It was a shit hole. Dilapidated and dirty, the streets were lined with small tiendas selling everything from plastic flowers to long-distance phone cards to Santeria knickknacks to soccer jerseys. The butchers, the bakers, and the taco makers were there in the shape of carnicerias and panderias, all kinds of motherfucking rias. There was trash on the street and the crisp, clean billboards and graphic Diamond Vision screens of the Westside were replaced by storefront signage hand-painted in the retina-searing colors that probably looked better in Mexico.
Traffic was different, too. The gleaming Mercedes and BMWs that cruised San Vicente and Montana Avenues were replaced by dusty KIAs and souped-up Honda Accords. And then there were the trucks: shiny taco trucks parked every block or two, clouds of grease smoke pumping out of their kitchen exhausts; old delivery trucks repurposed to become rolling grocery stores, with clusters of green plantains swinging from hooks; ratty diesel-spewing death traps filled with used tires; and wheezing pickup trucks piled high with domestic jetsam. It was like a traveling carnival of dirty used crap and greasy food. A parade of junk. The clean, sun-spanked streets of LA morphed into some kind of developing-world diorama the further east you drove.
Vincent had heard stories of carjackings and gang shootings, white guys being attacked on the street, robbed and beaten, just because they had the audacity to venture into the barrio. These were tales of the predominantly poor Latino population running amok that were made popular in Academy Award–winning films and network television shows. The fact that these movies and shows were written by wealthy Caucasians living plush and protected 90210 lives on the Westside—people who couldn’t find the east side without a location scout—didn’t dilute the power these images had on Vincent’s imagination. So when he crossed Eagle Rock Boulevard heading east he drove slowly, hypervigilant, his palms sweaty, half expecting some desperate immigrant to leap in front of his car with the intent of being maimed so that they could sue him or blackmail him or something bad like that. After all, he was driving a brand-new Prius.
He wound his way up a hill, the road narrowed by junked cars on one side, until he reached his destination. He drove past the house, just to be on the safe side, and then came back down the hill and parked a couple doors down.
Bernardo answered the door, gave Vincent a nod, and pointed him toward the living room where Shamus sat watching los Jaguares de Chiapas versus los Rayados de Monterrey on TV.
Vincent stood and watched the action on the television for a moment—he just didn’t understand soccer—and then looked at Shamus.
“Do we have enough for the party?”
Shamus picked up a paper bag.
“This is about a pound and a quarter. There’s more curing but it won’t be ready for a few days.”
Vincent took the bag and opened it. He was hit by the mango scent of the freshly dried weed. He looked inside and saw a bundle of neatly trimmed buds glistening with trichomes.
“Beautiful.”
Vincent took a bud out of the bag and snapped it in half. He put it up to his nose and inhaled.
“Have you tried it?”
Shamus grunted. “Not yet.”
Vincent noticed a grinder and a glass bong on the coffee table.
“Well, you are now. Now you’re gonna see what this is all about.“
Vincent sat down, dropped the bud into the grinder, and began cranking it into small bits. Then he opened it and studied the leaves.
“Amazing. It’s ours. Elephant Crush, the reigning champion cannabis of the world.”
He reached for the bong on Shamus’s coffee table and stopped.
“What’s wrong with this bong?”
Shamus looked up.
“What?”
“There’s some, like, crud in it.”
Shamus laughed.
“Those are bong barnacles, man. A naturally occurring phenomenon.”
“Naturally occurring from what?”
“Sometimes I like to put Jack ’n’ Coke in the bong.”
Vincent gave Shamus a horrified look. Shamus shrugged.
“It’s good.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Got any papers?”
It only took Vincent a minute to roll a nice tight joint and hand it to Shamus. He watched as Shamus lit it and took a long, deep inhale. The distinct smell of ripe mangoes immediately filled the room. Vincent hadn’t smoked any Elephant Crush since the Cannabis Cup and now here it was, grown in his secret grow house, cured to perfection, rolled up and burning in a curl of saliva-sodden paper just a few feet away.
