Daniel wondered if Collison had ratted on him, told the bishops about his shameful urges and how they had to tie his hands to the bed every night. Had the church given up on him? Was this isolation some kind of punishment?
Maybe he was supposed to spend every day in the hospital helping Miro recover. Maybe that was God’s plan. After all, it had been his prayers that saved Miro’s life. Now Miro was his responsibility, his mission. God was showing him a path. All he had to do was walk down it.
Daniel shoved the last bit of burrito into his mouth—a sploop of meat grease and salsa popped out the bottom of the burrito and stained his white shirt—and wadded up the wrapper. He steadied himself and tried a three-point shot into the trash bag. The foil bounced off the side of the bag, sending a couple of cockroaches running for their lives, and hit the floor. He swallowed and lay back on the bed.
Daniel liked Miro. Miro gave him straight answers. There was no evasion, no doublespeak, no reference to the Bible or the Book of Mormon. Daniel could ask him anything, even questions about girls, and Miro would give him an answer. Daniel appreciated that Miro offered no judgment, no invoking of Heaven or Hell or his duties here on Earth, he just gave him the facts.
The only time he’d seen Miro hedge was when he asked him what he did for a living. Miro had hesitated and then said he was a gentleman farmer. Daniel knew some farmers in Boise and there was no way that a guy like Miro worked on a farm. Daniel figured that he probably did something seedy, like worked in the music business or for an Internet company, but that was okay with him. It only made Miro cooler.
Daniel went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He’d shower in the morning.
He came out of the bathroom, turned off the lights, and lay back down on the bed. He kept his clothes on, just like the pamphlet had told him to, and, very carefully, stuck his hands through loops of clip-on ties tied to the bed frame. He tugged, the slipknots pulling the loops tight around his wrists, closed his eyes, and waited for the sensations to begin.
21
VINCENT WAS OPPOSED to the legalization of marijuana. He didn’t support NORML or the US Marijuana Party or any of those “legalize it” groups. He didn’t listen to Peter Tosh, or any other Jamaican music for that matter. As far as Vincent was concerned marijuana was as legal as it needed to be. All anyone had to do was visit a doctor, feign insomnia or some kind of anxiety disorder, and walk out with a little card that allowed him or her to shop at one of his Compassion Centers and purchase the finest cannabis that money could buy. The system was controlled. It worked. And it was legal enough.
Vincent didn’t understand why these marijuana activists were rocking the boat. The antiprohibition movement would undermine dedicated professionals like himself; true legalization would destroy his empire of compassion. The thought of a Los Angeles studded with coffeeshops like Amsterdam made him shudder. There was already too much competition, with legit herbal co-ops popping up in every strip mall in the county, not to mention the hundreds of millions of dollars that changed hands in illegal dealing.
Vincent had actually donated thousands of dollars to a conservative Republican candidate who was vocal in his opposition to legalization. Not only that, but he wanted to see law enforcement redouble their efforts in the war on drugs. It amused him that this Christian Conservative from Newport Beach didn’t have any problem taking campaign contributions from a cannabis collective. Vincent donated to lots of politicians, he gave to Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, and Greens. As long as they were committed to keeping cannabis illegal—unless you had a doctor’s prescription—it was fine with him. It was just good business.
Vincent had started making a list and courting people who were hip and wealthy and respected for being on the cutting edge of whatever was cool—hipsters with disposable incomes who might want to invest in his plan to expand the Compassion Center chain across California and into some of the other states where medical marijuana was legal. He had plans to spread into New Mexico, Oregon, Washington, and maybe Michigan, and to open a flagship branch in Amsterdam. Why should the Dutch make all the money? Once he was established as the number-one provider of reliable, high quality cannabis, he’d take the company public. An initial public offering on the NASDAQ would make him millions.
It wasn’t a new strategy. He wasn’t raising the bar or breaking new ground. It was the same business plan that Wal-Mart, Starbucks, Krispe Kreme donuts, and Baskin-Robbins had used. It would be a carefully considered expansion, the company growing by finding prime locations in productive areas. By purchasing inventory in volume, Vincent was able to control the profit margins and could, if there was a competitor already established in the area, go about underselling the existing cannabis club, stealing their clientele, and forcing them out of business. And if Vincent couldn’t drive them out of business with lower prices and free bongs, he’d do it the old-fashioned way: have the police hassle their customers, get the city council to file zoning violations, bring in Franchise Tax Board audits, or connect them to organized crime and let the Feds raid them. That’s what the political donations were all about. You got to pay to play.
Vincent had read a few books about branding, tipping points, and the flow of information. His goal was to turn the Compassion Centers into the biggest brand in the world. That’s why his employees all wore colorful polo shirts with the Compassion Center logo on them. That’s why he needed the store in Amsterdam. Winning a few Cannabis Cups would turn his company into a worldwide name brand like Barney’s or the Greenhouse.
The Internet was already buzzing with rumors and stories about Elephant Crush. Every stoner in the world was dying to try it and a few dealers had begun trying to pass counterfeit versions. It had become a cause célèbre.
