the world. Lots of switchbacks, dirt roads, little meadows hidden in oak groves.
That’s where Crowe’s headed now, and it freaks Chon out.
If he’s going to meet Ben, which is a real possibility — to do whatever the fuck it is that Ben thinks he’s doing.
Chon thinks he knows the place they’re headed-a little picnic area they’ve used to make exchanges before.
He pulls his car over, grabs the rifle, gets out, and starts trotting through the oak trees, hoping he can get there in time.
198
Miguel Arroyo, also known as Lado, leads a caravan of Suburbans through the streets of Tijuana and pulls up outside of the nightclub. His black-clad men pour out of the trucks, their M16s carried at high port, and surround the concrete block building, a hangout of the Sanchez-Lauter faction that went over to the Berrajanos.
Then Lado leads a squad through the front door.
“Police!” Lado yells.
There are about a dozen men in the club, with their girlfriends or their segunderas.
“Police!” Lado yells again. A few of the men start for their weapons but quickly realize they’re outgunned and raise their hands.
Lado’s men relieve them of their weapons and line them up against the wall.
Then they step back and, at Lado’s curt nod, open fire.
199
Ben pulls the van into the picnic area and waits. The back of the van holds one hundred and twenty pounds of his best hydro, plastic-wrapped into quarter-pound packages in twenty-pound bales.
$120K at normal street value, but this is a fire sale at
$42K.
Cocksuckers.
He also has a couple of little surprises wrapped up in two of the bales.
Finally a car pulls into the parking lot. After a few seconds OGR and another guy get out.