Miro watched another city flash by. Is it La Conchita? A tiny hamlet filled with strangers, people he’d never meet, people falling in love, suffering heartbreak, laughing and crying, their lives punctuated by occasional fatal mudslides.
Miro sipped some weak, soapy-tasting coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He’d bought the coffee at the train station in Santa Barbara. Now it was cold. But even when it was at its peak it wasn’t anything like the coffee he’d had in Amsterdam. Miro remembered the last morning he’d spent with Marianna. He’d woken up to find himself entangled with her, his arms in her arms, his legs twisted through hers, holding on. She’d looked at him and smiled, said something in Portuguese—Bom dia, good morning—before kissing him.
They’d taken a shower together. Miro washing her, soaping her skin, feeling her small beautiful breasts, admiring how her body was lean and supple like a dancer’s. He’d gotten excited doing that but they were both hungry so they dressed and bounded out of the hotel into the clear and sunny and cold Amsterdam morning.
…
There are thousands of taco trucks in Los Angeles. Some of them sell variations on the taco, like Korean tacos, which are regular tacos but with Korean barbecue and chopped up kimchi for salsa. But the really good trucks, with names like El Pique or La Estrella, were where the taco aficionados would congregate. Lenny’s Tacos was one of these. Made of shiny metal and emblazoned with a cheerful cartoon of a fat man wearing a chef’s hat and holding a platter of steaming tortas, it was parked in the same spot—a little side street just off San Fernando Boulevard—every day at lunch time and then on Eagle Rock Boulevard every night for dinner.
The truck did a brisk business at lunch: there was always a line of ravenous office workers, hungry day laborers covered in dry wall dust and mud, and hungover hipsters waiting patiently for their food. But for Miro the truck was more like an offshore bank, a place that laundered the cash transactions he received for selling his cannabis. The truck dealt in cash and whatever money it made during a busy day, Miro could add a few thousand dollars to the till, pay the taxes, give Lenny his cut, and take the rest out as taxable profits. A good taco truck is like a money-cleaning launderette on wheels.
Miro walked past the folding table covered with a bright oilcloth that was set up on the sidewalk as a do-it-yourself condiment center. It was laden with bowls of homemade salsa, fresh limes, cut radishes, sliced onion, and clumps of cilantro. Daniel had his back turned as Miro approached the truck.
“I hear you’re the fastest burrito roller in the business.”
Daniel turned and saw Miro standing outside the truck, grinning at him. Daniel couldn’t help himself, he beamed.
“Hey! You’re back.”
Daniel came out the front door of the taco truck, took Miro’s hand, and pumped it.
“You like the job?”
Daniel nodded his head in time with his hand pumping, making him look like a berserk oil well.
“I love it. The best job ever. Thank you so much.”
Miro patted Daniel on the shoulder.
“I’m happy it worked out.”
Daniel finally released Miro’s hand.
“What about you? What’re you doing?”
Miro shrugged.
“Just trying to get back on my feet. Find a place to live. That kind of thing.”
Daniel didn’t hesitate.
“Why don’t you stay with me? I’ve got room.”
At first glance, the idea of rooming with a young Mormon missionary struck Miro as about the craziest thing he could do, but then that was the genius of it. No one, not even the cagiest criminal on the street, would think to look for him at Daniel’s.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Daniel beamed some more.
“Are you kidding?”
…
Later, they sat in Daniel’s sad little apartment on a godforsaken strip of desolation along San Fernando Boulevard between Glendale and Burbank looking at each other. Miro noticed a couple of clip-on ties looped around the bedposts of Daniel’s bed but decided not to mention it. Maybe it was a religious thing. Miro realized he didn’t know very much about Mormons.
“How’d you find this place?”
The building next door was some kind of light industrial complex with frame shops and miniwarehouses; across the street were train tracks, chain-link fences trimmed with razor wire, and a large building that was, apparently, a business that imported Indian food products.
“We kind of inherited it from the missionaries that were here before. I like it. It’s close to everything.”
As far as Miro was concerned it wasn’t close to anything. It was in another dimension, a sad new world of dirt and decay. The clanging of crossing signals and the hooting of a horn sounded as a freight train rumbled past, shaking the small room. Daniel cleared his throat.
“So, what do you really do? You’re not really a taco truck owner, are you?”
Miro looked at Daniel, then lay back on the lumpy mattress that had once held Elder Collison’s bulky young body. He hoped the sheets were relatively clean.
“Why do you say that?”
Daniel sat up on his bed.
“Well, I don’t know. Just because it doesn’t seem like you are.”
“Yeah? What do I seem like?”
Miro stared at the ceiling; paint peeled off in scabs and the wood underneath was stained a deep yellow from where dog piss had leaked through from the floor above. Spiders were nesting in the corners and gray strands of dusty cobwebs dangled in the air. But it was better than looking at the floor. Miro had noticed several large brown cockroaches scurrying for cover when Daniel had opened the door, and the warped linoleum in the kitchen was pocked with sticky black splotches of unknown origin that made a sucking sound when you stepped on them. Miro hoped they were just pieces of really old chewing gum. All in all, the apartment was tiny, dumpy, and smelled vaguely of rotting cabbage, but it was where he needed to be.
