Some kind of liquid techno trickled out of the speakers in the coffeeshop and the music made him smile, it made him crave one of those chocolates that are filled with liqueur, a nice hit of framboise locked in a dark chocolate box. That would be so good right now. Or chocolate cake and an ice-cold glass of milk.
He was thinking about having another hit, of getting really crispy, when his laptop chimed. He clicked on a link on the screen and opened his e-mail. When Guus read Marianna’s message, he couldn’t help himself, he let out a low moan that sounded a lot like something Keanu Reeves might say.
“Whoooa.”
26
“WHAT DID YOU DO to my car?”
Miro looked at the spot where Rupert had jacked his iPod into the space where the radio used to be. A spaghetti tangle of wires hung out of the gaping hole in the dashboard.
“Listen to how good it sounds.”
Rupert spun the wheel on his iPod, hit play, and instantly some kind of strange music began blasting inside the car.
“What’s this?”
Rupert grinned.
“Ethiopian jazz.”
Miro nodded. Of course it was Ethiopian jazz. He turned and looked out the window. They were driving up Highway 101. Passing through Oxnard. A car dealership built to look like a fake pueblo passed by in a blur of balloons, steel, and red-tile roof on the right, an outlet mall—selling crap at low, low prices—stretched out on the left.
Miro pointed to the destroyed dashboard.
“You could’ve asked.”
Rupert smiled.
“Don’t worry. I’ll put it all back together when you want this baby back.”
Miro had to admit the music did sound good, the speakers in the back pumping and flexing to the odd African beats. The volume was high enough to cover the rocker-rattle of the big diesel engine—converted to run on vegetable oil—of his 1975 Mercedes-Benz 240D. A large metal can of veggie oil, donated by a local Japanese restaurant, clunked in the backseat whenever the car turned. It was eco-friendly and Miro loved that the car’s exhaust smelled like tempura.
Rupert turned down the volume.
“What’re you gonna do?”
Miro thought about it. What was he going to do?
“I’m not sure. What would you do?”
“I’d hire a bunch of ninjas to go and, like, shuriken their ass. Or put out a hit, man.”
“I don’t even know who did it.”
Rupert raised an eyebrow and looked over at him.
“Really? Dude? You don’t know? You don’t have an inkling?”
Miro shook his head.
“Take a stab. A wild guess. A shot in the dark, no irony intended.”
Miro thought about it.
“I guess it must’ve been someone who was at the Cup.”
Rupert nodded.
“Okay. That narrows it down from two hundred million to what?”
“Couple thousand? Maybe.”
Rupert stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of shurikens.”
Miro felt a surge of agitation.
“Look, if I knew who did it, I’d do something about it. Okay?”
Rupert smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
“I’m not joking. I won the fucking Cannabis Cup. I shouldn’t be treated this way. I should’ve got a ticker-tape parade down Main Street.”
“Now you know how Rambo felt.”
“What?”
“Comes back from Vietnam, nobody cares. People hate him. He goes renegade on them.”
“I didn’t see the movie.”
“Fuck the movie, dude. Read the book.”
Miro changed the subject.
“How’s the band? What’s happening?”
Rupert bobbed in his seat. He liked nothing better than talking about music, specifically his music.
“We’re hoping to do Sunset Junction this year.”
“That’d be cool.”
“But I might have to find a new keyboard player.”
“What’s wrong with Laura?”
Rupert shrugged.
“First she was on heroin and everything was fine. I mean, not fine, like, you know, like that’s a healthy choice, but then she got clean and now she wants to quit the group.”
“Why?”
Rupert looked at Miro and sneered.
“She wants to do something with her life.”
Miro didn’t know what to say to that. Miro knew lots of people who didn’t do anything at all. He didn’t understand how they could afford to live in big fancy houses in Los Feliz, he didn’t know how they could hang out all day, smoke expensive ganja, and then go clubbing all night. Sometimes he thought everyone in Los Angeles had a trust fund. Everyone but him.
“Yeah, well, that’s kind of a noble thing, you know. Doing something with your life. Helping people.”
Rupert laughed.
“She wants to make money. She got a job at one of the big agencies in Century City. She’s going to be a talent agent.”
Rupert’s face screwed up in a cross between scorn and betrayal as he tugged on his scruffy beard.
“Fucking sellout.”
They drove in silence for a bit, Rupert stewing about his keyboard player’s departure, the iPod shifting from Ethiopian jazz to obscure Nigerian pop to bootleg B-sides from Cabaret Voltaire’s 1981 tour of the former Czechoslovakia. Miro would’ve liked to listen to a little reggae, maybe something old-school like Toots & The Maytals or the Abyssinians. He would’ve liked to smoke a joint, too, but his lungs were still in the process of healing. The last thing he wanted to do was laugh or cough or sneeze. It was a shame, really, because he was going to spend a few days with his parents and around them it always helped to be stoned.
