Savages

Ben and Chon finish laying the spike strip across the dirt road, and then shovel a light layer of gravel across it.

  Like everybody else, they watch Cops. (“Bad boys, bad boys, whachoo gonna do …”)

  Then they go back to the work car, pulled off into an avocado field near Fallbrook.

  “Guacamole?” Ben asks.

  Yeah, okay, not funny.

  The pregame nerves are starting to kick in. Chon’s jaws look like they’re tightened with an Allen wrench and Ben’s knee bobs up and down like a jackhammer with a bad jones.

  Yeah, but he gets off on it.

  Why they call it “high-jacking,” he thinks. He gets high jacking.

  Ben hears car tires on the dirt road.

  “Game,” Chon says.

  They hear the tires pop, Chon pulls the work car onto the road, and they’re on them. Same drill (practice, practice, practice)—Chon on the driver, Ben on the rider.

  And it goes like that.

  158

  820K is a crap payday for Clooney and Pitt.

  Lunch money for the Ocean’s boys, but not bad for a jacking among the avocados.

  159

  “Brad Pitt and who?” Lado asks.

  “George Clooney,” the driver says.

  “Ocean’s Eleven,” the rider adds.

  “And Twelve.”

  “Shut your stupid fucking mouth.”

  He gets on the phone to Alex.

  How are we coming on those masks?

  160

  They’ve narrowed it down to five stores and Berlinger is checking them out.

  Is the answer to that question.

  Lado drives to the parking lot at Aliso Beach.

  “What?” Ben asks. Haven’t I been—

  —producing my dope, haven’t I been—

  —turning over my retailers, haven’t I been—

  —talking to my customers, haven’t I been—

  a good boy?

  Lado looks Ben in the eyes. “Where were you last night?”

  Ben doesn’t blink.

  Lado’s looking, too, ese. His black eyes have stared a lot of men down, seen the lies in their eyes, on the street, in the rooms, seen them lie hanging from meat hooks. Hard to look back into those black eyes and lie.

  But Ben does. “I was home. Why?”

  “One of our cars was hit last night.”

  Ben toughs it out. Keeps his eyes right on Lado’s. “We had nothing to do with it.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Ben says. “Maybe you should look at your own people.”

  Lado snorts.

  Meaning—

  My people know better.

  161

  Fuck yes they do.

  Three years ago, two of his people staged an inside job on a cocaine processing lab in National City.

  Carlos and Felipe thought they were real cute, thought they got away with it.

  Turns out no.

  Lado took them to a warehouse in Chula Vista. Made Carlos watch as he put Felipe into a burlap bag, tied the bag closed, and hoisted him up by a rafter.

  Then played piñata.

  Beat that bag with a stick until blood and bits of bone spilled on the floor like coins and candy.

  Carlos confessed.

  162

  Ben looks bored.

  Indifferent.

  Forcing into his head the thought—

  You want to frighten me with horror stories?

  Come to the Congo, asshole.

  Come to Darfur.

  See what my eyes have seen and then

  Scare me with stories.

  Lado doesn’t try to scare him with stories. He says, “If I track this back to you, your putana is dead.”

  Ben knows that the slightest look of fear in his eyes, Lado will know.

  So he looks him in the eyes and thinks

  Fuck you.

  163

  Chon follows Lado away from the meeting.

  Man drives to an apartment complex down in Dana Point Harbor, goes in, and is there for about an hour.

  Chon thinks about going in after him.

  Do it right here, right now.

  But knows he can’t.

  Lado comes out the same time as a woman. Nice-looking babe, maybe thirty, maybe not yet. Lado gets into his car, the gash gets into hers.

  Chon makes a mental note of her license plate, then picks Lado up.

  Tracks him to a landscaping company in SJC.

  Lado goes into the office in back.

  So when he’s not trimming heads, Chon thinks,

  He trims hedges.

  164

  “We’d better do something,” Ben says.

  To deflect the suspicion a little.

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” Ben says. “They’re robbing us, right?”

  “You could say so.” They’ve taken from us everything they could steal. (Apologies to Mr. Dylan.)

  “Then we need to rob us to show them they can’t get away with it.”

  (Apologies to Mr. Sahl.)

  165

  Gary is the grower at this house out in the eastern part of Mission Viejo near the hills, a nice bespectacled twentysomething bio-geek who discovered you could make a lot more money with a lot less hassle creating designer dope for Ben than teaching Botany 101 to a bunch of freshmen who don’t want to learn about it in the first place.

  “Is it ready to go?” Chon asks Gary.

