Miro looked over at Marianna. She was smiling. She knew they were in danger; she knew his whole world had come crashing down like a giant burning zeppelin but she was still cheerful. He liked that about her.
He looked in the rearview and saw Guus. The Dutchman wasn’t happy. He wasn’t smiling. He was pensive, chewing on his thumbnail. Guus looked in the rearview and his eyes met Miro’s.
“Do you think you can do it again?”
“What?”
“The strain. Could you replicate it?”
Miro shrugged his shoulders.
“No. But maybe I could make something better.”
…
That was the problem with bosses. That was what pissed Shamus off more than anything else. They didn’t think things through. They just bossed people around and then yelled like a spoiled teenage girl if things didn’t work out the way they wanted. Sure things were fucked up. It happened. You didn’t have to start acting like a punk-ass bitch.
It occurred to Shamus that he should open his own medical marijuana dispensary—maybe he’d call it Farmacia Noriega—and he could become the go-to place for fancy pot. Why should he let Vincent take all the glory? Wasn’t it time he stopped working for other people?
…
Vincent’s jaw hurt from keeping his smile stretched out on his face like a fucking southern belle in a beauty pageant, but that’s what he had to do. The damage had been done and he had a party to host.
It was surprising how crowded the store got even with only forty or fifty people milling about, drinking bubbly, eating hors d’oeuvres, and passing around plastic balloons filled with Elephant Crush vapor.
His employees, wearing crisp polo shirts with a redesigned Compassion Center logo, ground and vaporized the cannabis, the caterer’s crew scurried through the crowd, the constant pop of Prosecco corks punctuated the air, and the thud of a mix tape kept the conversation louder than it needed to be. Through it all, Vincent smiled. He shook hands, he hugged, and he air-kissed the botoxed and surgically-stretched cheeks of the west-side elite. He was trying to put a positive spin on the disaster. Maybe it wasn’t such a fucking mess. If all the Elephant Crush he had went up in smoke, he could announce that the entire crop had been confiscated by the police and it was no longer available. The reigning champion, the Cannabis Cup–winner would be extinct in an hour or two. In other words, this party was an epic, once-in-a-lifetime event. His customers would never forget it; it would be a defining moment in their lives and they’d tell their grandchildren about the night they smoked the Elephant Crush. They were some of the luckiest people in the world. Vincent realized that he’d started this to make history but, instead, he was going to become a legend. This would make the Compassion Center even more famous than if he actually had the cannabis for sale. It was victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. It was genius.
Of course there were some niggling details left to work out. Some loose ends to tie up. Vincent was sure Miro suspected that he was behind the shooting. That could make for an uncomfortable moment if they ran into each other. But then, Miro had no proof. Unless Shamus suddenly started talking, it was all just speculation, hearsay, and bullshit that Vincent could deny. Vincent made a mental note to get someone to put an end to Shamus. That was a problem that needed solving, sooner rather than later.
44
THE SMELL OF mangoes hit him in the face as he walked in the door. It was unmistakably Elephant Crush. Miro knew it instantly, the way a parent recognizes his kid in a crowded playground. He turned toward Marianna and could see that she recognized it, too.
Guus was already moving through the crowd, looking for Vincent, ready to do, well, Miro wasn’t sure what they were going to do. He’d never had an evil nemesis before. Was he going to punch Vincent in the nose? Stand on the table and denounce him? Miro was torn between taking out his gun and shooting Vincent—which carried some severe consequences like a long prison term—or wagging his finger at him, which seemed kind of lame.
He took Marianna’s hand and pulled her through a clump of well-heeled stoners: women in clingy dresses and men in business suits who looked like agents from some Century City talent agency. A waiter offered him a glass of wine. Miro declined it with a shake of his head but when he felt Marianna stop and tug on his hand he turned and saw her popping a spring roll into her mouth.