…
An hour later the old Mercedes was bouncing down the pocked driveway toward Miro’s parent’s small cottage near the beach in Summerland. It was a cute place, with a kind of faded bohemian vibe, as if years ago the place had been jammed with groovy cats and chicks who’d danced to Booker T. & the MG’s and spilled cheap red wine on their rayon shirts while they were making out on the beach. Miro had never spent the night there. His parents had sold their little Spanish house in Glendale and moved to this beach community a few days after Miro had started college. Like they couldn’t wait for him to get out of the house. In retaliation Miro had only gone to see them a few times and never for more than a couple of hours.
Miro’s parents had visited him once in the hospital, making sure he was alive then returning to their work. They were both modestly successful artists—hence his name, after the Spanish painter Joan Miró—who spent most of their time painting or working with big blobs of clay in the various parts of the house they’d converted into studio space. Miro knew this meant he was going to be commandeering the couch in the living room until he was strong enough to go back to Los Angeles, find a place to live, and figure out how the hell he was going to get back into the cannabis-breeding business without getting killed.
…
His mother was busy making falafel—dropping little clump-lettes of mashed chickpeas and herbs into hot oil—while his dad wrestled with a bottle of pinot grigio.
Miro slumped on the couch, he was really tired, while Rupert got the tour of the various studios and works-in-progress. Miro’s father somehow got it into his head that he should paint a backdrop for Rupert’s band for when they performed. Miro’s jaw dropped when Rupert, sucking down half a glass of wine in a couple gulps, nodded enthusiastically and said, “That would be awesome.” Miro cringed. It was only partially from watching his father try to be a hipster; the majority of the cringe—a good 75 percent—was reserved for the usage of the word “awesome.” Miro wasn’t a linguist or an lexicographer but he didn’t have to be to know that “awesome” was the most awesomely overused word in the English language. Sometimes when he got stoned Miro would rant about it. How many things in this world justify the use of a word that means “a cross between dread and venerat
ion”? Certainly not an MP3 download of an obscure power trio from Sweden or a pair of clunky shoes found in a thrift store. “Awesome” was supposed to describe the feeling you would have if you came into contact with God or if you were in the presence of something truly miraculous, not, as it was commonly used, to describe a reality-TV show.
Miro wondered why it bothered him so much. It was just a word.
27
“YOU’RE NOT GOING to get one of them Westside bitches to let you assfuck her. You could cover her with diamonds and pearls and the bang-ingest bling money can buy, but you won’t get in through the back door. They just don’t do that, man.”
Damon was listing the advantages of date raping unconscious women for the teen skateboarder—whose arm and shoulder were now wrapped in a sling—as they sat in the SUV across from the fire station. Shamus sat in the backseat, keeping his eye on the station, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on his knee.
“Knock ’em out, man, you can stick it anywhere you want. Sleeping Beauty always puts out.”
They’d been sitting there for about an hour. Shamus knew the shifts changed in the late afternoon so he figured the EMT chick would probably change clothes and go home. He wanted to teach her a lesson, convince her that harassing his couriers was a bad idea, or, if that didn’t work, he’d just fucking kill her. He wasn’t sure yet what he was going to do. He figured he’d play it by ear.
The skateboarder sat up in his seat.
“That’s her. And that’s my backpack.”
Shamus squinted out the window and watched as the paramedic, now out of uniform, climbed into a police car driven by a young, uniformed officer.
“She’s taking the shit to the cops.”
Shamus waited until the squad car rounded the corner, then he opened the door and turned to the teen.
“Get out.”
The kid bailed out of the SUV as fast as he could. Damon looked at Shamus.
“We follow them?” Damon asked.
Shamus nodded.
“She’s got my shit.”
The fact that she hadn’t already turned the product in to the police was a surprise, but maybe that’s what she was doing now.
…
Fran sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, the skateboarder’s backpack stowed on the floor by her feet. She looked over at the driver. He was young, a rookie, but he had a bodybuilder’s physique and that made him a total stud in her eyes.
“You’ve got some serious guns,” she said.
She was referring to his rock-solid biceps. Officer Bill Bennett turned to her, winked from behind his sunglasses, and flexed his right arm.
“Give it a squeeze.”
Fran did. The solid mass sent a shiver down her spine.
“What can you bench?”
He ran his tongue over his lips.
“Three fifteen.”
“Not bad. For a rookie.”
Bennett smiled at her. He was handsome in a sandy-haired linebacker kind of a way and he knew it.
“Turn here.”
“Here?”
Fran nodded and the squad car left the road, a street that ran parallel to the freeway, and turned onto an old fire road near the foothills.
“Park right over there.”
Bennett threw the car into park and flicked off the ignition with a flourish as a cloud of dust swirled up around them. He turned to face her, leaning forward to give her a kiss. Before he could, Fran deftly clicked a pair of handcuffs around his wrists and locked his hands to the steering wheel. He looked at her.
“Hey. I thought...”
Fran kissed him, hard on the lips, jamming her tongue deep into his mouth, letting him know who was in charge. She broke from it and looked him in the eyes.
“I do the touching.”
It took Officer Bill Bennett a full ten seconds to process this information. This, he realized, was not going to be your usual romp in a car.
Fran kissed him again and, as she did, she unzipped his pants and fished his cock out of his uniform.
It was a well-known secret in the Northeast Division Police Department that Firewoman Fran enjoyed having sex with police officers in their squad cars. The male members of the force even had a special call code for when they’d be giving her a ride home.
