Baked

by Mark Haskell Smith

  Cho looked at the SWAT officers.

  “Any forty-fives?”

  “Not yet.”

  Cho nodded.

  “Let me know if you find one.”

  Cho walked out into the living room where Ted, the EMT fireman, sat on the couch rubbing his wrists. The two Mormons had already been interviewed and were now being driven to the emergency room for bone setting and psychiatric counseling. Apparently, the SWAT team’s dynamic entrance—bursting into the room screaming and pointing automatic rifles—had caused them to shit themselves. They wouldn’t be able to identify a picture of their mothers right now.

  Cho looked at the EMT.

  “So, Ted. Mind telling me how you ended up here?”

  Ted glared at Cho.

  “Doing your job.”

  Cho nodded; it was almost imperceptible, like he was agreeing with himself. It was an unconscious acknowledgment that, for whatever reason, Ted was going to be a hostile witness.

  “Thinking of applying to the LAPD?”

  Ted looked down at his wrists. They were red, rubbed raw by the duct tape. Cho handed him the photo from the herbal cooperative.

  “Recognize this guy?”

  Ted nodded.

  “Shamus Noriega.”

  Cho raised an eyebrow. He sat down next to Ted and pulled out his notebook.

  “Mind starting at the beginning?”

  …

  Daniel was floating in the outdoor Jacuzzi, letting the hot, bubbly water ease away the strain and muscle tension in his body from being yanked in opposite directions and suspended in the air. But he didn’t mind the aches and pains. He remembered reading about a monk who wore a cilice—generally a hair shirt but in his case a spiked metal belt worn around the upper thigh—to induce a “mortification of the flesh.” The idea being that if you denied yourself the experience of sensual pleasures your spirit would find God. Saint Paul said it best in Epistle to the Romans 8:13: “For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body you will live.”

  But Daniel didn’t think that was exactly true; maybe it was the truth for some people but for him he found just the opposite. Although, he had to admit, it would be difficult to explain to the bishop and other members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints how his mission, which had started off so disastrously, had become a success: it was leading him to find God.

  Daniel looked up as Aimée walked out of the house carrying a cup of herbal tea and headed through the manicured grove of bamboo and tropical ginger toward him. Daniel splashed his legs in the warm water.

  “You coming in?”

  Aimée smiled at him. She was excited about something.

  “I have an idea.”

  Daniel watched her sit on the edge of the Jacuzzi, folding her perfectly toned legs under her as she assumed a lotus position.

  “How would you like to come to Japan with me?”

  Daniel smiled.

  “When?”

  She touched his cheek.

  “Soon. Tomorrow or the next day.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Let me go get my stuff.”

  …

  Shamus sat in the passenger seat of his SUV. It was starting to get dark but that just made it easier to watch the small screen flickering in the dashboard. Shamus had made Guillermo wait inside the crappy apartment while he kept an eye on the entrance. It might be a while before the Mormon punk or that asshole pot grower showed up and there was no fucking way Shamus was going to hunker down in the debris and stench of that shit hole any longer.

  Shamus watched as Tony Montana planted his face into a massive pile of cocaine. It was his favorite scene in the movie. He could watch it on a loop and never get tired of it. He could relate to Tony Montana. They had a lot in common. Both were self-made men, both had raised themselves up from nothing, clawed their way to the top, become major players in their respective fields, and both had huevos as big as they come.

  As Tony Montana slumped in his chair and his mansion was overrun by his enemies, Shamus saw a lone bicyclist ride into the apartment building parking lot, lock his bike against a post, and head toward the apartment.

  Shamus turned back to the screen just in time to see Tony Montana pick up a giant fucking gun and start killing everybody in sight. Maybe that was the thing to do. Go rampaging. Do what the T-shirt said. Kill ’em all and let God sort it out. Good advice for troubled times.

  When Shamus crept up the stairs and entered the apartment, Daniel was already hog-tied on the floor and Guillermo was standing over him. Guillermo could barely conceal the pride he felt in roughing up the unsuspecting young Mormon. He turned to Shamus and grinned.

  “What took you so long?”

  …

  Detectives Cho and Quijano sat in on the interview and listened as Blanca Guardado, the recently arrested resident of a marijuana grow house, spilled her guts. Apparently her husband Bernardo was a slob and a grouch, a man who didn’t give her any money, never took her out, refused to help around the house, drank too much beer, was addicted to watching soccer on television, had the horrible habit of being a bed farter, and was an infrequent and inattentive lover. All of these faults and transgressions Blanca detailed in an unrelenting and rapid-fire Spanish that sounded to Cho like a newscast from hell. They had offered Blanca immunity from prosecution for her testimony and so far all they knew was that Bernardo was a pig and she was happy that he was in jail. Now her family would understand when she got a divorce.

  Cho had tried to make an immunity deal with Bernardo, but Bernardo knew that talking to the cops was a death sentence so he did what he was supposed to do and kept his mouth shut. Cho couldn’t tell if it was fear of his employers or if he was just happy to be away from Blanca.

