Baked
Page 20
But while this made sense to Daniel—it seemed reasonable enough—some of the other strictures, the prohibitions against masturbation and oral sex, seemed to counter the other teachings. Why wouldn’t the church want someone to experience carnal bliss? Wasn’t there wisdom to be found in being bound, shaved, and sucked off? Where was the sin in that? Why was it considered unclean? Who was it hurting?
Daniel found some reassurance in the fact that the burrito, the godhead of food, was also tightly bound. If Daniel was honest, if he was having one of those heart to hearts with the bishop, he’d have to say that being bound by Aimée was the closest he’d come to a religious experience. Not all the classes, sermons, or prayers in the world could compare. Instead of making him doubt the existence of God, he discovered that there was a moment, right after he came, when he actually felt proof of the existence of a higher power.
Only God could make something so profound.
…
Miro and Marianna stood in the middle of the store admiring the various hydroponic gardening systems, computerized drip irrigation setups, and the wide variety of fertilizers—both chemical and organic—on offer. The shop, tucked away in a strip mall in Koreatown, was the biggest supplier of indoor-farming equipment in Los Angeles. Miro had always liked the store’s vibe. With warm bamboo floors, Japanese koto music plinking and bending its ting-tong sound from speakers, banzai trees in slate-colored planters, and shelves of books about indoor gardening, it was a cross between a high-end gadget boutique and a garden-supply store.
Takashi Goldberg, a middle-aged Japanese man wearing jeans, bright red clogs, and a Hives T-shirt, came out of the back room with a computer printout. He was the city’s leading expert in all matters of cannabis cultivation and had written several books on the subject.
Takashi looked at the printout.
“There’re only two big operations I’ve sold to in the last month. One was a couple of college kids from Occidental.”
“Probably not who I’m looking for.”
Takashi hesitated before handing the paper to Miro.
“Look, Miro. I’m only doing this because we’re friends and, as a friend, well, why don’t you just call it a day? You don’t want to mess with these guys.”
Miro cocked an eyebrow.
“Gang?”
“Ganglike. I don’t know. But you heard about what they did to Barbara?”
A chill ran down Miro’s spine.
“What happened?”
“They shot her place up. Killed the security guard. Stole all of your stuff.”
“My stuff?”
Takashi nodded.
“They took your Cup-winning weed. Nothing else. Not even the cash box.”
Miro stood there, trying to process this. It had been part of his plan to agitate the bad guys but he hadn’t thought anyone would get killed.
“Fuck.”
Takashi put his hand on Miro’s shoulder.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Miro didn’t know what to do so Marianna reached out and gently took the paper from Takashi.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him do anything stupid.”
…
Quijano handed a paper plate dripping with pork fat and chilies through the window to Cho. Quijano shook his head.
“What happened to your ‘eat healthy’ plan?” he asked.
“This is healthy.”
Quijano went around and got in the passenger seat.
“Right.”
“What did you get?”
“Nopalito burrito.”
“You eat cactus?”
Quijano nodded.
“They taste like green beans.”
Cho bit into the first taco, taking half of it into his mouth, tasting the explosion of salt and pork and chilies and limes, and was just about to stuff the rest of the taco in his mouth when Quijano elbowed him in the ribs.
“What?”
Quijano jerked his head in the direction of the truck. Cho turned his head and saw what looked like Elder Daniel Lamb, young Mormon missionary and shooting-victim bedside sitter, stepping out of a sleek black Lincoln Town Car, pulling on an apron, and entering the taco truck.
Cho swallowed.
“What the fuck?”
“The Mormon kid?”
“Gotta be.”
“Know any taco jockeys that come to work in a limo?”
Cho looked at Quijano.
“Now this is interesting. Let’s run the plates.”
…
Guus sat across the booth from the couple: the man was in his midfifties, looked like a hip music producer, and kept a porkpie hat stuck over his bald spot at all times; his girlfriend was a woman who apparently collected low-cut vintage dresses that were suddenly back in fashion after fifty years. The couple were hashish traders and had a loose-knit network of growers, manufacturers, and dealers scattered across the globe from Malawi to Chang Mai to Islamabad. Guus’s coffee shop did a lot of business with them.
They sat, each of them drinking chocolate milkshakes and eating cheeseburgers, in a hipster diner in Los Feliz, shouting to be heard over a soundtrack that blasted everything from old Roxy Music to new TV on the Radio.
The hashish trader slurped his milkshake and smiled at Guus.
“I imagine you’re here for the grand opening.”
Guus pushed his glasses up.
“I’m here to visit a friend.”
The woman leaned forward, her cleavage yawning open like it was about to consume the pile of french fries.
“They’ve got your Cannabis Cup winner.”
Guus coughed.
“What?”
The man chewed his cheeseburger and swallowed.
“The Compassion Center. They’re opening a fancy new weed shop.”