What was less well known—the officers were embarrassed to talk about this—was that she usually handcuffed her lover so that he would be properly restrained. She would be in complete control; she touched you, you didn’t touch her. She was dominant, you were submissive. Those were the rules. The only guy who ever tried to reverse roles on her found that she was somewhat expert in Brazilian jiujitsu and quickly put him in a submission hold until he, well, submitted. She still fucked him and, despite the bruises on his neck, he had to admit he’d enjoyed it, too. You wanted a piece of Fran, you had to do it her way. If she wanted her nipples sucked, she’d stuff them in your mouth. If she wanted you to eat her, she’d sit on your face. When it was time for you to come, she’d make you come.
Fran saw it as doing something good for the world. She was an anti-missionary-position missionary. She forced the officers to stop thinking like cavemen, to drop the dominating man-on-top cliché of sex. A little restraint, a little discipline was good for the soul. Sometimes it’s better to let someone else drive.
The men hardly ever complained, although they all wanted to give her tits a squeeze before they dropped her off at home. She let them. It must be a guy thing.
Fran never invited men into her house. She never met them at a motel or at their “bachelor pad.” Where was the fun in that? She didn’t know why, but for some reason she was unable to have an orgasm during regular old-fashioned missionary-style sex. She could fake one. She’d mastered that art in college, wailing and screaming, shouting and hooting like she was strapped to a mechanical bull. But she never came. For some reason she couldn’t climax unless she was in a squad car, with her partner handcuffed and whimpering underneath her, she needed to be dominant. And when that happened, well, it just rocked her world.
…
Shamus and Damon had seen the squad car turn off the main street and onto the abandoned fire road. When it pulled over and parked under a clump of trees, they drove past—not wanting to blow their cover—continued up about a quarter mile, then turned around and parked.
It was dark now, the sky having burned indigo in the west before falling into a black ambient haze. The dull glow of light pollution blotted out the stars, making it feel like they were under some kind of protective dome, a snow globe filled with motor oil.
It only took about ten minutes of sitting still for Shamus to lose his patience. He got out and crept down the road to see what was going on.
Damon sat in the car, watching Shamus’s back disappear in the darkness. He’d smoked a joint about an hour ago and it didn’t take long for tendrils of paranoia to begin creeping into his consciousness. He didn’t want to be here. These were law enforcement officers. You don’t fuck with cops. That’s just stupid. Like if you go up and whack a hive of Africanized honey bees with a stick, you’re gonna get stung.
Damon felt the crotch of his new tracksuit—this one was sweet, bright yellow, with cream-colored triple stripes down the sleeves and legs—creep up his ass. He sat up and tugged at the pants, attempting to unwedgie them from his ass crack. This is the kind of shit that happens when you have to sit in the car for hours and hours. Damon hated waiting. It made him feel like a motherfucking chauffeur. Why couldn’t he be the one to go slinking off into the night to see what was going on? It was always the same. He waited in the car while Shamus and Guillermo got to do the fun stuff, whatever it was. Makin’ deals, beating on some numbskull’s head, slingin’ shit, breakin’ fingers; whatever needed to be done, they got to do it.
He turned up the stereo, pumping some old-school rap through the expensive speakers. He had a whole collection of the stuff, people like Kurtis Blow and Eazy-E, groups like the Furious 4 + 1 and Public
Enemy—these were vintage rappers, people who knew how to rhyme about more than just their bullshit shopping sprees. Not that there’s anything wrong with Louis Vuitton.
Damon half expected to hear gunshots, half hoped that the gunshots would be the police killing Shamus. Then he could be the boss. That would be sweet. And why not?
Damon pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and mopped the sweat off his forehead. Yeah. Once again. Sweating like a pig on a spit. He was beginning to realize how stressful it was to spend his days in the company of a homicidal maniac. The stress showed in the sheets of perspiration pouring off his head, in the tightness in his chest, and in the throb of his adrenal gland deep inside his head. It was like a panic attack that never quite got to attack. It was like a panic stalker, just lurking in the back of his head, haunting him, like a shadow stroke. Even the weed wasn’t relaxing him like it used to. His mom had given him a pamphlet from her doctor. Stress Is a Killer! Damon went down the list of warning signs and could check them all. According to the pamphlet, he needed to make a career change.
Before Damon could figure out where to send his résumé —several years experience as flunky, gopher, sidekick, and bagman—Shamus opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
“Okay, Tweety Bird, let’s go.”
Damon winced. Just because he looked sharp in his tracksuit didn’t mean Shamus could mock him.
“See anything?”
Shamus nodded.
“She’s sucking his cock.”
“What?”
Shamus nodded.
“On our dime. He’s supposed to be on patrol, protecting and serving and he’s getting his knob polished. I don’t know why the fuck I pay taxes.”
…
Fran gripped Officer Bennett’s erect penis tightly in her right hand. It was sticking up through the fly of his pants like a big pink mushroom. Fran looked up at him. He was gasping, mouth open. He had a frightened, pleading expression.
“Why are you stopping?”
Fran grinned. Men are so easy to control.
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