***
The manager at the Golden Arrow Casino had instructed them to wait in the Jury Room Bar and Grill in La Jolla for their SUV to be delivered. They had not wanted their taxi driver to know their true destination, and they let him drive several blocks past the restaurant on Prospect Street before getting out. Alex paid him $300 in blue bucks to cover the $240 fare. They waited for his yellow mini-van to disappear, and rolled their luggage up a side street jammed with boutiques and galleries to a paved alley, and walked down it into the back entrance of the Jury Room. They performed what surveillance detection procedures they could, stopping to look into windows, using them as mirrors to watch behind them, while understanding that such methods were largely futile in an era when surveillance cameras bracketed every city block. They walked without any conversation, hyper-alert.
Inside the upscale bar and grill, they chose a corner dinette with a view across Prospect Street through a plate glass window. There was enough room under the large table for their bags. Slices of the Pacific Ocean could be seen between the small hotels, posh restaurants and financial services firms on the other side of La Jolla’s “Rodeo Drive.” They could also watch a television above them on a ceiling mount.
“I could use a drink,” whispered Ranya, as they settled into their seats. “I’m ready to pull out you-know-what every time anybody even looks my way.” Her brown leather fanny pack rode on her right front hip. She had tied a small leather strap to the zipper pull, and she could yank it open with her left hand and draw her .45 pistol with her right almost as fast as if it had been in a proper concealment holster. The more anxious she was, the further to the left the zipper was kept open. It was halfway open on the walk from the taxi.
Alex sat across from her. “I’m nervous too, it can’t be helped. We just have to be as careful as we can, and push ahead. It’s all we can do.”
A short Latina waitress came and took their orders, struggling with basic English. Iced tea and club sandwiches for two cost $379, with tax.
The entire menu was printed on a single sheet of cheap paper, obviously to facilitate frequent price revision. Ranya remembered the menu at the Ancient Pueblos diner in Mountainview, New Mexico, with its grease pencil prices written over the old printed ones. She remembered meeting the doomed Michigan college students there, on their way to join the revolution. The college students at the Ancient Pueblos had been unable to scrape up enough money for coffee and pancakes, as well as gas for their van. A few hours later, they were all dead, except for Kalil, who lasted another day…
The lunch crowd began filtering into the Jury Room, mostly well-dressed Asians, uniformly dripping with gold watches, bracelets, and chains. Half of the shops on Prospect Street were jewelry stores, and they were clearly not lacking customers. Honeymoon couples, executives and groups of fashionably dressed young women strolled the sidewalks, clutching shopping bags. During their brief time in La Jolla, Ranya had noticed that the signs in the windows of the art galleries, jewelry stores and boutiques were written in Chinese, Japanese, Spanish and English. Stationed outside of many shops were black-uniformed private security guards, carrying riot shotguns on slings. A young woman in a traditional black and white maid’s uniform passed their restaurant window, pushing an enormous baby carriage. She was trailed by a pair of obvious bodyguards, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses, their heads on swivels, and their suits bulging around their poorly concealed firearms and ill-fitting body armor.
Pretty Anglo and Latina girls, many of them only teenaged, cruised the sidewalks in skimpy mini skirts and halter tops, waving to men in slowly passing Jaguars and BMWs. Laughing Asian men riding in the backs of human-powered pedicabs bantered with the young streetwalkers along the curb. A pair of La Jolla police officers whizzed by on gyro-balancing Segway electric scooters, ignoring the teen prostitutes climbing into luxury cars. Nothing that Ranya had seen since her escape had prepared her for the opulent decadence of Prospect Street.
“Alex, have you ever been to South America?”
“No, why?”
“I spent six months in Colombia once. La Jolla reminds me of part of Cartagena, that’s all.”
“You mean the ocean, and the cliffs?”
“Kind of. But I was thinking more of the private guards with the shotguns, and the teenage hookers.”
Alex smiled wistfully. “Welcome to the new California.”
“I guess.”