There was a group of people by the back counter passing a balloon filled with mist. They were very animated, waving their hands around and loudly proclaiming it the best cannabis they’d ever smoked.
Behind them was Vincent. He was standing behind the counter next to a Volcano vaporizer, schmoozing his guests like a cheesy Vegas emcee.
There was a shout, then a noise like the sound of smashing glass. And then there was some bald Latino guy with a gun, pointing it at Guus.
Miro was surprised that no one was screaming. The crowd had stopped talking but they weren’t reacting; they were just watching. It was an LA thing.
…
Shamus was still seething. Pissed off with himself, with Vincent, with the whole fucking mess. This job should be mellow. It was basically a pick-up-and-delivery kind of life. Run the occasional errand. He shouldn’t feel stressed out all the time. Shamus figured it was Vincent. There was something about him that just made everything a little more intense, more personal, than it needed to be.
Shamus looked at Guillermo.
“Fuck this shit. I’m done.”
Guillermo looked down at the Mormon kid hog-tied on the floor.
“What about this guy?”
Shamus looked at the kid.
“Fuck it. Let Vincent deal with him.”
Shamus walked out of the office. Guillermo followed.
Shamus was impressed by the turnout. You’d think a guy like Vincent would be happy that he had so many customers and clients. It was like a fucking fan club. Shamus grabbed a glass of Prosecco and tossed it back, only to have the bubbles rebel and race back up his throat into his nose. He made a face. This shit was disgusting.
Shamus walked up behind Vincent just in time to see some sunburned motherfucker in a leather jacket grab the big glass jar with the last remaining buds of Elephant Crush. He was shouting at Vincent with a funny accent, calling him a thief.
Then the guy slammed the glass jar into the floor, sending shards flying. That was enough for Shamus. He wasn’t in the mood to fuck around. He pulled out his gun.
“Get the fuck out of here. Right now.”
But the guy didn’t move. He just stared at Vincent. He looked at Shamus. He was polite—cool considering the handgun pointed at his head.
“I’m talking to Vincent.”
And that’s when Shamus saw Miro standing in the crowd.
…
There are all kinds of rules and regulations you have to follow when you work in law enforcement. Especially when you work for the LAPD. You’re supposed to do everything you can to avoid having to make the dreaded “shots fired” report. The easiest way to do this is to not fire any shots. But sometimes that’s unavoidable.
Cho and Quijano flashed their badges at the Compassion Center doorman. Cho even smirked when the guy told them it was a private party, like that would keep them out.
It was a swell party. Lots of successful Caucasians smoking weed, acting like they were on a day trip to Amsterdam. Cho was surprised to see Miro. He’d never expected to see him again—unless he turned up dead in Griffith Park—but there he was, pushing his way through the crowd.
It was at this very moment that Cho had the realization that maybe his wife was right: he’d been on the job too long, he needed a change of pace. Maybe he needed to have a life where he’d be surprised more often. But Cho knew that wasn’t the case. He didn’t need to make a change. He was just good at his job. That’s all. It was like he could see the connections before they were real; when it came to criminals and human psychology, it was like he wore a permanent pair of X-Ray Specs.
Then there was a
shout, a crash, and he saw Shamus Noriega pointing his .45 at some sunburned guy in a leather jacket.
…
Daniel thought of Colossians 3:5. Greed is a form of idolatry. If Paul the Apostle had seen what was going on in the Compassion Center, he probably would’ve e-mailed a copy to the two kidnappers and their boss. Not that they would read it. He knew what their problem was: they were idolizing the cannabis plant because it could make them rich. They were exploiting God’s gift, turning away from the spiritual and focused only on what the money from the sale of the plants could buy them. It wouldn’t buy them happiness, that was for sure, not like the happiness to be found in a tightly wrapped burrito or having your body restrained by soft cotton ropes. All they were going to get was misery, bad karma, and a oneway ticket to hell.
