“I like a nice vegan spring roll. Fresh veggies wrapped in tofu skin. Something like that.”
She made a note on a legal pad and nodded.
“How about mini sliders? You know, tiny hamburgers?”
Vincent shook his head.
“This isn’t fucking White Castle.”
“What about caviar? Little blinis topped with sevruga?”
“I’d rather do sushi.”
“Duck confit taquitos?”
“Too messy.”
The caterer put down her pad and pencil.
“Okay. Tell me, what do you want to accomplish with this event?”
Vincent leaned back in his chair and adopted a philosophical pose, like a man who enjoys nothing more than pondering the important questions of the day.
“What I want is for people to talk about this night. I want them to tell their friends about this amazing evening at the Compassion Club. It all has to blow their mind. The wine, the food, the decor, and especially the amazing cannabis.”
The caterer nodded.
“We could make some special brownies. Grilled tofu and vegetables. A sprout salad. You know, do a Woodstock inspired barbecue-type thing.”
Vincent sighed. He was about to tell her to leave, that he wasn’t a hippie and this wasn’t the sixties, when he got an idea. He opened a desk drawer, reached in, and pulled out a green plastic vial.
“Go home. Smoke this. Then talk to me about the appetizers.”
He waved the vial in front of her.
“This is the star of the show.”
…
Shamus had to admit that the tough kid could take a beating. But everyone has their weak spot. Shamus had spotted the missionary’s when he had complained about the fake-leopard-fur handcuffs, so when he threatened to go “Abu Ghraib” on them—stripping them and making them butt fuck each other—he knew the kid would talk.
As it turned out, the Mormons didn’t know much. But they knew there was a guy who lived by himself in an LDS-rented apartment on San Fernando Road. He was some kind of outcast and was probably the guy they were looking for. They didn’t have the exact address but they’d ridden by the building a few times.
Shamus decided to check it out. If Miro was there, hiding out with some Mormon loser, well, he’d just have to kill both of them. Shamus didn’t think he’d kill these Mormon boys; they’d been blindfolded when he brought them to the grow house, they didn’t know where they were, and he figured they were too scared to get a good look at him anyway. Or maybe he would kill them. He’d figure it out later.
Shamus turned to the Mormons.
“I’m gonna go see if you’re telling me the truth. For your sake, you better be.”
“He needs to go to the hospital.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that later.”
As Shamus opened the door to leave, he saw Blanca, the old Mexican housewife who took care of the grow house, standing in the hallway holding a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun in one hand and a bucket and scrub brush in the other.
Blanca pointed the gun at the older Mormon boy.
“Limpiar mi piso.”
Shamus laughed. The Mormon looked at him, confused.
“What’d she say?”
“Guess you’re going to do some God work after all. She wants you to scrub the floors.”
36
MIRO DIDN’T understand Rupert’s reluctance to hand over the keys. He’d lent him the Mercedes making it clear that once he felt better he’d want it back. But Rupert acted like it was his car now; he’d even put a bumper sticker on the back that said “Drum Machines Have No Soul.” That really annoyed Miro. He hated bumper stickers in general, and on principal, and just didn’t understand why anyone would defile a classic car with free advertising for a lost cause. Besides, what was wrong with a drum machine?
Miro drove west on the 105, heading towards LAX, trying to think of something to do with Guus. He couldn’t take him back to the roach-infested apartment, could he? And what about the cannabis? Except for the little bit he’d gotten from Amin, it was gone. There were other problems, too. The police were looking for him. People had been murdered. These are the kind of things that can put a damper on a vacation.
…
Marianna felt her stomach lurch. She wasn’t sure if it was the baby kicking or her nerves getting ready to blossom into a full-blown panic attack. Her mind was racing, spinning out various scenarios that involved Miro being married to a super-model and having nine children, or Miro being gay and having a boyfriend who was a movie star, or Miro being some kind of Hollywood playboy who swapped beautiful young women in and out of his bed every night.
She had a vision of Miro coming to the airport with a Vegas showgirl on one arm and a porn star on the other. What did she really know about him? What if he was involved with one of the flight attendants on the plane? What if he didn’t really like her, but he’d been stoned and in Amsterdam so why not have a fling?
Marianna popped a peppermint into her mouth and resisted the urge to puke all over the polished floor of the Customs area. Guus turned and gave her an encouraging smile and a pat on the shoulder.
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
Marianna smiled back; was her anxiety so obvious? How could Guus be so confident? She wasn’t sure that Miro would be happy to see her; there are no guarantees in life and even fewer in love, but she’d come this far, the here and now beckoned, so she grabbed the handle of her wheelie suitcase and tugged it toward the exit and whatever Los Angeles had in store for her.
…
You’d be surprised how many people smile at you when you’re dressed up like a Mormon missionary. It was like wearing a fucking Boy Scout uniform. Little old ladies grinned and men in suits nodded assuredly; it was as if the Mission was some kind of apprenticeship program designed to spit out well-groomed and polite young junior vice presidents of regional sales.