He said, “Did you notice that all of their shotguns have licenses taped on the stocks? Private security is big business out here, but it’s all regulated. California’s still not a concealed carry state, it never was. Only licensed security guards can carry. No guns for the peons…at least no legal guns.”
Ranya leaned across the table and whispered mock-seriously, “So, does that mean we’re…breaking the law?”
He smiled. “Probably about a hundred.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said. “I’m going all the way, no matter what it takes.”
“So am I. All the way.” Alex reached across the table to her, an invitation to shake hands, while looking her full in the face.
She accepted his hand, and shook it firmly, returning his eye contact. It was only the second time they had touched, other than casually brushing one another by accident, since she had cut him loose from his easy chair last Sunday night.
***
Televisions were set up in the high corners of the Jury Room lounge, tuned to CNN. The death of Peter Kosimos in the automobile crash outside of Aspen was still in the news rotation, but there were no new details, only brief retrospectives on his life “dedicated to working for social justice and human rights.” Former President Dave Whitman was shown speaking before a crowd in a vast auditorium at UCLA. The news reader mentioned that the subject of his speech was accelerating United States integration within the North American Community, and the benefits the new Amero currency would bring to all of the citizens of the continent. The UCLA video had apparently been taped last night, after Kosimos had been killed by the drone. Weasel Dave Whitman appeared to be in perfect health and high spirits, still living his charmed life.
There was still no mention of a Blackhawk helicopter crashing in New Mexico.
The news broke for commercials. Alex considered these more significant, and certainly more honest, than most of the so-called news reports he had seen. The “bold new Nissan Conquistador” SUVs proudly featured armored windows and doors, fully protected engine compartments, self-sealing gas tanks, automatic fire suppression systems, and “run-flat tires” as standard equipment.
Next, there was some kind of a public service announcement. It began with an elderly white man in a black tuxedo, sitting on the ground inside of what looked like a bank vault. The entire floor of the vault was covered in gold coins and bullion bars. The old man was raking his fingers through the gold with an ecstatic look on his face, lifting the coins up above his head and letting them spill through his fingers, giggling with delight like a spoiled child in a billion-dollar sandbox.
The opening scene faded, and was replaced by a distant aerial view of a massive strip mine. Barren earth was carved away in dozens of terraces, one above the other, extending in every direction. The camera slowly zoomed in, until barefoot brown-skinned children wearing filthy rags could be seen attacking the soil with picks and shovels. A boy passed by the camera, straining to carry two enormous metal canisters, hanging from a wooden yoke across his shoulders. The dripping galvanized tanks had the word “cyanide” stenciled on them. A silky female voiceover said, “Illegal gold hoarding only leads to exploitive labor practices, and environmental calamity. One single gold coin means that 500 tons of toxic waste are produced, toxic waste that poisons rivers and destroys ecosystems.”
The camera slowly panned across the open pit mine, revealing hundreds of pathetic wretches clawing at the earth, and blasting torrents of mud loose with high-pressure water hoses. The soft female voice continued. “During today’s difficul
t economic times, the only responsible place for America’s gold is in Fort Knox. Gold hoarders and speculators are criminals, who only serve to destabilize the global economy. Gold hoarding leads to exploitive labor practices, and environmental ruin. And if those aren’t enough reasons to obey the law, here’s another: ten years in prison for illegal gold hoarding.”
The scene abruptly switched from toiling third-world child miners, to a gleaming wall of bullion bricks. Golden jail cell doors slammed together in front of the golden wall with a loud metallic crash. A stern male baritone voice then announced, “Gold: it’s just not worth it!” The public service announcement concluded with that phrase printed across the screen, along with an admonition to call 1-855-USA-GOLD to report illegal gold hoarding. Smaller print under the toll-free number reminded viewers that large cash rewards were offered, for those who reported illegal gold hoarding to the proper authorities.