Daniel shifted, the ropes were looser than the ones Aimée tied and the amateurish square knots gave him enough play to reach up and take the gag off his mouth. He could hear a party in progress just beyond the door. They wouldn’t kill him if people saw him, unless they were a bunch of vampires or something weird and then, well, then nothing was going to save him.
Daniel managed to get the rope linking his hands and feet together untied and was able to stand. His wrists and ankles were still bound, but he could hop, and twist a door-knob, and that’s exactly what he did.
…
The Compassion Center’s doorman hadn’t bothered to frisk Miro, hadn’t checked to see if he had a gun or a knife or a cell phone or a baseball bat hidden in his jacket; all he did was look at the invitation that Guus presented and wave them in.
Miro hadn’t actually been planning to pull out his gun, he had just brought it along because he figured that’s what you do when you confront your nemesis—you bring all the firepower you had. This assumption was based more on watching too many TV shows and movies than anything else. But when he saw the bald guy pointing a gun at Guus he decided maybe he should show his gun, too. Miro would be the first to admit that he was terrified. His hands were sweaty and trembling, his stomach was in knots, and his bowels were urging to be emptied into his pants. But he had to do something. Would Floyd Zaiger let his friends get murdered?
Miro reached behind his back, whipped his handgun out, and promptly sent it skittering across the floor. He lunged to get it just as the bald guy turned and fired.
For the second time in his life, Miro felt a burning hot bullet tear through his body.
…
Cho heard the shot and reacted. He and Quijano both drew their guns. Cho shouted the required warning.
“Police. Drop your weapons.”
But Shamus Noriega didn’t drop his weapon; instead he turned and pointed it at the detectives. That’s when Cho noticed another guy, the guy he recognized as Mr. Magoo, the AK-47-wielding numbskull from the herbal cooperative shooting, pointing a handgun at him.
There’s that cliche you hear sometimes, about how when something bad happens, like when you’re in a car accident or if you fall off a ladder while you’re cleaning the gutters on your roof, time stands still. It was like that for Cho. Nobody was pulling the trigger, no bullets were flying through the air. Time was standing still.
While Cho considered the possibilities of pulling the trigger and bringing a quick cessation of life to Mr. Noriega, Quijano had Mr. Magoo in his sights. Unfortunately, the crumbs had taken a reciprocal approach. If Cho shot Shamus then Magoo would shoot Quijano, or vice versa. No matter who shot first, someone would take one for the team and that really wasn’t the way it was supposed to go down according to the police manual. Compounding this was the fact that there were forty or fifty innocent bystanders packed in around them. That meant one stray bullet, one misplaced shot, might kill someone who, from the looks of them, was either a high-powered lawyer or had access to one. This, as the city attorney would say, was a colossal clusterfuck in the making. It was the first time Cho had ever found himself in what is commonly called a Mexican standoff. If he looked it up in Merriam-Webster, Cho would find an accurate and eloquent definition: “a situation in which no one emerges a clear winner.”
Which summed it up pretty well.
Cho didn’t know if Miro was dead or not, but he could hear someone urgently muttering something in what sounded like Portuguese.
Cho wondered what the odds were that he and Quijano would pull their triggers simultaneously.
…
Guus was beginning to get a bad impression of the United States. What was this obsession with guns? Why couldn’t these people behave like normal businessmen? It was too uncivilized, too cowboy for him. And what about the people? Why weren’t they running? Shouldn’t they be screaming for help on the streets? But they weren’t. They were watching—some still chewing appetizers, some sipping their wine—like it was a drama staged for their benefit.
Guus backed away from the line of fire and felt a young woman in some kind of vintage dress press up against him. It was not an unpleasant sensation. He wondered if Miro was alive.
…
Vincent’s brain was churning, trying to figure out how to put a positive spin on this mess. The party would now be remembered as the scene of a shooting. People might be afraid to come into the store now. He’d have to offer specials, cut-rate deals, and other promotions just to keep the business alive. Or maybe not. Maybe this would make the story even better. He just couldn’t tell anymore. It was too complicated.