The woman reached into her purse and pulled out an expensive-looking invitation.
“We can’t make it. You should go.”
Guus took the invitation and flipped it around in his hands. Sure enough, it announced a special exclusive first taste of the Cannabis Cup–winning Elephant Crush. Guus was especially irked that they’d put a little trademark sign after the Elephant Crush name.
…
Daniel sat in the back of the limo and touched the seat where he’d lost his virginity. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He replayed his deflowering over and over in his mind, recalling the sensations, the smells, the tastes, and the vision of her pilates-tight body stretched out before him. These daydreams made him weak in the knees, gave his skin goose bumps, and generally distracted him from his burrito-rolling duties on the taco truck. Lenny had noticed that he was not himself—Daniel’s hands had been moist all day, causing some of his burritos to lack their usual structural integrity—and had let him take off early, right after the lunch rush.
Aimée had arranged for her driver to pick Daniel up and bring him to her house after his shift. It was not the usual way taco-truck employees commuted to work.
The anticipation of an afternoon with her had knotted his stomach and created a sublime tension buzzing around inside his body. He had even gotten an erection while he made a burrito for her.
He felt the burrito, still warm, nestled in his lap. His penis started to grow again. He couldn’t help it.
…
They had waited until the lunch hour was over, then watched the limo return for Daniel. A check of the vehicle registration just showed that the car was owned by a limousine company. It didn’t surprise them but it did make them even more curious.
It’s easy to follow a limousine. It’s not like they can hide in traffic or are fast enough to lose an experienced tail. As they drove, Quijano looked over at Cho.
“Pretend I’m stupid. Remind me why we’re following this misfit.”
Cho thought about it. He also thought about rolling down his window because he was about to let some gas escape from his body and wasn’t sure how it would smell.
“Last time we saw him, h
e was riding a bike, hanging out with Miro Basinas. Now he’s rollin’ in a limo. I’d say something’s fishy here. But even if he just struck it rich, I bet he and Miro will meet up at some point.”
“But shouldn’t we find the shooter?”
“The shooter’s looking for Miro. Maybe he’ll do us a favor and make an appearance.”
Quijano rolled down his window.
“Light a match motherfucker.”
Cho smiled. He didn’t know why, but farts were funny. They always got a laugh. Cho thought it was strange how flatulence embarrassed people. It was a completely natural function of a healthy body. Why was it so taboo? He blamed the church. Christianity was built on the notion that people were made in God’s image. But would God fart like a donkey? Did Jesus cut the cheese? And if they did, what would heavenly gas smell like? An ambrosial potpourri or the sulphuric stench of a volcano?
They followed the limo until it stopped in front of an iron gate. They drove past and slowed. Cho checked the rear-view and watched as the gate opened and the limo drove in.
“Who do you think lives there?”
“Let’s ask the magic Ouija board.”
Quijano typed some information into the computer mounted in the car and got a quick response.
“Aimée LeClerq.”
“The singer?”
Quijano nodded.
“That’s what the county records show. She owns the house. I’ve no idea if she’s actually inside.”
Cho stroked his goatee. He was puzzled. This, as the robot from Lost in Space so wisely said, did not compute.
“What would a nice Mormon boy want with a woman like that?”
Quijano looked over at him.
“You really want me to answer that?”
Cho’s cell phone rang. He answered and then immediately reached for a pencil and his notepad to write something down.
40
MIRO AND MARIANNA stopped at Lenny’s taco truck. Miro needed to tell Daniel about the apartment and warn him not to go back for a while. Mostly he wished the young missionary had a cell phone. Lenny smiled when he saw Miro. He reached his hand out the window of the truck and gave him a warm handshake.
“You look great.”
“Thanks, Lenny.”
Lenny leaned forward, putting his face in the window. He smiled when he saw Marianna.
“This your girlfriend?”
Miro nodded.
“Yeah. Marianna, meet Lenny.”
Marianna smiled.
“Hi.”
Lenny grinned.
“You hungry?”
Before Marianna could answer, Miro looked at Lenny.
“I’m looking for the kid.”
Lenny spread his hands.
“It was slow today. He just left.”
Miro looked down the street.
“Maybe I can catch him.”
Lenny laughed.
“He’s not on his bike. A limo came and picked him up.”
Miro couldn’t help it. He cocked his head like a quizzical beagle.
“En serio?”
Lenny laughed again, a big booming chortle.
“Totally, man.”
“If you see him, have him call me. It’s important.”
Lenny nodded, then looked at Marianna.
“You sure you’re not hungry?”
Marianna pointed to the menu painted on the side of the truck.
“Could I get a taco?”
…
“Can you help me?”
Ted was still on his back on the floor. He lifted his hands up, reaching toward the missionaries.
“Please.”
The two Mormons just sat on the bed and stared at him.
“Come on. Use your free hand and undo the tape.”