  “It is,” Gary affirms, frowning. Gary is not happy about selling his fine, sophisticated labor of love over to the BC, whom he considers uncouth corporate barbarians incapable of appreciating the nuanced tones of this particular blend.

  “Take the night off,” Chon says. “We’ll handle it.”

  “Really?” Gary asks, grateful.

  “Go on, you knucklehead,” Ben says. “Get out of here.”

  Gary gets out of there.

  An hour later, the BC pickup boys arrive.

  Quick transaction.

  Cash for dope.

  They wait a few minutes after they leave, then Ben says

  “Stick ’em up.”

  Then, “Oh yeah … this is a robbery.”

  “Cut the shit.”

  But Ben is on a roll. “Down on the floor. No mistakes, no one gets hurt. Don’t anyone try to be a hero, and everyone goes home to their wife and kids.”

  Chon says, “Enough.”

  Ben gets on the phone to Alex and says he has a problem.

  166

  “You rip me off and you rip me off?” Ben complains. “Christ, Alex, there’s greed and then there’s greed, but to beat me on the price and then come in and jack the short money you did pay me, that’s a hundred percent discount, which is a little much.”

  They sit across from each other at a picnic table outside Papa’s Tacos in South Laguna. If you want a really good fish taco you go to Papa’s. If you don’t, you go somewhere else.

  “What are you talking about?” Alex asks.

  “Five freaking minutes after your guys picked up the stuff,” Ben hisses, “another set of guys came in and took the money.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Alex goes lawyer. “Hey, after the transfer is made, it’s not our responsibility.”

  “Except that it was an inside job.”

  Which is technically true.

  “What makes you think it was an inside job?” Alex asks, getting a little pale.

  “Who else knew?”

  “Your people.”

  Ben says, “I’ve been in business for eight years and never been ripped off by my people.”

  “What did the guys look like?”

  “Well, they weren’t retarded,” Ben says, “because they were wearing masks.”

  “What kind of masks?”

  “Madonna and Lady Gaga.”

  “This is not a time for jokes.”

  “I agree,” Ben says. “They didn’t say a l
ot, but the little they did say sounded a little south of the border to me.”

  Alex thinks about this for a second, but doesn’t want to yield position. He says, “Maybe you need to beef up your security.”

  “And maybe,” Ben says, wrapping his taco and getting up, “you need to look into yours. Get back to me on this. It better not happen again.”

  Alex decides to go on the offensive. “Do you have the ransom money yet?”

  “Still working on it,” Ben snaps.

  167

  “He’s all over me,” Alex says to Lado.

  Pantry of one of Machado’s taco stands in SJC. Alex doesn’t like it—it smells like raw chicken and raw chicken is full of dangerous bacteria. He tries not to let his jacket touch the counter.

  Lado sees his discomfort and enjoys it.

  The Muppie pendejo should remember where he came from.

  “So what?” Lado asks.

  “He blames us.”

  “So?”

  “He’s all over me.”

  “You said that already.”

  A kid comes in looking for a can of crushed tomatoes. Lado looks at him like he’s nuts and the scared kid backs out.

  “You sent the guys,” Alex says. “Is it possible one or two of them are in business for themselves?”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Because it’s causing a prob—”

  “I said I’d look into it.”

  Lado’s in an ugly mood, was when he woke up in the morning, is now, probably will be when he goes to bed. Delores started in on him when he was barely awake—the fugeda gutters need cleaning, Junior got a D in algebra, running her mouth just to hear herself talk.

  He wants to scream at her—I have real problems. Another tombe …

  Then three cabróns didn’t show up for work this morning and he had to run down to the strip mall and hire three wetbacks from the parking lot. And now this pain in the balls? The gueros bitching because they’re getting held up? Welcome to the club.

  “I’ll look into it,” he repeats. He walks out of the pantry, gets a burrito and some juice to go, and gets back in the car. It’s already twelve-thirty and Gloria only gets an hour for lunch. She’s a hairstylist in a shop down in Dana Point Harbor, but luckily her place is practically across the street.

  He has a key and she’s in bed waiting for him when he gets there. Wearing just the dark brown bra and panties he likes her in, the set he bought her that shows off her firm tits and that bubble ass.

  “You’re late, baby,” she says.

  “Over.”

  She turns over onto her elbows and knees.

  Lado undresses, then kneels on the bed behind her and jerks the panties down around her ankles. He’s proud that he’s hard without her touching him or his touching himself—it’s good for a man his age.

  He runs his fingers over her back and feels her shiver. Her skin is like butter. Then he opens her up. Pounds her until she whimpers with pleasure and he feels the buildup in his balls and then he pulls out and flips her over.

  She takes him in her mouth and finishes him with her hand.