Daniel looked at the floor.
“Something cooler, I guess.”
Miro laughed.
“I don’t know how cool it is.”
“So, what do you really do?”
Miro didn’t see any reason to lie to the kid.
“I grow cannabis.”
“Cannabis?”
“Marijuana.”
Daniel nodded. He didn’t seem surprised.
“That’s illegal.”
Miro shrugged.
“Not if you have a prescription from a doctor.”
“Really?”
Miro nodded. Then he said, “I’m surprised you don’t smoke it.”
“Me?”
“Why not? It’s a plant. God must’ve put it here for people to enjoy. The laws against it are just political bullshit. I thought you guys didn’t follow laws made by men.”
“Those are Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Miro laughed. He caught the fear in Daniel’s voice.
“Don’t worry. I won’t smoke any in your apartment.”
“Is that why they shot you?”
“I imagine so.”
“Do you know who did it?”
Miro shook his head. “It will all be revealed in time.”
“Now you sound like a Jehovah’s Witness.”
Miro was surprised.
“I do? I thought I sounded more like one of the characters from Star Wars.”
“And then what are you going to do? You know? When all is revealed?”
Miro thought about it.
“Fuck if I know.”
33
“WITH FAITH and diligence it will guide you through the wilderness.”
That’s a lot to ask from a bicycle but Miro had to admit the Liahona—built for LDS missionaries and named after a compass in the book of Mormon—was a surprisingly good bike. The derailleur shifted smoothly through the gears and the bike flowed downhill through turns without a shudder. It was a rock-solid machine. Even though he felt like a
complete dork wearing Elder Collison’s old missionary outfit, Miro found himself enjoying the ride.
It was strange how a white, short-sleeved shirt and clip-on tie could transform you. He no longer looked cool or hip or edgy or anything like that. Now he looked like a great big nerd, like a computer geek from the days when Fortran was the lingo, one of those guys who builds rockets in his basement, a dude who knows how to use a slide rule but couldn’t find a clitoris in the dictionary.
It wasn’t much of a plan but he wanted to send a message to the people who’d ripped him off. You’re not the only one with Elephant Crush. He was hoping that it would force their hand, make them announce to the world that they had it, too. Or they might just come after him and try to kill him again. That was a possibility. That’s why he needed a disguise.
When he’d looked in the mirror he’d had to admit that this was about as incognito as he’d ever been. It had been Daniel’s idea; he’d given Miro Elder Collison’s clothes and bike and even the little plastic name tag that you pin on your shirt. The fact that Collison’s clothes didn’t fit made Miro seem even more authentic. The shirt billowed around his body like a sack and the pants were too short in length and way too big in the waist so they were baggy and crumpled while simultaneously revealing the bleached white tube socks at his ankles.
They rode as a pair. Daniel had insisted. That’s the missionary way. Miro had warned him that he might not like what he would see and it could be dangerous—law enforcement was always a concern and there was, obviously, someone who wanted Miro dead—but Daniel was adamant. A solitary missionary might get a second look, but together they wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.
They rode along Santa Monica Boulevard, the signs on the storefronts changing from Spanish to Spanglish to Korean to Armenian to English to Russian and then back to English as they moved westward.
Eventually they stopped, locked their bikes in front of a gay bookstore, and walked around the corner into a nondescript shop with a sign that said, “West Hollywood Herbal Cooperative” in small letters on the frosted-glass door. Daniel stopped in front when he saw a little green marijuana leaf decal on the window. He recognized it from all the drug-abuse-resistance-education lectures he’d sat through in high school. He knew that marijuana was bad.
Miro turned to him.
“You might want to wait outside.”
Daniel looked hurt.
“Why?”
Miro thought about it.
“I don’t know. It might offend your religious beliefs.”
“I’m not judgmental. Those are the fundamentalists.”
Daniel followed Miro in, expecting to find a den of skeevy-looking Manson followers, all crazy eyes and tattoos, discussing human sacrifice and the violent overthrow of the U.S. government in a fog of noxious smoke while black-light posters burned psychedelic on the walls and some kind rocked-out guitar solo buzzed over the speakers. He was not expecting to see an elderly couple—the man suffering from Parkinson’s, she from glaucoma—or the woman in her late forties, her head covered with a scarf to hide that she’d lost her hair in chemotherapy. He wasn’t expecting people in wheelchairs, people with eating disorders, AIDS patients, or insomniacs with dark purple bags hanging under their eyes from lack of sleep. There were a couple of people who didn’t look obviously afflicted with medical problems but they didn’t look dangerous, either. They looked really normal. Daniel also wasn’t expecting the low murmur of classical music, or the way the place looked like someone’s living room with couches, chairs, and lamps.
Judging by their reaction, the people in the co-op weren’t expecting to seeing a couple of Mormon missionaries, either.
As they entered, an older customer wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed him a proud Democrat raised his hands in a gesture as if he were pushing them back out.