Alex and Ranya watched the announcement with straight faces, both of them attempting to suppress any hint of a smile. When it finished, Alex looked across at Ranya and winked, while attempting to keep an expressionless poker face. At the same time, he pushed a gold-laden bag beneath the table with his foot, into Ranya’s legs. Ranya cracked first, just a small snicker, and Alex followed, hiding his grin behind two folded hands, and then they both totally lost it, shedding tears of laughter while staring at one another.
***
They were still occasionally chuckling at their new inside joke, whispering “Got gold?” or “It’s just not worth it!” to each other, when their SUV was delivered. A young American Indian-looking man in jeans and a red polo shirt entered the dining area from the back. He was wearing the agreed-upon Miami Dolphins baseball cap as a recognition sign, and he approached close enough to their booth to be seen. They followed him past the bar and out the rear exit with their luggage. Standing in the alley, he handed Alex the car keys and an envelope full of papers.
Alex took a look at the black mid-sized SUV and said, “What is this? It’s not an Explorer, it’s a Dodge Durango! That’s not what we agreed on.”
“I know, I’m sorry. We had a problem at the last minute. Believe me, this one is better than the Explorer—it’s loaded. More horsepower, better paint, everything. All right?”
Ranya shrugged, and Alex said, “Sure, I guess.”
“Okay, good. It’s got a full tank of gas. When you’re finished, leave it somewhere safe, and call this number. When we pick it up, you can get your security deposit back. Any questions?”
Alex asked, “What about driving downtown? Any problems we should know about?”
“No problem if you stay on this side of I-5. It has a GPS map; it’ll tell you the best way to go. You can use I-5, but I’d just take Ingraham south past Seaworld, follow Harbor Drive by the airport, and you’re there. If you have to go east of I-5 and you want to get back over, don’t worry— it has a La Jolla residency sticker in the window. But if some cop is being a real asshole, just use your judgment—there’s not many legal problems a gold dime can’t solve around here. Even so, I’d just recommend you don’t go east of Interstate 5 at all. Okay?”
“Okay, but what if we want to drop it off back at the Golden Arrow? Can we do that?” Alex’s idea was to drive straight to the casino and their waiting airplane, as soon as they were able to find Brian.
The car delivery man looked at them both carefully, and asked, “Have you been driving in California lately? The last few years?”
“No,” responded Alex.
“Where are you from?”
“New Mexico.”
“Well, driving is different here. Like, let’s say somebody pushes a baby stroller right in front of your car, what do you do?”
“Stop,” he replied.
“Wrong answer! Keep going! It’s a trap, it’s a carjacking trick. Don’t worry, there’s no baby, and they’ll jump out of the way. They want you to swerve off the road—and then they’ve got you. Same thing if you see an accident, and it looks like somebody’s hurt and needs help. Just keep going, don’t even look back! Somebody jumps right in front of your car, waving his arms? Speed up, aim right for that sucker, he’ll jump out of the way. Stop for him, and he’ll know you’re an easy target, and his friends will rush you from the sides. They’ll put a hammer through your side window and a gun to your head, or a knife to her throat. So keep your windows all the way up, and don’t stop, no matter what. Even if you get flat tires—keep going. They’ll put bent nails on the road, to make you stop. Don’t! Keep going, always keep going, drive on the rims if you have to, but don’t stop where they want you to stop, get the hell out of there. And whatever you do, don’t drive at night on the other side of I-5. If it’s bad in the daytime, it’s ten times worse at night. The highways are so-so, but the barrios? Forget it—don’t even think about it. Cops don’t ever go in the barrios at night, unless it’s at least ten cop cars with a helicopter overhead. Two of you guys in one car? Forget it.”
“But what if we do decide to take it back to the Golden Arrow to drop it off?”
“Then daytime only. Early morning would be best. Take Interstate 8 east all the way, and keep your speed over 100. Don’t stop for anything.”
“What about the cops?”
“What cops?” he scoffed. “Over there, there’s no cops. That’s why you’re better off just leaving the car here in La Jolla, and phoning it in. Be smart: take the helicopter back to the Golden Arrow, and pick up your deposit. Okay?”