  Blanca’s nonstop, interminable list of Bernardo’s domestic shortcomings exhausted Cho. He wanted testimony. He knew she knew something but it was buried under a mountain of resentment and petty grievances and he was starting to think she’d never get to it.

  And then, out of the blue, as if she sensed the detectives were losing their patience with her, like they might revoke their offer of immunity and put her back in that house with Bernardo, Blanca started naming names.

  …

  Miro couldn’t help himself. He parked near the market and got out of the car. Marianna looked at him.

  “What are we doing?”

  He smiled.

  “I want you to taste something.”

  She laughed.

  “Now?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Marianna climbed out of the car and followed him into the local market. He headed straight for the produce section. There, past pyramids of oranges and cantaloupes and ruby-red grapefruits, were several bins of plums and peaches and pluots grown somewhere in the southern hemisphere—New Zealand or Australia or Chile. Their prices reflected their travels.

  Miro selected the two that seemed the ripest.

  They ate them in the car. Marianna grinned and kissed him, letting the juice from the fruit run down her chin.

  “What did you call these?”

  “Pluots. It’s a hybrid. Three quarters plum and one quarter apricot. This was my inspiration. Where it all started.”

  She smiled at him.

  “It’s better than any plum or apricot I’ve ever tasted.”

  Miro smiled back.

  “It’s greater than the sum of its parts.”

  Marianna sucked on the seed and reached out for him.

  “Like a baby.”

  …

  Shamus saw it first. A squad car was parked in front of the grow house with two uniforms standing next to it. Streamers of crime-scene tape festooned the open door as crime-scene–evidence guys hauled the marijuana plants out of the house and loaded them into a truck.

  “Fuck.”

  Guillermo started to speed up. Shamus grabbed his arm.

  “Slow down, man. Don’t draw atten
tion.”

  Guillermo shot a look in the rearview.

  “We got to get the fuck out of here.”

  “Get the fuck out of here calmly. They don’t know it’s us.”

  “They got Bernardo.”

  Shamus watched the cops. They were busy scurrying around, dismantling everything.

  “Vincent is gonna shit.”

  Guillermo looked at him.

  “What’ll we do with the kid?”

  Shamus shrugged.

  “Fuck if I know.”

  …

  Miro heard a knock at the door and quickly pulled the gun out from under the mattress. Marianna looked at him, unsure what to do. Miro nodded his head toward the bathroom, trying telepathically to get her to hide. She understood and tiptoed in, closing the door silently behind her.

  Miro crept up to the front door.

  “Who is it?”

  He heard a familiar voice.

  “Guus.”

  He opened the door and let Guus into the room. Guus looked around as Miro closed the door behind him, threw the dead bolt, and set the chain.

  “Where’s Marianna?”

  Miro spoke to the bathroom door.

  “It’s Guus.”

  Marianna stepped out of the bathroom. She took one look at Guus’s sunburned head and gasped.

  “You need some lotion.”

  She went back in and came out with a tube.

  Miro looked at Guus.

  “It’s pretty bad.”

  Guus touched his head.

  “It’ll fade to a nice tan in a day or two.”

  Marianna laughed.

  “Until you start peeling.”

  Marianna handed him the lotion and Guus sat in a chair and rubbed some on his skin.

  “This feels good. Thank you.”

  Miro sat on the bed, tucking the gun back under the pillows—it seemed to make everyone, including him, uncomfortable. It was a reminder that they were in danger, that life is short, that he might have to use it and kill someone.

  “I think we found where they were growing the Elephant Crush.”

  Guus leaned forward.

  “Really?”

  Miro nodded.

  “But the police found it at the same time.”

  Guus frowned.

  “That is unfortunate.”

  “Yeah, to put it mildly.”

  Marianna sat next to Miro and they instinctively held hands.

  “But we’re not one hundred percent sure that it was the right place.”

  “We’re seventy-five percent sure.”

  “So that’s the end of the Elephant Crush?”

  Miro sighed. It depressed him to think that all his work was now for nothing.

  “Looks like it.”

  Guus clapped his hands together.

  “Well, then there’s nothing to do but go to a party.”

  Guus handed the invitation for the Compassion Center grand opening to Miro.

  “We must not sit around feeling sorry for ourselves.”

  Miro read the invitation and looked at Guus.

  “Holy shit.”

  43

  THE PROSECCO was on ice, the caterers were bustling about setting up serving stations, the florist had delivered several large arrangements, Compassion Center staff were polishing the bongs and putting a variety of cannabis in glass display jars, and Vincent was doing the most important job: grinding up some of the precious Elephant Crush bud in preparation for vaporization. He thought about rolling a joint and smoking it right then and there but realized he wanted to wait and make sure everything was perfect before blazing. He’d light up after the party was swinging.

  He saw Shamus in his peripheral vision, standing by the door to the office in the back of the store. Shamus didn’t say anything, he just motioned for Vincent to follow him. Vincent carefully put the Elephant Crush buds back into their large glass jar and followed Shamus into the office.