“Take it outside. I don’t want to hear it.”
Daniel hesitated, he didn’t want any trouble, but Miro just smiled at the man and wagged his finger.
“Don’t judge.”
An attractive woman with a giant mass of dark curly hair —piled up on her head and straining against a red scrunchy—jumped up from behind the counter when she saw them.
“Miro! You’re back!”
“Hi Barbara.”
She gave him a big hug. Then she turned her eyes on Daniel.
“Have you joined a cult or something?”
Miro laughed.
“This is my friend, Daniel.”
Barbara extended her hand and Daniel shook it. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her loose blouse and he watched her breasts wobble beneath the thin cotton as she pumped his arm up and down. It shocked him how warm and strong and fleshy her hand felt in his. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t ever touched a woman like her—an attractive woman who wasn’t a relative or a member of his church or a teacher at his high school.
Daniel looked at Barbara, then looked at the floor. Miro laughed. Daniel wasn’t sure if he was laughing at him or with him, but he wasn’t sure it mattered. Finally, words formed in his mind and he got just enough air from his lungs to propel them out of his mouth.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Barbara turned to Miro.
“I thought you retired after the, um, you know.”
Barbara bit her lip in a way that made her look slightly embarrassed yet sexy.
“The bullet?”
“Yeah. Ouch. I was worried about you.”
Miro grinned and patted his messenger bag.
“How can I retire? I have the Cup winner and I’m going to give you an exclusive.”
…
It was raining but Marianna didn’t care. She let the rain pelt down on her as she dragged a small suitcase out to the taxi. So what if she got a little wet? There was no way she was taking an umbrella to California. The driver popped the trunk and Marianna hoisted her suitcase and plopped it in. She was traveling light; just a few items of clothing, her passport, and her plane ticket.
Guus opened the back door for her and she bundled in, strapped on the seatbelt and, as the taxi took off, let out a sigh. She still wasn’t convinced that this was the best idea. But then, what else could she do? She had to talk to Miro face-to-face.
Guus patted her knee and smiled.
“If you like we can go to the La Brea Tar Pits.”
She looked at him. She was so focused on what she had to say to Miro and how she felt about it—her emotions shifting and changing several times a day—that she hadn’t considered that they might go sightseeing.
“What?”
“There are lakes of molten tar in Los Angeles. Right in the middle of the city. I’ve always wanted to see them.”
Marianna laughed.
“Why would anyone build a city around a lake of tar?”
Guus shrugged.
“It’s an interesting place.”
…
Detective Cho scrolled down the Web page on his computer screen and clicked on a window. He watched a video showing the Cannabis Cup being awarded. Except for the lilt of reggae drifting in the background and the absence of tuxedos and gowns, it was kind of like any award ceremony you might see on TV. The winner was announced and a European guy with an accent and a leather jacket came onstage and took the Cup. He grabbed the microphone and asked if anyone had seen Miro. Cho couldn’t help it, he chuckled.
“Welcome to the club.”
Quijano looked over from his desk.
“You say something?”
Cho hit pause and turned to Quijano.
“The kid wins the Academy Award of marijuana and doesn’t even bother to show up and accept it.”
“Maybe he was making a political statement. You know? Like Brando sending that Indian chick to make a speech.”
“Native American.”
“Whatever.”
Cho considered it. Had Miro angered the Cannabis Cup people? Would not showing up be a reason for shooting him? He doubted it
but it was something they should look into. He liked being thorough.
“You want to call High Times magazine and see what they say about it?”
Quijano laughed.
“I’m sure they’ll love talking to me.”
“Make the call.”
Cho was trying to be Zen about the search for Miro but it wasn’t working, and it wasn’t helping his antacid do its job.
The detectives had dropped in and visited Miro’s parents up the coast. They’d left their cards for him, but Miro hadn’t called them back or tried to contact them at all. Not that Cho was surprised. What was the guy going to say? Still, you’d think that if the person who shot you was running around shooting other people, you’d be kind of curious about it. Wouldn’t you?
Cho wondered if Miro knew the EMT woman or the guy who was murdered with her. And had they been a couple? Was it some kind of weird sex triangle?
It was like Miro had dropped off the planet. Maybe he’d gone underground or crossed the border to Mexico. Cho thought that if someone was trying to kill him, he might go there; that might be a reasonable excuse to go to the land of tacos and tequila. Of course, there was always the possibility that the wrong people had found Miro and now he was taking a dirt nap somewhere in the Mojave.
Cho needed a break in the case. He hoped it wouldn’t be another body.
34
VINCENT SLID a green plastic bottle across the table toward Shamus. The bottle looked like something you’d get from a pharmacy, containing some prescription Valtrex, Vicodin, or Lipitor, only this label was clearly marked with a marijuana leaf and the words “Elephant Crush” in rainbow script. Below that it said “Cannabis Cup Winner.” Shamus picked it up and looked at it.
“Is this the real shit? Where’d you get it?”
Vincent glared at him.
“You can buy this at the herbal cooperative in West Hollywood.”
Vincent emphasized the “H” in herbal, just to be annoying.
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