Usually nobody paid any attention to him at the airport. He would blend into the blur of people coming and going. But put on a clean white shirt and clip on a tie and all of a sudden you’re an upstanding citizen, everybody’s friend. Miro thought it was funny how Rupert and his hipster friends had been just the opposite, acting like he had become leprotic, a carrier of some fatal disease that caused terminal uncoolness.
Flights arrived. Passengers deplaned. An unbroken stream of slightly disoriented travelers drifted out of Customs and rolled their bags toward the terminal exits and ground transportation beyond.
Miro saw Guus first, the lanky Dutchman distinctive in his black leather jacket, his thick eyeglasses scanning the crowd. Miro straightened his clip-on and raised his hand to wave. That’s when he noticed a swirl of bright red curls—wrapped with a bright green scarf—bouncing on top of the head of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He felt his heart skip a beat.
…
Once Aimée LeClerq learned that Daniel was a virgin she bundled him into her chauffeured limo and absconded with him to her Italianate mansion in the Hollywood Hills.
The ride in the car was excruciating. Daniel sat next to the sultry pop star, inhaling the exotic spice of her perfume and looking at her beautiful face, the ambient light from the street somehow softening the age lines around her eyes. Even though he sat rigid—straight up and down and buckled tightly into his seat—he was drawn to her as if she had a magnetic pull or some kind of sexual centrifugal force that aligned his molecules and gave them a tug. As much as he tried to resist—and let’s be perfectly honest here, he didn’t try that hard—he couldn’t help it, she turned on his sap machine.
Aimée looked at him and smiled. She reached a hand over and stroked his head, playing with his sandy hair. Her fingers crackled with energy and it sent a shiver down his spine all the way to the base of his balls. He’d only felt something like this once before, and that was when his feet slipped off the pedals and he stunned his scrotum against the bike frame.
“Mmmm. You are
fresh. How old are you?”
Daniel swallowed.
“Eighteen.”
“And it’s really your first time?”
“In a limo?”
She laughed and smiled sweetly at him, as if he was some kind of puppy in a pet store window.
“Cute.”
He reached out toward her, tentative, as if she might suddenly turn on him and bite off his arm. His finger touched her shoulder, lightly, as if she might not be real, his hand moist and trembling. She shifted in her seat.
“It’s okay. Everyone’s nervous their first time.”
“I don’t even touch myself.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“We’re not supposed to touch ourselves, you know. We’re not supposed to waste any sap.”
Aimée smiled.
“That’s very Tantric.”
Daniel blinked at her. She stroked his cheek.
“I’ll explain later.”
“Okay.”
She ran the tip of her index finger over his lips.
“But you’re a young man. What do you do if you can’t touch yourself.”
Daniel felt himself blushing, a rush of heat to his face, but he couldn’t help himself, he told her the truth. For some reason he thought Aimée LeClerq would understand.
“I have to tie myself to the bed so I don’t do anything.”
Aimée’s eyes lit up.
“Do you like tying yourself up?”
Daniel gulped and nodded.
And that’s when Aimée LeClerq, multimillionaire pop star and sex icon to a generation, reached out, took Daniel’s trembling hand and slid it into her blouse so that it was cupping one of the world’s most famous silicone-enhanced breasts.
Daniel gasped. It was exactly like what the bishop had said. He felt his sap rising urgently, like it was being squeezed out of a tube. He squirmed in his seat. Aimée smiled.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
She reached over and popped the buckle on his seatbelt, then shifted on the limo seat, slid down on her back, lifted her ass, pulled her panties off, and wrapped her personal-trainer-toned thighs around his torso.
“Come on. Let’s make you a man. Get it out and stick it in.”
…
It didn’t take Ted long to locate the little house in Atwater Village. He had a friend who worked in the Department of Water and Power billing department who was happy to violate federal law and give him the address of the building where Shamus Noriega paid the water bill.
Ted parked his car a couple of houses away and sat there. He rolled down the window and scanned the street. It didn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood a drug dealer would live in. Cute bungalows nestled under the trees; a couple of old ladies walked their chihuahuas. It was the picture of suburbia.
Ted pulled the Glock out of his jacket pocket and looked at it. He knew from movies that you needed to take the safety off to fire the thing but he didn’t know which button was the safety. He wasn’t even sure it was loaded. He pushed a lever and the magazine dropped out. It certainly looked loaded, there were bullet-looking things in there. He slipped the magazine back in and put the gun in his pocket. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to shoot anybody.
…
The freeway was relatively uncrowded at this time of day. Marianna looked at Miro as he drove. She was feeling disconnected from reality. A strange city, this man she hardly knew, and this other person growing and moving around inside her body. It had taken Marianna a moment to recognize Miro. There was something about the goofy haircut, the glasses, and the cheap tie and short-sleeved white shirt that she hadn’t expected. He looked like a cartoon caricature of a science nerd. Why was he dressed like that? Is this how he normally looked?
Now that they were in the car and she could see him up close, she was sure it was him. There was no denying the spark she felt between them, the attraction that pulled her toward him like they were propelled by an emotional-particle accelerator.
Miro peeked in her direction as he drove. She smiled at him, as if to reassure him that she had no bad intentions, that she didn’t want anything from him, that she had come in peace.
Guus sat in the backseat and looked out the window.