“Okay,” agreed Alex.
“That’s it then, enjoy your stay in San Diego, but above all, be safe, all right? There’s nothing east of I-5 you want to see anyway. There’s places over there you wouldn’t last five minutes, day or night.”
They loaded their luggage into the back of the SUV, and left the delivery man standing behind the restaurant. The tags and window stickers were current, and would permit the vehicle to cross freely into downtown, by showing that the owner was a resident of coastal La Jolla. The Durango came equipped with a color GPS map display built into the center of the instrument display for navigation. It had heavily tinted side and rear windows, as specified by Alex.
Alex drove on a winding tour of La Jolla, doing a surveillance detection run. Then he parked the Durango in an empty garage behind an upscale apartment complex, removed a device like an electrician’s Ohmmeter from his luggage, and thoroughly examined the car for bugs or tracking devices. It was clean. There was no built-in cell phone, and the Durango’s GPS was strictly a receiver, with no transmit capability. Finally satisfied, he headed out of La Jolla, southbound along the coast.
***
“You know, I never saw the Pacific before today,” said Ranya, sitting in the Durango’s front passenger seat, staring out the window to her right. They were passing through Pacific Beach on Mission Boulevard, just a block away from the cliffs overlooking the ocean. “It’s totally different than the Atlantic, at least around Virginia. It’s all flat back there, just straight flat beaches. Not like this. This is much prettier.”
“It’s not all like this,” observed Alex. “Some parts have flat sandy beaches like back east.”
They drove in silence, stopping for frequent lights. Surfers in black wetsuits carried their boards toward the beach, adults on long skateboards rolled right down the street alongside of cars. There seemed to be a tattoo parlor, a taco stand, a bar and a surf shop on every block.
“You know,” said Ranya quietly, “I don’t feel too good about yesterday. I didn’t know I’d feel this way.”
“What way?”
“The Blackhawk. I killed people yesterday, I know I did. I aimed right at the pilots, I could see their helmets, I could almost see their faces. There’s no way a helicopter goes down like that and people don’t die.”
She sighed, and continued. “You might not understand this, but the Falcons weren’t all bad people, not really. I didn’t hate them. Basilio Ramos, I hated him, sure, but not all of his troops. Most of them were
just soldiers, soldiers fighting for what they thought was their land. I mean, they really believe it, they really do.”
“I don’t hate them either,” said Alex. “How can you blame them for wanting to take New Mexico, for wanting some free land to call their own? I blame our politicians—they held the door open for the invasion. If they couldn’t see what it would lead to, they should have. Protecting the country from invasion is right in the Constitution, in black and white. That’s one of their most basic responsibilities, and they blew it.”
Ranya recalled the ‘ten blind men,’ the worst shots of the Falcon Battalion, and their punishment run up the mountain trail behind the Comandante’s villa. It now seemed like ages ago. She remembered these Falcons with some fondness, how they had welcomed her on the run and treated her with respect, and she wondered if any of them were on the helicopter she had shot down. Then there was the Blackhawk’s aircrew, and the pilots. Flying the helicopter was just their job, and now wives and children were probably grieving for fathers they would never see again. She had taken careful aim at them, pulled the trigger, and sent their helicopter crashing into the ground.
“Can we stop for a few minutes?” she asked. “I want to see the beach.” Mission Boulevard was high above the ocean here, and they could only catch glimpses of the distant horizon between the low buildings.
“Okay, sure.” Alex made a right turn between a bicycle shop and an Irish pub. The road dead-ended in a turnaround circle, between two small hotels. Ranya stepped out, and walked across the cement boardwalk to the edge of a bluff. The white sand beach was fifty feet below her. The waves rolling in a hundred yards away made the same surf sound she had grown up with in Virginia. She stood with her arms folded, the steady sea breeze lifting strands of blond hair around her face, the smell of the salt air bringing back a flood of memories.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 64