Vincent had already told a few of his potential investors —the cool TV producers with their hit show and seven-figure overall deal at Paramount, a club DJ turned record producer, a couple of famous actors known for giving large sums to Democratic candidates, and a yoga instructor with a reputation for teaching his most flexible and predominantly blonde female students a few private asanas in the privacy of his home—to get ready, that he was working on getting it, that he would give them the honor of being the first to taste the Cup winner. That kind of VIP treatment—who doesn’t love having an exclusive—would help him raise enough capital to fully fund his ambitious business plan. If he succeeded he’d be rich, he’d be famous. He’d dethrone Arjan as the King of Cannabis.
Vincent had always been attracted to the trappings of the stylish and groovy. He was well-groomed, with a manicured goatee and a fashionable haircut. He wore expensive clothes, favoring artsy T-shirts or tight sweaters, pants that looked like they might belong with a suit but were stretchy enough that you could do yoga in them, and cool shoes. Always the coolest shoes.
When it was fashionable to drive a Hummer, he did. But lately he tooled around in a Prius. Despite his fondness for sushi, he’d recently decided to eat only vegan because his personal Pilates trainer had recommended it. You want to be a success you’ve got to look and act the part.
His psychiatrist had helped him understand this desire. She had helped him frame it, put it in perspective. If you grow up surrounded by mediocrity, by friends and family that have no aspirations beyond the barbecue grill and watching football on TV, then it is understandable that you might find yourself rebelling. And what better way to rebel than to become extremely successful doing something illegal? Even if he failed and went to jail, he’d become infamous in his family, notorious in the sleepy suburb of Redwood City. He wouldn’t be just another guy sitting on his ass rooting for the 49ers.
His shrink had suggested that he be more “authentic” and not worry so much about following trends or be so concerned with style. She suggested that he needed to dig deep and find the things that made him truly happy. Vincent tried to explain that these seemingly superficial things did, actually and on a deep level, make him feel good. When she suggested that it made him
seem like a sociopath, he didn’t know if that was a compliment or not.
But there was more to him than that. He actually enjoyed selling weed. He was the man, the source, the secret provider of highs, experiences, and good times. What’s wrong with that? He made money and people felt good about the products he provided. He had his passion. He wanted to be the best and he was prepared to be ruthless if he had to.
His shrink approved of his passion to be the best. She had him read inspirational biographies by business leaders, politicians, and professional athletes. He would visualize, manifest, and make daily positive affirmations. She outlined it in terms of what she called “progressive goals for life-long success.” Once he was satisfied with his business and career, then maybe he could turn all his energy and desire into improving his inner life. Vincent agreed. He was beginning to think the three-times-a-week visits with the shrink were really helping.
…
Vincent sat back in the rattan chair and squinted at his guests. Two of the aforementioned investors—the TV producers, shaggy men in their late twenties who were so wealthy that they dressed like impoverished teenagers—slouched in their seats across the table from him. They were silent investors in Vincent’s business, young and rich and sitting on top of a serious amount of disposable income. For sure they didn’t spend their money on clothes: they lounged like bored skateboarders at the mall, in distressed and torn cargo pants and jeans, and ironic vintage T-shirts, believing that their world-weary poses conveyed some kind of hipster sophistication. Despite the affected air of disinterest they were actually excited, anxious to hear what Vincent had to say. They had come to Vincent’s office because he had promised them big news. They sat expectantly, slumped in exotic rattan chairs, surrounded by antique furniture from Thailand and a grove of potted tropical plants.
Vincent, like the consummate salesman he was, was in no hurry to tell them the news; he wanted to take his time, let the suspense build.
“I think the tea’s ready.”
Vincent took the small ceramic teapot and carefully, almost ritualistically, filled three small raku teacups.
“Green tea from the Yame region of the Fukuoka Prefecture in Japan. They say the climate there produces the best leaves.”
Vincent watched the two men sip their tea and pretend like they could tell the difference between top-notch green tea and horse piss.
“Nice.”
“Awesome.”
Vincent smiled. “So what’s new?”
One of the producers, the one with the closely trimmed facial hair, leaned forward.
“I bought a Murakami.”
Vincent was impressed.
“A painting?”
The producer nodded.
“Superflat series.”
“Cool.”
The other producer ran his hands through his meticulously unkempt hair and sighed.
“I bought one of those new Toyota hybrids with the solar cell embedded in the roof.”
Vincent nodded his approval.
“Very green of you.”
“I guess. Chicks seem to dig it. But I gotta tell you, I miss my Porsche. I really do. But, you know, global warming an’ shit.”
The bearded producer leaned forward and spoke softly.
“So, c’mon Vince, what’s this about the Cannabis Cup?”
The other producer chimed in. “Yeah, man. What the fuck’s up with this Elephant shit? We heard it was, like, totally impossible to acquire.”
Vincent smiled.
“Nothing’s impossible.”
The producers grinned.
“You got it?”
Vincent flashed his Clorox-white teeth at them.
“I’m getting it. Probably in the next week. And you two will be the first to try it.”
The two TV producers sat back in their chairs and looked at Vincent with undisguised admiration.
“Dude.”
Vincent smiled, his lips pulling into an extremely self-satisfied smirk.