“This is the famous traffic?”
Miro glanced in the rearview mirror.
“We’re in the carpool lane.”
Miro reached over and took Marianna’s hand, feeling her soft warm skin, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Marianna smiled at him.
“I probably gave you a shock.”
Miro smiled back.
“Maybe I needed one.”
Guus rolled down his window, took a sniff of freeway air, then rolled it back up.
“Does Los Angeles always smell like Japanese food?”
Miro laughed.
“That’s the car. It runs on vegetable oil.”
The carpool lane separated from the freeway—allowing a high-speed transition from the 105 to the 110—becoming a kind of futuristic flying buttress, leaping out into space high above the ground then plunging down toward the city like a bobsled track. At its apex, the point just before the plunge, the Los Angeles skyline stood out, jutting up, a cluster of skyscrapers.
Marianna gasped.
“That is Los Angeles?”
Miro let the sunshine of her accent fill him, soaking it in, not realizing how much he’d missed it. Then he told her the truth, sweeping his hand in front of the windshield, indicating the vista from the ocean to the distant mountains.
“It’s all Los Angeles.”
Marianna took it in.
“Puta merda.”
Miro smiled and began merging into the crush of downtown traffic, the Mercedes’s exhaust leaving the faint scent of tempura in the air.
…
Three times Ted had to piss in a Starbuck’s tall-size cup, discreetly open the door, and pour his urine out onto the curb. He was new to stakeouts, he didn’t think about how guzzling bottled water out of boredom and drinking a double soy latte could cause severe bladder discomfort as the afternoon turned to evening and the evening turned to night.
Even if you have a cup to piss in, it’s still not the easiest thing to do when you’re sitting in your car. The angle is all wrong, gravity worked against him, and splash-back ricocheted onto his pants and the floor and basically made the car smell like some vagrant was living there. The pile of wrappers from the energy bars he’d been gnawing on didn’t help. The heat seemed to make the boredom of sitting there even more boring, like some kind of tedium magnifier, and a couple of times Ted found himself drifting off to sleep, his eyelids slowly rolling down like those heavy steel security doors that protect storefronts at night.
…
Ransacking an apartment is not as easy or as fun as you might think. You don’t just rip up cushions and dump out drawers willy-nilly. There’s a method to the madness. You’re looking for something, you have to be thorough. An experienced ransacker will have cut every mattress and cushion, deupholstered the couch and chairs, and looked in the toilet, the freezer, and the undersides of every drawer and cabinet. Once you’ve looked, sure, you break the shit up and dump it on the floor, that’s part of the process. But when an apartment is as filthy as this one, you need a HazMat suit to properly ransack.
Finally finished with the job, Shamus was tired, sweaty, and covered in dust. He’d left Guillermo at a bar next to the ransacked apartment, with orders to keep an eye on the place just in case Miro showed up. Shamus needed a shower and a change of clothes.
Even though it was dark, he saw the dude sitting in his car. The guy didn’t even try to duck as the headlights swept over him and Shamus pulled into his driveway.
Shamus had a momentary flash of paranoia, like maybe someone had put out a hit on him or the cops had gotten a grand jury indictment, but he relaxed when he saw the guy get out of his car and walk right up to him like he was about to slap him with a subpoena or letter from a bill col
lector or some shit like that. If the guy was a pro, Shamus would already be dead. That’s why Shamus was surprised when the guy pulled out a gun.
“Shamus Noriega?”
Shamus nodded.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
The guy hesitated.
“Can we go inside?”
Shamus smiled. This guy was no pro, he was shaking in his boots. Shamus could see the guy’s hand trembling as he held the gun and it occurred to Shamus that he might be so nervous he’d accidentally pull the trigger. He held up his hands reassuringly.
“It’s cool. You’ve got the gun. You want to come in, come in.”
“Right. Okay.”
Shamus slowly took out his key and opened his door.
“This okay?”
Shamus watched the guy look around, checking over his shoulder and down the street, peeking into the dark house, unsure what to do next and really jumpy, like some kind of crackhead idiot.
“Yeah. Yeah, go on in. Go.”
Shamus could’ve dropped the guy. He could’ve pulled his own gun and killed him. Dropped his ass on the front lawn in a heartbeat. But then he’d have to move and he’d just got the place looking nice.
The guy waved the gun around.
“Go. C’mon.”
Shamus stepped into the house and waited until the guy with the gun crossed the threshold.
“You want to close the door?” he asked.
The guy gulped, Shamus actually heard his throat muscles flex and contract, and pushed the door shut with his foot. Then he said, “Turn on the light.”
“Okay.”
Shamus flipped on the light and turned slowly, moving to face the guy. But the guy with the gun wasn’t even looking at him, he was staring at the painting of Jim Morrison and the hippies on the beach.
“That’s Fran’s painting.”
Shamus didn’t wait for the guy to look back at him, he threw his elbow, hard, into the guy’s face.
The gun clattered to the floor and the guy followed, dropping like a sack of concrete, out cold.
Shamus picked up the guy’s gun and then went into the kitchen to find some duct tape. This whole day was turning out to be a fucking pain in the ass.
Baked Page 17