The older of the missionaries shook his head.
“No way.”
“Untie me and then I’ll help you get those cuffs off.”
“How?”
“I’ll think of something. We can undo the bed. Or I can run and get help.”
The older missionary started to lean forward, then hesitated. The younger one, the one with the broken arm, looked alarmed.
“Don’t. We don’t know this guy. He may be tied up here ’cos he’s a killer or something.”
Ted sighed and dropped his hands.
“I’m not a killer.”
“How would we know?”
Ted couldn’t help it, even though it hurt he rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, and you guys are terrorists.”
“No, we’re not.”
They almost said it in unison.
“How would I know? You’re locked in here, too. So we must all be bad guys.”
The older missionary reached a leg out and gave Ted a sharp kick in the head.
“Shut up.”
Ted winced and made a silent vow to get even with the little fucker if he ever got the chance. But he didn’t snap at them; he was hoping reason and logic might prevail.
“Look. I don’t know what’s going on but I know that they killed a friend of mine and they’re probably going to kill us. We need to find a way out of here.”
The younger Mormon shook his head.
“If God wants us to escape, he’ll provide a way.”
Ted wanted to shout at them, tell them they were fucking idiots, that there was no God and even if there was it’s not like God is fucking Houdini, but he remembered his grandmother’s admonition that you catch more flies with sugar than vinegar. He needed to stay calm and sweet-talk them into trusting him. He took a deep breath.
“Right. And maybe that’s what’s going on here. God wants you to untie me so I can untie you and we can flee.”
Ted looked up at the two young men, trying for a sincere and earnest expression. There was no response from them, like they’d suddenly entered a catatonic state. They weren’t looking at him; instead they’d turned their eyes up to the ceiling.
Ted waited for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time. Finally he whispered.
“What are you doing?”
The older of the Missionaries looked down at him.
“Waiting for a sign.”
…
When you ransack a place, you don’t normally plan on coming back and hanging out; there was no place to sit except on a shredded mattress, and the place now had a cheese stink from the carton of milk Guillermo had poured on the floor. Not that anyone thought there was something hidden in the milk carton, but fucking things up and making a mess was just part of the fun.
Guillermo shoved some ripped-up pillows and blankets against the wall and sat down while Shamus took the mattress, finished cutting it in half and then piled the pieces on top of each other.
“This fucking sucks, dude.”
Shamus didn’t say anything. It would get dark soon, and then it would really suck. Guillermo reached into a paper bag of In-N-Out burgers and began eating.
“You want one?”
Shamus shook his head.
Guillermo chewed.
“You think he’ll come back?”
Shamus glared at Guillermo.
“Don’t be a dick.”
Guillermo nearly choked on his burger.
“What did I do?”
“You let him get away.”
“It’s not my fault that dude came to your place. And besides, if you’d left me with a car, I could’ve followed them.”
Guillermo was right, Vincent was right, everybody was fucking right except him. Shamus turned to Guillermo.
“Shut up.”
…
Detectives Cho and Quijano sat in their pale-blue Crown Vic a few houses down from a drab, gray-and-white tract house in an area that was remarkable in its unremarkability. It was a neighborhood gone to seed. While every house looked the same, more or less—not wealthy, not even upper-middle-class, but solidly suburban with large trees and picket fences and pickup trucks in the driveways—there was the rusting evidence of form
er vitality: corroded swing sets sagged in overgrown backyards and abandoned basketball hoops festooned with tattered remnants of rotted netting leaned over cracked driveways.
It was fucking depressing.
Cho almost said it out loud but then he remembered Quijano lived in Sunland, a neighborhood kind of like this one; the only difference was that Quijano took care of his house and had a couple of Jet Skis in his driveway.
Quijano rolled down the window and launched a loogie into the street.
“Not what I was expecting.”
Cho looked over at Quijano. He sometimes forgot that his partner was new: he’d only been a detective for a year and still needed to learn a thing or two.
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know. Bars on the windows, Dobermans, something badass. I keep expecting granny to cool a pie on the windowsill.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait until SWAT gets here with the search warrant.”
Cho saw a message coming through on the computer system and leaned forward. As they read the message, neither Cho nor Quijano noticed an older diesel Mercedes-Benz drive slowly past, leaving a trail of exhaust that smelled faintly like tempura.
…
Miro noticed a few things as he went past the house. He saw that the back windows were covered by aluminum foil, not, presumably, to keep light out, but to keep light in. Neighbors would notice if you had grow lights blazing until three or four in the morning. He also caught a glimpse of a large pile of organic compost mounded in the backyard. Typical of weekend gardeners but also a must for indoor farming. He rolled down the window and sniffed the air. His nose had found the wild-growing Hawaiian Indica in the national park and he’d smelled villagers smoking their homegrown sativa in Thailand. He thought, just for a moment, that he caught a whiff of mango-scented marijuana but wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him.