Don Winslow - The Kings Of Cool

“That’s fair, Ben. What do you need?”

Ben tells him.

Symbiosis.

Wounded.

Chon hates the word. wounded: Simple past tense and past participle of “wound.”

1. Suffering from a wound, especially one acquired in battle.

2. Suffering from an emotional injury.

I am wounded (2) that I am wounded (1), Chon thinks.

He is of course aware that the word comes from the Old English “wund,” from the Saxon “wunda,” the Norse “und.”

The Norse.

The Vikings, who believed that if you died with your sword in your hand you went straight to Valhalla to join your fallen brothers in perpetual feasting, drinking, and fucking.

(Which is clearly why they slaughtered the Christians so easily.

Come on-grubbing, guzzling, and boinking versus playing the harp?)

But if you didn’t die with your sword in your hand you were basically fucked.

So Chon is a rehab animal.

The rehab techs have to force him to slow down, back off, but it’s a challenge because Chon is determined not to be one of the wounded. He has a medical board coming up.

He’s going out with his sword in his hand.

Speaking of which, he got a card from O.

Her (sort of) wearing (parts of) a Candy Striper uniform.

Sword, meet hand.

INT. PAQU’S HOUSE — LIVING ROOM — DAY

O and PAQU stare at each other.

O

I’m going to find him.

PAQU

I don’t want you doing that.

O

I don’t care. I’m going to.

Paqu’s jaws tighten.

PAQU

Don’t do it, Ophelia.

O

Why not? Just tell me. Why not?

Don Winslow

The Kings Of Cool

He left when I was pregnant with you

Paqu tells her.

That’s the kind of man he is.

That’s the man you want to meet.

Ben goes to Chad’s office and leaves a briefcase.

$35K.

In Monopoly money.

Don Winslow

The Kings Of Cool

“Cock sucker. ”

Duane says when he gets the word from Chad.

Decides it’s time to go see

The Powers That Be.

The Powers That Be

Are powers because they’ve figured it out.

Specifically You don’t want to be in the drug business, you want to be in the turf business.

You get cops, judges, lawyers, muscle and charge a fee for people to sell drugs on your turf. You don’t own a stall in the market, you own the market and take a percentage of everybody else’s stall.

The marijuana stall, the cocaine stall, the heroin stall, the methamphetamine stall, the whatever-the-fuck-as-long-as-it’s-illegal-to-sell stall, you get your piece.

And it’s not just the dealers-you get a referral fee from the lawyers and money launderers you send them to.

In the great movie franchise that is the illicit drug trade, you aren’t actors or writers or even directors or producers.

You’re CAA.

Look at it this way: if you take 15 percent of the top ten dealers in your area, you are the biggest dealer in the area.

Without ever touching a drug.

Low profile, high profit.

You can’t be busted.

The actual drug dealers take all the risks and bring in money every day.

If they don’t And at some point you hope they don’t, because then you

Lend them the money to make the payments.

Of course, this requires no monetary outlay on your part; you simply extend their payments while charging interest in the form of late fees.

Dig it-now you’re your own credit card company.

They can never catch up-at some point you own their entire business and they become your employees-and you let them make enough money to eke out a living until you bust them out and then Somebody else volunteers to take their place. The suckers stand in line to take a number and get fucked because even owning 85 percent of themselves they can make a lot of money if they don’t fuck it up.

It’s a beautiful thing, being

The Powers That Be.

So Crowe goes to report that one more idiot is trying to jump off the conveyor belt.

Get him in line is the answer.

Because if one clown thinks he can dance solo, they’ll all think it.

Then you don’t have a business anymore.

Crowe finds Ben in his usual spot, usual time, sipping a latte and reading the New York Times online.

Duane pulls out the chair across from him and sits down.

Ben looks over the computer top. “Good morning.”

“No, it isn’t,” Duane answers. “It’s going to be a very bad morning. Monopoly money?”

Ben smiles.

“If you didn’t have the money this month,” Duane says, “you should have just said so. We could have worked out a payment plan.”

“I have a payment plan,” Ben says. “My plan is not to make any more payments.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Ben says, “I’m not paying anymore.”

“Then you’re out of business.”

Ben shrugs.

“We’ll put you under the jail,” Crowe says. “All those charges can be reinstated. And we’ll just bust you over and over and over again.”

Ben says nothing.

His version of passive resistance.

He calls it “Verbal Gandhism.”

(“The other guy can’t play tennis,” Ben explained to Chon one time, “if you don’t hit the ball back.”

“He can’t play tennis,” Chon answered, “if you shoot him in the head, either.”)

Duane stares at Ben for a second, then gets up and walks out.

Verbal Gandhism works.

So do symbiotic relationships.

Dennis walks into the Orange County Task Force office, flashes his fed-creds, and demands to see the boss.

Commander Roselli looks like he just swallowed hot piss, that’s how happy he is to have a fed on his turf, trodding on the flowers, making the dogs bark. But he summons Boland upstairs and makes the introductions.

“Deputy Boland, Special Agent Dennis Cain, DEA.”

Boland nods at the fed. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“You have an op going against a Benjamin Leonard?” Dennis asks.

Boland hesitates, looks at Roselli.

Roselli says, “Go ahead.”

“Boss-”

“I said go ahead.”

Boland turns back to Dennis. “Yeah, I do.”

“No, you don’t,” Dennis says. “Whatever you had going, shitcan it. Now.”

“You can’t just walk in here and-”

“Yeah, I can,” Dennis said. “I did.”

“Leonard is dealing marijuana in our jurisdiction,” Boland argues.

“He could be selling enriched uranium to Osama bin Laden outside the teacup ride at Disneyland,” Dennis says, “and you will stay the fuck away from it.”

“What,” Boland asks, “you want the bust for yourselves?”

“He’s a federal CI, idiot,” Dennis snaps. “You keep fucking around, you’re going to jeopardize an operation that is so far above you, you’d need a ladder to sniff its asshole. You burn this guy, you’re going to be on the phone to the AG-that’s the attorney general-of the United States, dipshit-explaining why.”

Roselli says, “You’re running an op on our turf, you should have let us know.”

“So it could leak to our target?” Dennis asks.

“Fuck you,” Roselli says.

“Okay, fuck me,” Dennis answers. “Who you don’t fuck is Leonard. Dicks out, hands off. Him, his friends, his family, his dog if he has one. There is a force field around him that you don’t get near unless you want to get zapped. Do we understand each other?”

They do.

They don’t like it, but they understand.