He looked over and saw a woman hold her glass out to the caterer for a refill. The caterer had not, obviously, thought this through. She pulled a cold bottle of Prosecco from the ice and popped the cork. The loud pop of gas escaping a bottle of sparkling wine from Italy coincided with Daniel’s desperate hop, skip, and jump as he came careening out of the office.
Then the shooting began.
Two Bullets
45
MARIANNA LOOKED as if she was about to burst. Her belly was enormous and round, jutting out in front of her and above her pants like an impossibly cantilevered blob. Miro held her hand as they left the midwife center, the verloskundigen praktijk, and strolled down Kerkweg, crossed the river where the street turned into Aardamsweg, and continued toward the bus station. His left arm was still sore from where he’d been shot but the bone had healed—with the helpful installation of a metal plate and a few screws—and he was able to use it as long as he was careful. He carried a copy of Hello!, the British celebrity magazine. There was a picture of Aimée and Daniel in Tokyo on the cover with the headline “Cougar and her Cub” splashed across the picture in bright red.
Marianna smiled at him.
“So, a girl.”
Miro smiled back.
“I hope she looks like you.”
“What do you want to name her?”
Miro grinned.
“Sativa.”
Marianna shook her head.
“You’ve been working too hard. Or smoking too much.”
“Lots of girls are named after flowers.”
“Then how about Daisy?”
Miro considered it.
“I like it.”
He took the scarf from his neck and wrapped it around her collar, hoping to keep her warm in the blustery Amsterdam wind, and planted a kiss on her lips. She smiled.
“I’m starved. Let’s get some lunch.”
Miro shook his head.
“I’ll take you out to dinner, but I have to go back to the lab. Guus and I are onto something amazing. In fact, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Marianna smiled.
“Can you tell me? Or is it top secret?”
Miro leaned close to her and spoke in a whisper.
“It’s got variegated leaves.”
“Variegated?”
“It’s got stripes.”
Marianna smiled.
“Cool.”
“I think it’ll be really good, too. I still need to work through another generation, see if I can stabilize it. But it’ll definitely be ready for this year’s Cup.
”
She kissed him.
“What are you calling this one?”
Miro smiled.
“Zebra Crush.”
…
Cho sent all the paperwork to the district attorney, to the Police Oversight Commission, to everyone who was supposed to get something from him. His report was pretty clear; all the loose ends were tied up. Ballistics matched Shamus Noriega’s gun to Miro’s shooting, the painter in the river, the EMT in her apartment, and the security guard at the West Hollywood herbal cooperative. They also matched it to a couple of random killings stretching back over the last six years.
Cho wished that he hadn’t been forced to kill Noriega but what could he do? Two shots from Cho’s gun had put a stop to more than just Shamus Noriega’s heart. It also put a stop to any prosecution against Vincent. With Shamus dead, there was no evidence to tie the owner of the Compassion Center to the grow house or the shootings, and Mr. Magoo had caught a .9 millimeter slug right between the eyes. Quijano, it turned out, was a hell of a shot.
It bothered Cho that Vincent had gotten away with it but he figured the law of karma would eventually even the score. That seemed to be the way things worked.
Cho had even considered making a case against Miro—after all, his Cannabis Cup–winning pot had started all this shit—but there wasn’t enough evidence. There were hundreds of plants but nothing that they could tie to Miro. Besides, the dude had taken two bullets. That was enough punishment for anyone. Too many people had died. And for what?
Cho reminded himself to make a donation to NORML. The sooner marijuana was legal the better it would be for everyone.
The case was closed, his vacation was starting, and he even had plane tickets to Oaxaca. They were going to stay in some exconvent that had been converted into a fancy hotel. They were going to eat mole, drink mezcal, and try tacos with roasted grasshoppers and cheese.
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