Shamus took another deep hit and exhaled, his body sinking into his chair like an invisible elephant had just sat on him.
“Fuck, man. That’s seriously the shit.”
Shamus glanced at Vincent and then handed him the joint. Vincent licked his lips reflexively as he put it to his mouth. He trapped the smoke in his mouth, letting it cool slightly, and then French inhaled it through his nostrils and into his lungs.
The smoke was light, not oily or heavy, with no taste of skunk or fuel. It tasted like mangoes but not like the mangoes you get at the grocery store in LA, the taste was like mangoes you’d get at some kind of outdoor market on a sunny day in the tropics.
By the time Vincent had exhaled his second hit, he realized he was baked. He smiled at Shamus.
“Dude. I’m planning the best party. A world premiere event. This is gonna blow their minds.”
He handed the joint back to Shamus.
“What do you think?”
Shamus, his eyes glazed by the THC in his system, his voice deep and mellow, turned and grinned at Vincent.
“I’d kill a lot of motherfuckers for this shit.”
Vincent smiled. He was feeling giddy, flush, on top of the world. It was, easily, the best cannabis he’d ever smoked and he had a grow house full of it. He’d be able to propagate the Elephant Crush and keep it rolling off his production line for years to come. Not only would it make him millions, it would give him a name, a brand identity in the cannabis world. That was priceless. That was what made it all worthwhile. Vincent had done what any good businessman or corporation would do: he had seen a valuable resource and he was exploiting it. So what if someone had to die? It happened all the time, from Anaconda Copper to the diamond mines of Angola. You just had to recognize the opportunity when it knocked.
Vincent saw Blanca and Bernardo enter the room carrying three plates of rice and beans. For a brief moment he thought they were bringing them to him, but then they walked down the hallway toward one of the bedrooms in back. Blanca had a shotgun on a strap slung crossways over her shoulder bandito-style.
Vincent looked at Shamus.
“What’s going on?”
Shamus shrugged.
“We’ve got house guests.”
“You know you’re not supposed to have people over.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
Vincent stood up to see what was going on. Shamus didn’t move; Adolfo Bautista had just scored for Chiapas.
Vincent walked down the hallway and peeked into the second bedroom. He saw Blanca pointing the shotgun at two Mormon missionaries handcuffed to the bed while a badly beaten white dude lay hog-tied with duct tape on the floor. Bernardo was placing the food on the bed so the Mormons could eat. He put a plate next to the white dude but it didn’t look like he’d be eating anything anytime soon.
Vincent went back to the living room.
“Who are those people?”
Shamus didn’t divert his eyes from the game.
“We’ve had some complications.”
“You want to elaborate on that?”
Shamus shrugged.
“The less you know, the better.”
Vincent didn’t like hearing that. He didn’t like his employees, his subordinates, telling him what he did or didn’t need to know.
“Maybe you should tell me what the fuck is going on.”
…
Miro ha
d never had sex with a pregnant woman before. He wondered if there was something special he needed to do, some kind of technique to ensure safety. There was, he realized, a steep learning curve ahead.
Marianna shifted her body, reaching down to find his erection and grabbing it firmly, giving his cock a strong tug. She looked up at him, a bright smile exploding across her face. That’s when he realized that she wasn’t sad, she wasn’t crying because he’d nearly died, she was crying because she was happy he was alive.
Marianna threw a leg across his body and sat up, straddling him. She took a firm hold of his cock and gently guided it inside her, muttering something he didn’t understand, some words in Portuguese.
