Don Winslow: The Kings Of Cool

Which works out, because Ben is in the parking structure.

All the President’s Men.

O is conflicted as to what to wear.

She walks into her closet, surveys the hangers full of clothes, and tries to decide how to go, sartorially speaking.

I mean, what does the style-conscious South Orange County Princess wear to meet her father for the first time?

Dress it up, or caj it down?

Go older, or younger?

She thinks about a polka-dot dress and pigtails, but decides it’s waaaay too creepy because maybe Paul Patterson doesn’t have a sense of satire or irony.

She looks at your basic “little black dress”-like, look at what a lovely lady the daughter you threw away turned out to be-but worries about crossing the paper-thin line between sophisticated and sexy.

She thinks about not going at all.

This is a girl who has stood in front of a vending machine-torn between F-3 (Peanut M amp;Ms) and D-7 (Famous Amos chocolate-chip cookies)-for fifteen minutes and then walked away with nothing rather than make a choice.

O knows she doesn’t have that luxury here. She has to wear something, she can’t just go naked as the day she was born, as symbolically appropriate as that might be.

You might be able to walk naked in Laguna without raising alarm-or an eyebrow-but Newport Beach? They don’t get undressed to have sex. You could get arrested in Newport for wearing white after Labor Day.

Okay, this is getting you nowhere, O thinks.

But maybe that’s just where you should go.

Maybe you should lie down, fire up a blunt, and forget it.

Chon pulls over near Crowe’s place up Laguna Canyon and looks at the driveway.

Crowe’s car isn’t there.

Chon gets out, slips his pistol into his waistband, and goes to the front door. It’s locked.

The man has taken off.

Chon doesn’t blame him, but it’s a problem.

Not a big problem, but a problem.

Chad “No Worries” Meldrun comes into the parking structure like he has a problem.

Worries.

Has that “places to go, people to see” look on his face as he strides to his Benz, gets in, and peels out.

Ben follows him.

West on Jamboree.

North on the PCH.

All the way to the Newport Beach Yacht Club.

Which figures, Ben thinks.

Money is a pigeon.

It always finds its way home.

This is, like, Republican Central. The party could hold its California convention right here, and Ben feels like he should have a visa to even get in.

A twenty slipped into the doorman’s palm

(“Are you a member, sir?”

“No, but he is.”) is sufficient documentation, but Ben feels Out of Place and a little hostile as he makes his way through the lobby and watches Meldrun go out onto the patio, overlooking the harbor, overlooking the yachts, where on this late Friday afternoon the elite are there to have a drink and to see and be seen.

Ben’s working hard at being Joe Detective, trying to blend into the crowd and still keep an eye on Meldrun without being seen when he hears “Ben?”

It’s a woman’s voice.

“Ben? Ophelia’s friend? Is that you?”

Ben panics momentarily because

(a) he doesn’t want to lose sight of Chad, and

(b) he can’t think of her actual name, only “Paqu.”

“Oh, hi. Mrs…”

He damn near says “Four.”

“It’s Bennett, now,” she says in a tone that manages to combine self-deprecating charm with a warning not to push the subject. (Indeed, she’s here cruising for his replacement. Four is about to become Four mer.)

“Mrs. Bennett.”

She’s statuesque, sexy, beautiful, with all the genuine human warmth of an ice sculpture.

(Except, Ben remembers, O swears that she will not melt. O has watched The Wizard of Oz, like, twelve thousand times to get tips.)

“What brings you here?” Paqu looks a little surprised, as if she either can’t understand why a friend of her daughter’s would be at the club, or forgot that they let Jews in now.

Ben catches sight of Chad’s back. “Oh, you know-Friday… the patio.”

Paqu glances at his left hand. “Yes, it can be quite the place to meet eligible young ladies.”

Subtext: you’d better not be doing my daughter.

“Is O with you?” Ben asks, aware that if she is, she’s in handcuffs and leg irons, because O would rather sip cat urine straight from the cat than iced tea with her mother on the patio.

Paqu lets the “O” reference slide. “No, I believe she’s out seeking employment.”

And I believe, Ben thinks, that bin Laden is hitting open-mike night at the West Akron Holiday Inn.

He watches Meldrun go up to someone-Ben can’t make out his face-along the railing bar.

“What do you do?” Paqu asks.

“Sorry?”

“What do you do, Ben?” Paqu asks. “For a living?”

“I’m an environmental consultant,” Ben says, still unable to get a good look at who Chad is talking to.

“What does that mean?”

It means I have to tell the IRS something, Ben thinks. “When a big building or a complex is going up, I advise the landscape architects what kinds of trees, plants, and grasses to put in.”

“That sounds fascinating,” Paqu says. “Very ‘green.’ Is that the word?”

“That’s one of them.”

“What’s another?” she asks.

That’s when Ben realizes she’s a little drunk.

“Bullshit,” Ben tells her. “It’s all bullshit, Mrs. B.”

She looks him straight in the eyes. “Ain’t that the goddamn truth, Ben.”

Yeah it is.

Because some people move out of the way and Ben sees who Meldrun is talking to.

Stan.

O-wearing a blue knee-length dress-walks up to the distinguished older home on Balboa Island and rings the bell. When the man comes to the door, she says, “Hi. Would you be my sperm donor?”

The man blinks and says, “Could I just take three boxes of Thin Mints, please?”

Brian Hennessy opens the door of his apartment to a nasty surprise.

Chon.

Who lays a shotgun stock into the base of Brian’s skull.

Places Ben Would Expect to See His Father Before He Would Expect to See Him on the Patio:

1. A Republican National Committee Fund-raiser

2. Dollywood

3. Wines R Us

4. A Monster Truck Show

5. Rush Limbaugh’s Small Intestine

6. Anywhere

Ben fucking reels.

Turns and walks away.

The truth always comes home, but not to his home.

When Brian comes to, he’s duct-taped to a chair.

Chon sits across from him.

“What did I tell you?” Chon says. “What did I tell you I’d do if you laid another hand on one of our people?”

Brian remembers the answer. “Don’t. Please.”

“Say it-what did I tell you?”

“That you’d kill me.”

“Did you think I was kidding?”

“No.”

“Do you think I’m kidding now?”

“No. Please. Jesus.”

“I’m going to give you one motherfucking chance,” Chon says. “One. To tell me the truth. If you lie, I’ll know it and I’ll kill you. Tell me you understand, Brian.”

“I understand.” His legs are shaking.

“Who pulled the trigger on Scott Munson and that girl?”

“Duane.”

“Duane Crowe.”

Brian nods.

“What did you tell the cops?”

“Nothing.”

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Chon says. “You’re going to call Crowe, tell him you want to meet.”