Don Winslow - The Kings Of Cool

“How much?”

“Fifty-two grand.”

“The next words out of your mouth better be ‘April Fool’s,’ motherfucker.”

“You think pardons are cheap?” Roger asks. “Check it out with Meldrun, he’s logged every fucking hour. Not to mention judges, congressmen. Everyone has their hand out. And Taylor? You think she doesn’t come around every other week? I’ve never seen her in the same dress twice, by the way. Christ, I thought my wife could shop. And you have a kid, John, in a private elementary school-”

“Yeah, well, that’s going to stop.”

“Whatever,” Roger says. “I’ve done my best for you. We all have. You’re free. Enjoy your life.”

“Cash me out.”

“John, you don’t want to-”

“Cash me out.”

John moves to a smaller house and puts “Chon” into public school.

Then he looks up an old buddy and goes back into the marijuana business and reaches out to another former associate to leverage thirty grand into three hundred g worth of product.

It takes time to lay that much off, though.

Time to get back in the market.

John was back in the dope trade for about three weeks when Chon was walking down Brooks Street, a car rolled up, and a guy told him to get in. They drove him to an old ranch out in Hemet and kept him there until John paid what he owed.

Three hundred K.

Chon was out there for a month, having a pretty good time looking at Penthouse magazines, sneaking roaches, and driving an ATV around the place, then Big John came to pick him up personally.

“See how much I love you?” Big John asked when they were in the car.

“See how much I care?” Chon answered, holding up his middle finger.

Big John slapped him across the face.

Hard.

Chon didn’t fucking flinch.

A week later, John’s walking down the street when a car pulls up, they tell him to get in, and they drive him down to Mexico.

Way the fuck down past TJ, Rosarito, and Ensenada, down along the Baja Peninsula.

John is thinking he’s going to get a bullet in the back of the head, but then they pull up this hill, then over the top, and there’s a big house surrounded by an adobe wall, and they pull through the gate into the compound.

Doc comes out the door.

No shirt, baggy khaki cargo shorts, huaraches.

Hugs John like his long-lost son.

“You could have just called me,” John says.

“Would you have come?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Doc looks good for a dead man. A few strands of white in the hair, which has retreated off his forehead a few inches. John hasn’t seen him in over ten years, not since the faked suicide and Doc’s disappearance into the “program.”

“I thought you’d be selling aluminum siding in Scottsdale,” John says.

“Fuck that shit,” Doc says. “I bailed the first chance I got, came down here. Freedom is precious, my son.”

“Tell me about it,” John says. “You ratted me out, Doc.”

Doc shakes his head. “I protected you. Bobby, those other pricks, they were going to kill you. I took you out of it, somewhere safe.”

“Ten years, Doc. My wife is gone, my kid is a stranger-”

“You never wanted either of them in the first place,” Doc says. “Be honest.”

“What do you want, Doc?”

“I want to help you,” Doc says. “Make it up to you.”

“How?”

“You kept the faith, Johnny,” Doc says. “You’re like my own blood. I want to bring you in on something. Shit, I need to bring you in on something.”

You’re fucking up, Doc tells him, doing it the same old way. That’s how we got busted, how we got jammed.

It’s a loser’s game, it always ends the same.

We don’t want to be in the drug business.

We want to be in the turf business.

“What do you need me for?” John asks after Doc lays it out for him.

“I need someone I can trust up there,” Doc says. “Someone to run the day-to-day. I mean, I can’t come el norte, I’m freaking Napoleon down here.”

“I have a record,” John says.

“As John McAlister,” Doc says. “Get a new ID. Get five of them, who cares? It’s easy enough to do. Set up a shell business, look gainfully employed, and fly under the radar. John, we’re talking real money.”

“And how do I move the money to you?” John asks. “I can’t be running down to Mexico without attracting attention.”

“The system’s all set up,” Doc says. “There’ll be sort of a board of directors, you know, some of the old ‘gang,’ for major decisions. But you’ll be the CEO. It’s all set up. All you have to do is plug in.”

John plugs in.

As soon as John’s car leaves, Kim comes out of the house. She’s beautiful in a white caftan with embroidered flowers, her hair long, her feet bare.

“What did he say?” she asks Doc.

“What do you think?” Doc asks.

Kim shakes her head.

“What?”

“I don’t like him,” Kim says. “I never have.”

“I love him,” Doc says. “He’s like a son to me.”

“You have a child.”

“That I never see.”

“I’m not living in Mexico,” Kim says. “I’d go insane.”

“I’d like to see her sometime.”

“It’s better this way,” Kim says. “I have to get back soon. Shall we go in?”

They go into the house and upstairs to the bedroom. The shades are pulled and the thick walls keep it relatively cool.

Still, they are sleek with sweat as they make love.

Don Winslow

The Kings Of Cool

Baja, Mexico 2005

Well, Papa, go to bed now, it’s getting late,

Nothing we can say will change anything now.

— BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, “INDEPENDENCE DAY”

The room is big and perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean.

Spotlights illuminate the beach and the breakers.

A foot trail runs from the compound down to the beach, and John sees a quiver of long-boards leaning against the wall of the deck.

Doc wears a Hawaiian shirt over an old pair of khaki shorts and huaraches. A ball cap even though it’s night.

He’s vain, John thinks, covering up the receding hairline.

“How’s life?” John asks.

“Life is the same,” Doc says. “Luxurious exile. I surf, I fish, I grill the fish, I watch shitty Mexican TV, I go to bed. I get up at least once in the night to piss. I’m not going to ask how life is with you.”

“Things have gotten a little out of hand.”

“No shit?” Doc asks.

Doc has a deep tan that looks darker against his snow-white hair. It hangs down to his shoulders, but it’s still white. Deep lines in his face, deep lines under his eyes from squinting into the sun. He looks like an old surf bum.

“I’ve got enough fucking agita down here right now,” Doc says. “This whole thing with the cartel.”

“I still think siding with the Berrajanos was a mistake.”

“They’re going to win,” Doc says, “and I have to live down here, whoever’s on the fucking throne. You want a soda? I got Diet Pepsi and Diet Coke.”

“I’m good.”

“When did people start saying that?” Doc asks, going to the refrigerator and taking out a Diet Coke.” ‘I’m good,’ instead of ‘No, thanks.’”

John doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

Doc pops open the can and takes a long drink. Then he sits down on the couch and says, “We had us some times, didn’t we, Johnny?”

“Yeah, we did, Doc.”

“Those were some days,” Doc says, shaking his head, smiling. “ Good times. Your kid, what do they call him…”