Don Winslow - The Kings Of Cool

But the girl does like to fight.

John doesn’t know how this latest one started. He doesn’t even know what it’s about because she hasn’t told him yet. All he knows is that he came home from “surfing” with Bobby and she was waiting with a head of steam worked up.

“I have enough problems today,” John said, hoping to hold it off.

Nah “I want to talk about the ‘c’ word,” she snapped.

“‘Cunt’?” he asked.

Because he’s not a big believer in argument foreplay. Might as well just get into the fucking fight.

Yeah Next thing John knew, shit was flying around the kitchen like The Amityville Horror. When she figured she’d broken enough expensive glassware she went upstairs to pack. John stood in their bedroom doorway and watched her jam things into suitcases.

Dresses he bought her, shoes he bought her, jewelry he bought her.

Suitcases he bought her.

“This time you’re really leaving, right?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

She stormed down into the garage, and that’s when he slashed the tires.

Now she stands there looking at him.

God, she is fucking gorgeous, John thinks. He grabs her by the waist and sets her on the hood of the car. Spreads her legs, tears off her panties, and does her right there. Only thing that could have made it better is if he could have started the engine first.

He pulls out, tucks himself in, looks at her, and says, “Now I’ll have to get it detailed, too.”

She says, “I’m pregnant.”

Kim thanks God that among the long list of things at which Brad did not succeed, one of them was knocking her up.

He didn’t succeed at taking over his father’s car dealership, didn’t succeed at investments, didn’t succeed at the club, didn’t succeed in the bedroom. He did succeed at getting blow jobs from his receptionist, that was one thing. (My God, if he had failed at that.)

He did succeed at being her Starter Husband, providing her with a good divorce settlement and enough income to live, as they say, the life to which she had become accustomed.

And on which she wants an upgrade.

She thinks now of quitting therapy, it doesn’t seem to be doing her any good and she sniffs a scent of condescension in Diane’s tone these days, as if Kim’s problems are not sufficiently compelling to warrant her full attention.

No, she decides, the money would be better spent on improving her nose, which, let’s be honest, is somewhat less than perfect

Twenty-three now, the body requires maintenance, as it will soon be reentering a very competitive market. The next husband will have to be a

Stockbroker

Real estate developer

Better yet

Old money.

And for that, the nose must be perfect, the boobs perfect, the stomach flat and taut, and, thank God, again No stretch marks.

Sometimes terror strikes her like a blow to the chest.

She feels like she can’t breathe.

This existential fear.

Of the nothingness of herself.

John arranges to meet Doc down at Dana Point Marina.

Doc shows up in a bloodred Lamborghini Countach and pulls up beside John’s Porsche.

It bothers John because cops hate this kind of flash. The straight cops think you’re rubbing it in their noses and go after you all the harder; the guys on the arm don’t like you flaunting it, because the honest citizens see what they think are drug dealers tooling around openly and wonder why, if they can see it, the cops can’t.

Plus, the cops on your payroll see you riding a $300,000 sled and think maybe you’re not paying them enough.

It’s just a bad idea.

Doc sees the look of disapproval on John’s puss and says, “Hey, we take the risks, we should enjoy the rewards, right? Otherwise we might as well be selling insurance.”

“There are limits, Doc.”

“That’s not exactly a Toyota,” Doc answers, pointing at the Porsche.

John sees that there’s no point in arguing-Doc is tooted up. It’s becoming a problem, Doc hoovering his own product. It makes him irrational, unpredictable, prone to mistakes. Maybe one of those mistakes got him popped, John thinks. Maybe it’s true.

It’s a problem. John and Doc aren’t just in the dope business together-they have a restaurant together, a bar, a couple of apartment buildings. John gets popped and the feds could take it all.

They walk through the marina, then across the bridge out toward the long, narrow jetty.

“Taylor’s pregnant,” John says.

Doc says, “They know what causes that now, you know.”

“She was on the Pill.”

“That’s what she told you.”

“You’re saying she got knocked up intentionally?”

“You saying she didn’t?” Doc says. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Grow up.”

John gets what he’s saying. Another word for “baby” is “income.” A fat check once a month for the next eighteen years. Taylor wouldn’t be the first woman to palm the Pill for a payday.

“No,” John says, “she’s getting an abortion.”

“She wants you to stop her,” Doc says.

“You don’t know Taylor.”

(“I have my career to think about,” Taylor said. “I can’t audition if I’m all fat and blotchy and shit.”

John wanted to answer, “What fucking career? Six seconds on Mannix and you haven’t been to an audition in a year.” But he didn’t need another fight.

Quit while you’re ahead, right?

Anyway, she already called the clinic and made an appointment. She only told him because [a] she needed the money to pay for it, and [b] it would be nice if he took her and brought her home.

Which he’s not real keen about doing, but will.)

“Okay.” Doc smiles.

They walk onto the jetty. It gives them a long view-they can see anyone following them, and the cops would need a hell of a microphone to pick up anything at this distance.

“So what’s really up?” Doc asks. “It isn’t just your girlfriend getting knocked up.”

John’s surprised he feels nervous. Has to suck it up to ask, “You have something you want to tell me, Doc?”

“Like what?”

“Like you got busted?”

“The fuck you talking about?” Doc laughs.

Suddenly he looks sneaky to John. Say what you will about Doc, he was never that. He was always straight up, out there, who he was.

John hates it. Says, “If you have a problem, let’s talk about it. We can work it out.”

Doc laughs.

“That’s big of you, junior,” he says. “But save the Beatles songs for somebody else. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Where are you getting this shit?” Doc asks. “Who you been talking to? Ron? Bobby?”

John doesn’t answer, but Doc knows the answer.

“Look,” he says, “those assholes wouldn’t have known coke from Coca-Cola if it wasn’t for me. I was first at the party. Shit, I started the party. Now the guests want my house.”

It makes some sense, John thinks. If the other guys contaminate Doc, he goes into the dope version of quarantine-people won’t deal with him-and they can move in on his market share.

“They’re working you, J,” Doc says. “Trying to drive a wedge between you and me.”

That also makes sense. Doc and John are fucking Batman and Robin. You can’t fight them together, but split them up…

“I’ll deal with Bobby,” John says.

“No, don’t,” Doc says. Then he does a terrible Godfather imitation. “‘Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’ Stay close to them. Get the lay of the land. Feel them out, find out who’s with me, who’s against me. Can you do that, Johnny, can you do that for me?”

“Sure.”

“You and me,” Doc says. “It’s always been you and me. Always will be. Nobody can get between us, right?”