  The office was small, just enough room for a desk with a computer and some cabinets for storing inventory. Guillermo leaned against the wall, his arm slung over a stack of cardboard boxes filled with rolling papers and glass pipes, looking like the badass he thought he was. This didn’t surprise Vincent, he was used to the ridiculous posturing of Shamus’s hirelings. What did surprise him was the young man tied up and gagged, lying on the floor.

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  Shamus started to answer but Vincent interrupted him.

  “Wait. More important. What the fuck is he doing here? When you came in, did you notice anything different? Like maybe today’s a special day? Like, I don’t know, we’re having a grand fucking opening? There’s going to be a hundred people here in about an hour.”

  Shamus ignored Vincent’s sarcasm.

  “The grow house got raided.”

  Five simple words. Five words that made Vincent’s heart stop for a beat or two. The single worst sentence Vincent had ever heard in his life.

  Shamus ran a hand over his scalp and looked at the kid on the floor.

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Vincent needed to sit down. He could feel his knees giving out. His heart rate soared and he began hyperventilating. He perched on the edge of the desk and tried to catch his breath.

  “What happened?”

  Shamus cleared his throat.

  “We were staking out the guy’s apartment, that’s where we found him.” He nudged the bound Mormon with his foot before continuing.

  “And when we took him back to the grow house, the cops were there.”

  “But how?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Maybe they just got lucky.”

  Guillermo tossed in his opinion.

  “Maybe there’s a rat.”

  Vincent ignored him.

  “They take the plants?”

  Shamus nodded.

  “I couldn’t get too close but it looked like they got everything.”

  Vincent couldn’t help it. He erupted in a spasm of anger that made his body actually levitate for a second.

  “Fuck!”

  Vincent sat back on the desk and let his head hang. He literally felt like he couldn’t go on, like his life force had, momentarily, left his body and taken the fire exit out of the building.

  “So that’s it. We’re fucked.”

  The three men stood there, letting the weight of Vincent’s words sink in, feeling a submersion in the reality of what it’s like being totally fucked.

  Guillermo shook his head. “Man. This sucks.”

  Guillermo’s comment flipped a switch in Vincent. His energy returned, charged by a fresh surge of pure uncut rage.

  “Miro. That motherfucker. He’s the rat. I know it.”

  Shamus shook his head.

  “He can’t find his dick.”

  Vincent glared at Shamus.

  “You can’t find your dick. Your incompetence is unbelievable.”

  “What?”

  “If you’d just done your job, none of this would’ve happened.”

  Shamus’s face flushed red and he struggled to contain the sudden urge to beat Vincent senseless.

  “You screwed the pooch. Fucked the dog. You couldn’t shoot straight. Then you couldn’t find him.”

  The picture was becoming clear to Vincent. He stood up to say something more, but tripped over the kid tied up on the floor.

  “And why? Please tell me why on Earth do you keep kidnapping people? Do you have some kind of compulsive disorder? Are you a kidnapaholic? Do you need to go to some kind of program?”

  Shamus didn’t say anything. Vincent looked at Guillermo, then back to Shamus.

  “What a fucking mess.”

  He was about to say more when there was a knock at the door. Vincent opened it a crack and saw the caterer standing there.

  “We’ve got a pretty good crowd out there. Shall we start passing the hors d’oeuvres?”

  …

  “We’re going to a party at a pot
club?”

  “It won’t be much of a party after we arrive.”

  Quijano looked suddenly nervous.

  “Do we need backup?”

  Cho rolled his eyes and looked at Quijano.

  “It’s a simple arrest. Do you really want to get the Santa Monica PD involved? The paperwork alone is a nightmare, not to mention those guys are dicks.”

  Quijano nodded and looked out the window.

  “If we’re going all the way to the west side, can we get some sushi? I mean, we got time and there’s a good place on Sawtelle.”

  “You kidding? I can’t afford sushi.”

  “This place is reasonable.”

  “Reasonable sushi?”

  Quijano looked at him.

  “I thought Koreans ate sushi.”

  Koreans do eat sushi. Sashimi, too. But Cho had two kids who would be going to college one of these days and a wife who wanted a real vacation, so he tried to spend less than five dollars on lunch. It was his version of a retirement plan. This explained his fondness for eating out of trucks.

  “It’s not that. Let’s just go and get this guy first and then we can go out somewhere you want to go.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “You pick.”

  Quijano rubbed his hands together.

  “I’m taking you to a place that makes the best hand rolls in town.”

  …

  Miro drove. He still couldn’t believe Vincent was behind this but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Vincent was greedy. And greed was always a good motivator.

  As he got off the freeway and began winding through the pristine streets of Santa Monica, Miro realized that he’d never really liked Vincent. Vincent just gave off a bad vibe. He was like a morning glory vine, nice to look at, seemingly pretty, but underneath the purple flowers were roots that spread over everything, a parasite feeding off of other plants, slowly choking the life out of them. He was a danger to the entire cannabis community.

  It occurred to Miro that the simplest way out of the situation would be to kill Vincent, just put a bullet in him and be done with it. It was kind of like pruning. You snip off the bad growth and the plant becomes healthier. It was the first time that homicide made sense to him. Perhaps that’s how the guy who shot him had thought.