“I’m thinking about opening a Compassion Center in Amsterdam.”
22
IT WAS TIME to go. The flowers by his hospital bed were dead. It had started with a dusting of pollen on the table, followed by a few dropped petals, and slowly built to a crescendo as gravity exerted its force and the blooms fell apart. Now the bare stalks had begun to droop like Twizzlers in August and the water in the vase was emitting a faintly swampish stink. The nurses had wanted to throw them out, but Miro liked them. They were kind of inspiring in a way. Even as death and decay settled in on their stalks and leaves, they were still beautiful somehow, they were still flowers. It was life. And life was something Miro had a new-found appreciation for. Like him, the flowers had been cut in their prime. Snipped from their roots, dropped by a bullet. But unlike the flowers, Miro had been given a second chance.
Sometimes, when he lay there feeling his heart beat and listening to the static rasps coming from his punctured lung, Miro felt that there must be a reason he’d lived. He didn’t know what that reason might be, but he figured that maybe there were forces operating outside of normal human existence pulling strings, keeping him alive. Like possibly there was a God who had answered the Mormon kid’s prayers, or perhaps he had good karma, or maybe, like the detective had said, he was just really fucking lucky.
Now he was feeling restless, his energy coming back, his body healing faster than anyone had expected. It was a good thing, too, he was tired of being in the hospital, creeped out by all the technology, the shiny needles and clear plastic tubing, the stainless implements and disposable gloves, the smell of betadine. The constant drip of liquid into his veins had become a slow crawling torture. There were times when he wanted to yank all the tubes and drips and needles out of his body and flee.
Miro appreciated the efforts of the doctors and nurses, all the technology, the highly specialized care, and the spectrum of antibiotics that had kept him alive and initiated his healing. He really did. But it was time to go. His crappy insurance company had made that clear. It was okay with him, though, he’d rather chill somewhere with edible food. The hospital food was appalling: the salty broth, the unidentifiable chunks of meat, the pale wisps of slightly rotted lettuce, the over-boiled potatoes, the scrambled eggs that looked like desiccated cat barf, the sausages stinking of grease. No wonder everyone was on narcotics.
What the hell he was going to do, well, that he hadn’t decided. Sometimes he felt angry, outraged and pissed off, like he needed to whip up a vendetta, find out who had ripped him off and bring down the fiery wrath of the destroyer. But he knew he wasn’t a warrior, at least he had no prior experience with weapons, vendettas, or bringing down any wrath of any size. Ferociousness was not his thing. In fact, he hardly ever lost his temper. Still, he wanted to do something. He couldn’t let them get away with it. There had to be some justice. He felt sure of that.
Miro wondered what Floyd Zaiger would do. Would he just roll over and let someone steal the pluot from him? Of course he didn’t know who’d done this to him. As far as he knew he had no enemies. So where did that leave him? Floyd Zaiger could go to the cops. Miro couldn’t really do that without implicating himself in illegal shenanigans.
Besides, he hadn’t heard from the two detectives since their visit to the ICU a week ago. Miro assumed that whatever strings were connecting them to his case had yo-yo’d them off in another direction and they were now too busy to bother with him.
…
“So, you’re leaving?”
Miro nodded.
“They’re kicking me out.”
Daniel looked worried.
“That’s not right.”
Miro shrugged.
“Doctor’s orders.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to stay with my folks, up the coast, for a few days. Until I get my strength back.”
Miro noticed that Daniel was looking at the floor, unable to look Miro in the eye.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I can tell something’s bothering you.”
Daniel heaved a sigh.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“What about your mission?”
“I don’t think I want to be on a mission anymore.”
Miro smiled.
“Maybe your mission’s changed.”
Daniel liked the sound of that.
Miro got an idea.
“You like burritos?”
“Love ’em.”
Miro took a pen and some paper off the bedside table and jotted down a name and a number.
“Call this guy. He’ll give you a job.”
Daniel took the paper and studied it.
“What kind of job?”
“I have a friend who owns a taco truck. He’s always looking for help.”
23
DETECTIVE CHO WAS not having a good day. He’d been dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn to go wade around in the shit-clogged muck of the LA river after some crack-of-dawn health-freak triathlete noticed a body decomposing in the weeds. Cho was one of the Northeast Division’s lead criminal investigators and so the honor and privilege of an early morning wade in an open sewer fell to him.
His wife wasn’t happy about it, either. She had made plans to go to a Pilates class with her friends and he was supposed to give their fifteen-year-old son a ride to the charter school he attended. The early a.m. call only prompted yet another argument about his refusal to retire and take a cushy corporate security job. To top it off, Cho had a head cold, a real wet one. He’d already blown his nose raw and gone through a packet of tissues, but he felt like he could stuff a couple tampons up his snout and even that wouldn’t stop the mucus from flowing out of him like a faucet.
The front pocket of his Hawaiian shirt stuffed with tissues, Cho sipped hot tea from a Styrofoam cup as he stood in front of a group of officers and ran down the basics of the case. Body found in river. Apparently, as best anyone could figure, someone had shot him. From the look of it, the body had been in the river for a month, maybe longer.
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