The Kings of Cool

by Don Winslow

  hence—

  John and Bobby meet out in the ocean, where neither one of them can wear a wire. They let the next wave roll under them, then Bobby says, “I heard that Doc got busted.”

  “Bullshit,” John says.

  If Doc got popped, he’d tell me.

  Wouldn’t he?

  “I hear it’s federal,” Bobby says. “Serious weight, serious time.”

  John knows that Bobby’s concern isn’t for Doc’s welfare.

  “Doc wouldn’t flip,” John says. Even if he would, John can’t help thinking, Doc can’t trade up. He’s on the top of the pyramid, and the feds don’t trade down.

  Bobby’s ahead of him. “Maybe the cops would go for quantity over quality. How many guys could Doc give up?”

  The answer is a lot, but John doesn’t care how many, he cares who.

  Like him.

  “If Doc’s looking at fifteen years,” Bobby says, “maybe he gives us all up instead. Maybe he gives them the whole Association.”

  “That’s not Doc.”

  “That’s not the old Doc,” Bobby answers. “The new Doc . . .”

  He leaves it hanging.

  Doesn’t need to finish. John knows what he means.

  Doc has changed.

  Okay, who hasn’t, but Doc has changed. He isn’t the Doc you knew in the old days, springing for tacos. He isn’t the “this pie is big enough for everybody” Doc—he’s the “this pie is big enough for Doc” Doc.

  It’s coke.

  Coke isn’t grass.

  Grass makes you mellow, coke makes you paranoid.

  Grass inhibits your ambition, coke makes you want to be—

  King of Everything.

  Which is what Doc seems to want. More and more John hears Doc using the first-person possessive pronoun—singular—more and more he hears him use “my” instead of “our.” It’s Woodstock to Altamont—this ain’t our stage, asshole, it’s my stage. And you don’t come on my stage.

  And Doc is starting to treat the Association like it’s his stage.

  To be fair, other guys are getting weird, too. Mike, Glen, Duane, Ron, Bobby—all the Association guys are getting hinky with each other, starting to quarrel over territory, customers, suppliers. Guys who used to share the same wave can’t share the coke business.

  And narcs love that. They exist on the divide-and-conquer, it’s their bread and butter. And now they’ve busted Doc?

  “We don’t know if it’s true,” John says.

  “Can we take the chance?” Bobby asks. “Look, even if it isn’t true this time, it’s going to be true the next. The way Doc’s going, it’s not if, it’s when. And you know that, John.”

  John doesn’t answer.

  The last wave of the set rolls through.

  148

  Being a shrink in Laguna is like being a fisherman at SeaWorld.

  (What Chon would later come to call a Target-Rich Environment.)

  You dip your line in those waters, your net is going to be full of thrashing, flopping, gasping creatures faster than you can say, “And how does that make you feel?”

  Which is what Diane now asks the woman sitting (not lying) on the sofa across from her.

  After the Viking funeral of the Bread and Marigolds Bookstore, Stan and Diane decided that society’s ills were more likely to be cured by Reich and Lowen than by Marx and Chomsky.

  So they went back to school (UC Irvine, and if that ain’t irony for you, you haven’t been to Irvine) and became

  Psychotherapists.

  Stan and Diane soon developed a clientele of sixties refugees, acid casualties, strident feminists, confused men, manic-depressives (not “bipolar” yet), drug addicts (see “sixties casualties,” supra), alcoholics, and people whose mothers really didn’t love them.

  It’s easy to make fun, but Stan and Diane turn out to be really good at what they do, and they help people. Except maybe not so much the young woman in Diane’s office right now, working through her (let’s face it, probably first) divorce.

  “I don’t know if you can help her,” Stan said over dinner last night. “That kind of narcissistic personality disorder is almost impossible to treat. There is no pharmacological protocol, and schema therapy has its own problems.”

  “I’ve been working more with cognitive techniques,” Diane answered, sipping the excellent red that Stan brought home.

  They’ve built a nice, tidy life since she went a little crazy with John McAlister and Stan responded by burning down the store. They made enough money from the insurance settlement to buy the house in what was formerly known as Dodge City and use it as both a home and an office. They’ve made new “couple” friends, exchange gourmet dinner parties, and now Stan has become quite the oenophile with a small but sophisticated cellar.

  If this life lacks excitement, it also lacks chaos.