…
Daniel was snuggled into a cloud, a cozy nebula of supersoft bedding. The fact that he was nestled under thousands of dollars worth of hypoallergenic down-filled duvet and a tangle of one-thousand-thread-count sheets of the finest Egyptian cotton didn’t mean anything to him. The bedding was nice, like a fancy hotel in a movie or something, but he felt amazing because he was a changed man. There had been a shift inside him. Aimée had done something to him, released some kind of energy, and he could feel an inner light glowing, emanating from his body. Was this the feeling of exaltation they talked about in church? Exaltation was supposed to be the greatest gift of God and it came through being united with a member of the opposite sex in a celestial marriage. Daniel remembered reading that in Doctrine and Covenants. Exaltation was “the kind of life God lives.” Exalted beings were supposed to live in great glory, be perfect, and possess all knowledge and wisdom.
That kind of described Aimée. Maybe we are already sealed in a celestial marriage.
He peeked over at her, watching her sleep, noticing for the first time the lines on her face and the gray roots at the base of her hair. He saw the sagging flesh below her jawbones and the crinkled skin around her eyes. She was older than him, obviously, but he didn’t care. She was still beautiful. Besides, while her face showed her age, her perfectly formed, physically fit and surprisingly strong and agile body seemed ageless. Her muscles were tight, her skin was smooth and firm, and her breasts felt exactly like world-famous breasts should feel—full and soft and magnificent; like the countless photos of her without her shirt on hadn’t lied. She was perfect and she possessed wisdom. She really was an exalted being, just like they described in Gospel Principles, Chapter 47.
Daniel saw himself as her young apprentice, eager to learn the mysteries of sex and willing to devote himself to its study and practice, technique and application. His mission was coming into focus.
But he also had a job. He was apprenticing to be a master burrito roller and he needed to get up, get dressed, and get on his bike.
As he slipped out of bed, Aimée stirred.
“Where’re you going?”
“I gotta work.”
“No you don’t. Come back to bed.”
“I’ll be back soon. I only work the lunch shift. I’ll bring you a burrito.”
“Let Manuel drive you.”
“I’ve got to get my bike.”
She sat up on her elbows, her hair falling back, her perfect breasts rocking gently on her torso. Daniel couldn’t help himself, he felt a boner popping to life. He tugged his pants up over his bulging cotton briefs and tried to tuck in his shirt.
Aimée smiled at him.
“Use the limo. I insist.”
…
“What do you mean you had him?” Vincent asked.
Shamus glared. He didn’t like having this conversation.
“Guillermo saw him with a couple of other people. That’s all.”
“Why didn’t he shoot him?”
It annoyed Shamus when people said stuff like that. It just showed they didn’t understand that it was complicated. You try to shoot one guy and you end up shooting three people; that’s just asking for trouble.
“He’s not a shooter.”
He watched Vincent’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“I got interrupted.”
Shamus watched as Vincent began pacing the living room. Behind Vincent, Blanca and Bernardo were peeking in from the kitchen.
“Then what’s going on? Why are you sitting here on your ass while he’s still out there?”
“Don’t freak. Guillermo’s staking out his apartment. He went there once, he’ll be back.”
Vincent plopped down, a cloud of dust rising off the couch. He sighed and began speaking to Shamus like he was a fucking five year old.
“You know how important this is, right? The Elephant Crush is worth millions. But not with Miro alive. We can’t sell it if he’s alive. Do you think people are going to say ‘too bad they almost killed that guy to steal it but heck it’s really good weed so I don’t care’?”
Vincent was standing again, waving his hands in the air.
“I’ve already sent out the invitations for the opening. The caterer is catering. I’ve got twelve cases of fucking Prosecco in my office. Do you understand? People are coming and they’re going to want this weed.”
Vincent picked up the paper bag of buds and started waving it in Shamus’s face.
“If he’s alive we can’t sell it. If he’s dead, well, we’re carrying on his legacy. We’ll put his fucking picture on the label. But you’ve got to deal with this. You understand that, right?”
Shamus didn’t react. He muttered, “Yeah.”
Vincent lost his shit. He shouted.
“So why the collection of freaks and geeks in the bedroom?”
