If it’s the former, it’s pulling the air out of…
… well, the air… and it makes a lot of noise.
If it’s water, the water bill goes way up and you have the same utility-company-as-snitch problem.
The boys pondered this.
“A swimming pool,” O suggested. “Put in one of those aboveground pools.”
Genius.
A swimming pool is full of…
… water… justifies the water bill, and besides…
“We could collect the condensation, pump it back into the pool, and recycle,” added Ben.
Of course.
“Plus we could go swimming,” O said.
In addition to the house renovation — and they hadn’t even gotten to the rewiring they had to buy — metal halide lamps, high-pressure sodium lamps, thousand-watt bulbs, sixteen-inch oscillating fans, grow trays, reservoir trays for the nutrient mixture, the nutrient mixture, hundreds of feet of piping and tubing, pumps, timers for the pumps “And pool toys,” O said. “Can’t have a pool without toys.”
They hadn’t sold an eighth yet and they were already looking at a $70,000 outlay for start-up costs.
That was for one house, but they did it. Took Ben’s savings, Chon’s combat-pay bonuses, and then hit the volleyball courts in search of suckers to hustle. Fortunately, P. T. Barnum was right, and they raised the money in a few months of game, set, and match.
Grew primo product and reinvested the small profit into another house, then another and another, making Craig Vetter a very happy surfing Realtor.
Now they have five grow houses and are working on a sixth.
It costs money.
Which is why Chon doesn’t let people rip them off.
Much less lay a violent hand on their people.
28
Now Chon, consumed with self-loathing because he feels a little winded after trashing four guys, gets back in the Mustang and drives home.
Grabs the bat, gets out of his car, and runs smack into
His father.
It happens every once in a while. Laguna is a small town and you run into people.
People you want to.
People you don’t.
Chon’s dad falls into the latter category, and the feeling is mutual. There’s a seminal connection (see above), but that’s about it. Big John was 404 for a lot of Chon’s childhood, and when he wasn’t Chon wished he was.
Ben and O both know that Chon’s father is a subject Not To Be Discussed.
Ever.
They’re aware, of course, that “Big John” was once a big-time Laguna dope dealer, a member of the storied “Association,” that he went to prison and now is some kind of roofing contractor, but that’s about it.
Big John looks startled to see his son.
And not very happy.
It’s…
… awkward.
Big John, heavy shoulders, brown hair receding, a little jowly now, breaks the silence first.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“Okay. You?”
“Okay.”
Big John looks at the bat, smirks, and asks, “You playing softball now or something?”
“Hardball.”
That’s it. They stand there looking at each other for a second, then Big John says, “Well, okay…”
And walks away.
29
Duane Crowe finds a seat at the bar at T.G.I. Friday’s (Thank God It’s Friday’s) and takes it.
T.G.I. Friday’s is practically a club for fortysomething divorced guys. You get a burger, a beer, I don’t know, some nachos, and kill time trying to find a fortysomething divorced woman who’s as lonely and horny as you are. Which is a dubious proposition to begin with.
It ain’t a great life, but it’s the one he’s got.
He’s scoping the place out for possibilities when he sees Boland squeeze his way into the crowded bar. “Squeeze,” because Bill Boland is built like a refrigerator and is one of the reasons that 24 Hour Fitness is open twenty-four hours.
Boland takes the stool next to Crowe and says, “Nice T-shirt. ‘Old Guys Rule.’”
“My niece gave it to me for my birthday,” Crowe says. “You get Hennessy straightened out?”
“He won’t be waltzing through TSA anytime soon,” Boland says. “They put a pin in his arm. Guy did a number on him.”
They had worked dumbass Brian and his crew into ripping off one of Leonard’s dealers to see what he’d do.
Now they knew.
Something else they know: before they make another move on Leonard, the other guy has to go.
“You get an ID?” Crowe asks.
“Working on it,” Boland says. “Word is he’s some kind of Special Forces stud. SEALs or Green Berets or something.”
“Green Berets? They still got them?”
“I think.”
The other reason they meet in T.G.I. Friday’s is because it’s crowded and loud. Television up high, people yapping-you get a mike on this place, all you’re going to pick up is noise. And if someone’s wearing a wire it’s more likely to get some guy lying to a chick about his job than something a grand jury is going to get geeked about.
“What do the Powers That Be say?” Boland asks.
“What they always say,” Crowe answers. “‘Deal with it.’”
Deal with it and send us our fucking money. The Powers That Be don’t eat in franchises, they own them.
“This Leonard kid?” Crowe says. “He’s a piece of work-a real cocky asshole. Get on him, see if he slips on the banana peel.”
Boland looks at the menu. “You had the burgers here?”
Crowe surveys the line of divorcees at the bar.
“I’ve had everything here.”
30
When Chon gets to his apartment, O is there.
She has a key because she looks after the place when he’s gone.
Waters the single plant.
(No, not that kind of plant. Some innocuous plant, like a ficus or something.)
“I hope it’s okay I let myself in,” O says.
“Sure.”
She gives him this weird, un-O-like vulnerable look. “Chon?”
“O?”
“Don’t you think I’m sort of… Bambi-esque?”
31
“O,” Chon says, buying time. They’re pals, buddies. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”
“Maybe that will make it better,” O says. “And I’m nineteen now.”
Not a kid anymore.
“O-”
“Look, if you think I’m, like, hideous or something-”
“It’s not that,” Chon says. O is the opposite of hideous-whatever that is. “I think you’re beautiful.”
He means it.
“And you love me,” she says.
He nods.
“And I love you, so…”
He shakes his head, smiles stupidly. “O… I don’t know…”
“Chon,” she says, “you’re going away… and I don’t know if
… and it’s my fault-”
“No, it isn’t.”
32
O’s first conscious memory was of a boy pissing on marigolds.
“Ophelia” then-it would be years before she dropped the “phelia” and became just “O”-sat in the playground of the little school and watched the older boy water the plants.
The school in Laguna Canyon was one of those neo-one-room schoolhouses-kindergarten through eighth grade-that operated under the theory that children learn best when not arbitrarily separated into rigid grade groups but allowed to find their own levels among kids of various ages.
This was during one of Paqu’s progressive phases, so every day she hauled her four-year-old daughter from their seven-digit home in gated Emerald Bay to the funkier environs of the canyon. The house and the money for the private school came from her settlement with O’s father, who divorced her in the sixth month of her pregnancy.
Even the teachers at the school thought that Ophelia was too young to start kindergarten.
“She’s precocious,” her mother answered.
“But still four,” the principal said.