  “Have your cognitive techniques had any effect?” Stan asked drily, in regard to her difficult client.

  “Not yet,” she answered.

  Now she sits and tries to focus on Kim’s umpteenth and constantly changing repetition of her story—her upbringing in a wealthy albeit emotionally unavailable family, which provoked her young marriage to a “white knight” savior who was just another version of her remote father and who doesn’t understand or appreciate her and how she cannot seem to relate sexually no matter how hard she tries, and what Diane is thinking is—

  I want a baby.

  149

  John takes a carpet cutter and methodically slashes the tires of the BMW.

  Then he turns to Taylor and says, “Now go.”

  “That’s my car,” she says.

  A new silver 528i.

  “I bought it for you,” John answers.

  “That doesn’t mean you can just mutilate it.”

  John shrugs—apparently it does. He bought the Beamer, he bought the Porsche 911 that sits next to it, bought the three-car garage that also holds the ’54 Plymouth wagon, bought the house on Moss Bay.

  Cocaine been bery bery good to me.

  “Now you’re just going to have to pay for new tires,” Taylor says.

  Which means she isn’t leaving, John thinks with mixed feelings. She says she’s going to leave, she threatens to leave, she even starts to leave, but

  she doesn’t leave.

  The coke is too good, the sex is too good, the house is too good. She’s not about to move back into some efficiency apartment in West Hollywood and blow producers for one-line roles on shitty TV shows.

  John loves her in his own way, which is sort of

  detached.

  She’s so fucking beautiful, will do anything in bed, looks good on his arm when they go out, and can actually be pretty nice when she doesn’t want to fight.

  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.”

  150

  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.

  151

  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?”

  No, that’s right, John thinks. They go too far back, and Doc’s been

  Like a father to me.

  “Anyway, look,” Doc says. “I’m working on some shit. I didn’t want to bring it to you until it was more, you know, fully formed, let’s say, but now . . .”

  152

  They drive down to Dago.

  You haven’t done a buck and change down the 5 through Pendleton in a bloodred Lamborghini, you haven’t had the full California experience.

  It’s a . . . rush.

  Especially with Doc steering with one hand and snorting coke off the dashboard with the other. Nevertheless, they make it to San Diego alive and pull off on India Street in Little Italy.

  “You develop a sudden craving for meatballs?” John asks.

  They walk into a sandwich shop—a few booths and a long counter with red stools. Doc sits down on one of the stools, orders two sausiche sandwiches with peppers and onions, and asks, “
Is Chris around?”

  “Yeah, somewhere.”

  “Do me a favor? Tell him Doc’s here?”

  “‘Doc’?”

  “That’s me.” Doc grins.

  “What are we doing?” John asks.

  “Keep your shirt on.”

  A few minutes later, a thirtyish guy in a black suit, no tie, comes in and shakes hands with Doc.

  “Chris, this is my partner, John.”

  Chris offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, John.”

  “You, too.”

  “Chris, you have a few minutes?” Doc asks.

  “Sure,” Chris says. “Let’s take this somewhere else.”

  Doc goes to pay for the sandwiches but Chris waves it off. “I got it.”

  “A tip?” Doc asks.

  “No.”

  They walk out onto Laurel Street. The planes coming in to land make a lot of noise. Doc says, “Chris, I wanted John to hear what we’ve been talking about.”

  Yeah, John wants to hear what the fuck they’ve been talking about.

  Chris says, “I talked with my people, and they’re eager to get in. We’ll take as much product as you can give us, offer national distribution, a certain level of protection.”

  “Who are your ‘people’?” John asks.

  He realizes that he sounds a little rude.

  Chris looks at Doc, like, who’s your little friend?

  Doc says, “Chris, give us a minute?”

  Chris nods. “I’ll go get a coffee. Just give me a wave when you’re ready.”

  When he’s out of earshot, John says, “What the fuck, Doc? The Mafia?”

  “The amateur hour is over,” Doc says. “These people can give us national distribution—Chicago, Detroit, Vegas—”

  “I thought they worked with the Mexicans.”

  “Chris says they’d rather work with white people,” Doc says. The truth is that the Mexicans are bypassing them, dealing directly with L.A., and the San Diego mob wants its own source.

  “Jesus Christ, Doc,” John says. “Once you let these people in, you never get them out.”

  “That’s all the movies,” Doc says. “They’re businessmen, same as us.”