Shamus shrugged, it took every ounce of self-control not to jump up and put his knee so deep into Vincent’s groin that his balls would pop out his throat. You can’t yell at a man like that. He was done with this conversation. Maybe he was done with Vincent. Shamus folded his arms across his chest and tried to concentrate on the soccer game.
Vincent sighed, sat back down, and put his face in his hands.
“Just find him and put a bullet in his head. Please.”
39
THE EL RIO MOTEL on Colorado Boulevard, while having some distinctly off-ramp-adjacent charm, didn’t offer room service, so Miro and Marianna walked a couple of blocks down to Zankou Chicken while Guus went in the other direction to find a coffee shop with free Internet.
For Marianna, whose appetite had seemed to quadruple in the last week, the perfectly roasted chicken with mysterious Armenian spices and slathered with an ambrosial garlic sauce was the ideal food. Miro sat across from her in the plastic orange booth as she attacked her food. The nervousness she felt about seeing him again, about telling him she was pregnant, all of that had dissipated. He seemed genuinely interested in having some sort of relationship with her. This made her happy and if he didn’t walk around with a gun, she might even fall in love with him. But the nervousness she’d had was replaced by a sense of dread. On the walk over he had explained his gambit to her and why he needed the gun, and it was obvious to her that he was in over his head.
Marianna watched as he picked at his food.
“You forgot to keep a control.”
“What?”
“You ran an experiment without a control.”
Miro considered that.
“Okay.”
“So let’s analyze the situation. Take a different perspective. Figure out what is behind this.”
Miro nodded. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Think like a scientist. Logically. Why you were robbed is obvious.”
“Right.”
She continued. “And whoever stole your plants and seeds will want to grow them. Correct?”
He started to see where she was going with this.
“Or what’s the point?”
“So, they either have a greenhouse or they built one. This is a starting point. You must know people who grow marijuana, and the people who supply them with equipment and soil, things like that.”
Miro nodded. “Right. Of course
.”
“All you need to do is locate them and then call the authorities.”
Miro looked at her.
“The police?”
Marianna smiled at him sweetly.
“They already shot you once. That is a fact. We should trust the data and not let them shoot you again.”
She picked up a piece of chicken from his plate.
“Are you going to eat this?”
…
The house was rented to someone named Shamus Noriega, a crumb that had been arrested a couple of times for assault but nothing really serious. Criminal intelligence, the organized-crime guys, had a file on him but he was, as best anyone knew, unaffiliated with any known gang. He was, apparently, one of those under-the-radar operators that are hard to get a line on. Cho leaned against the hood of his unmarked police cruiser and watched as Quijano peeked in the windows of the little house in Atwater. The guy wasn’t there, that much was obvious.
Quijano came back shaking his head.
“It doesn’t look like a crumb lives there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, there’s like art on the walls and stuff. It’s kind of a nice place.”
Cho thought about it.
“There’s no way there’s two Shamus Noriegas.”
Quijano nodded.
“You want to sit on it?”
“I want to eat lunch.”
Cho pulled out his cell phone and made a call as he walked around to the passenger side of the car.
…
It was, Daniel realized, all part of God’s plan. Unlike the Baptists, Protestants, Catholics, or other Christianity-spouting organizations, Mormons don’t believe in original sin. They don’t think it’s fair that God would punish all mankind for eternity because of the actions of Adam and Eve. In fact, Mormons believe that mankind should be tested, that temptation, experience, and separation from God is an important way to learn about life. You gain knowledge from experience, from enduring trials and undergoing tribulations. That knowledge becomes wisdom and, with wisdom, you understand the difference between good and evil. That’s why the religions that valued purity and innocence—all those chaste nuns and celibate priests—those faiths were for chumps. Even the Amish kicked their teenagers out of the house and told them to watch reality television, get a hand job, drink a Budweiser, and smoke a couple packs of Marlboros before deciding whether or not to rejoin their community. You need a taste of the secular to know what’s sacred, although sitting in the back of Aimée’s limo he thought the secular was winning.
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