  Lado won’t wear a condom and he don’t want no more babies.

  When Gloria comes out of the bathroom she lies down beside, runs her hand across his hair, and says, “You’re getting shaggy. You should come in for a cut.”

  “I will.”

  She gets up and starts to get dressed. “I have a two o’clock.”

  “Forget it.”

  “‘Forget it,’ he says. I have to work.”

  “I’ll pay it.”

  “She’s a regular.”

  The black blouse fits tight over her tits. He bets she gets a lot of tips from the male customers. It should make him jealous, but it gets him hot instead, and she knows that. Sometimes she tells him she sees them get hard, brushes a thigh against theirs.

  “I’ll bet their wives really get it that night,” he says.

  She says, “I’ll bet they do.”

  Now she kisses him goodbye and leaves. He puts his pants on, goes into the kitchen, and pulls a beer from the refrigerator. Sits down and watches some stupid talk show on television.

  It’s nice to relax for a few minutes.

  Then his cell phone rings and it’s Delores.

  168

  Gloria comes into the shop and puts on the black smock.

  Teri, grabbing a cup of coffee, smirks at her.

  “Why do I do it,” Gloria asks, “when it just makes me feel dirty and degraded?”

  “You just answered your own question,” Teri says.

  169

  Lado sits in the bleachers behind home plate and watches Francisco’s setup. His feet are too close together, and Lado makes a mental note to tell him when they get home.

  “You been making the pickups with these new people,” he says to Hector.

  Hector nods.

  Francisco goes into his delivery and throws a nice breaking ball, low and inside, for a called strike.

  “You been doing anything else, Hector?”

  Hector looks confused. “What do you mean?”

  Francisco sets up and Lado knows he’s going to come with the fastball this time. Out in left field, Junior looks half asleep. Knows the ball isn’t going to come his way. He’s right, Lado thinks, but he needs to look sharper anyway.

  “You’re not double-dipping, are you?”

  “No!”

  It’s the fastball, straight down the middle but the kid’s swing is behind it. Hector’s a good man, been with them, what, six years? Never a problem, never any trouble.

  “I wouldn’t want anyone to think,” Lado says, “that they can take advantage of these gueros just because they’re new and a little soft. People need to know that they’re under my protection.”

  “Understood, Lado.”

  You bet your brown Mexican ass, understood. If you’re under Lado’s umbrella no rain falls on you.

  “Good,” Lado says. “The next pickup needs to go smooth.”

  “It will.”

  Francisco wastes the next pitch, just like Lado knew he would. He’s a smart kid, Francisco, up two in the count, no sense in wearing out his arm, throw the kid a bad pitch to see if he’ll swing on it. Smart.

  “How’s your brother?” Lado asks. “Antonio? He still selling cars?”

  He can hear Hector’s heart stop.

  “Yes, he’s fine, Lado. He’ll be pleased you asked for him.”

  “And his family? Two daughters, is it?”

  “Yes. All well, dio gracio.”

  Francisco goes into his windup. The stance is still too narrow, but the kid has that long whip arm so he gets away with it. Breaking ball that drops like it fell off a table and the batter swings and misses.

  Two down.

  And now Hector knows that if he’s playing games with these yerba shipments he’s dead, but not before his brother, sister-in-law, and nieces back in Tijuana.

  “Delores! Hello!”

  Lado turns to see Delores edging her way down the bench, saying hello to the other mothers. She sits down next to him.

  “So I’m on time and you’re late,” Lado says.

  “I was waiting for the roof guys,” she says. “Of course they came late.”

  “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “Yes, but when?” she asks. “It’s supposed to be a wet winter. Has Junior batted yet?”

  “Next inning probably.”

  Francisco throws a low ball, pure junk, but the batter bites on it and pops up. Lado stands and claps as Francisco trots to the dugout, his glove folded casually under his arm.

  “Let’s take the boys to CPK after the game,” Lado says.

  “Fine with me,” Delores says.

  She can smell that hair-cutting whore on him.

  The least he could do is take a shower.

  170

  She can smell him.

  His sweat, his breath

  As he comes toward her.


  O twists her head away but

  He stands right over, breathes into her face, stares

  Into her face with those

  Cold black eyes

  She

  Cries she

  Chokes on her panic she

  Can’t turn it off.

  Yeah, but you have to, girl, O tells herself.

  She makes herself take a deep breath. Time to stop being girlie-girl about this. Time to cowgirl up, show some ovaries. She gets off the bed, walks to the door, and pounds on it.

  “Yo!” she yells. “I want Internet access!”

  171

  Yes, she wants fucking Internet.

  She wants Internet, a computer to use the Internet, she’s hoping like hell they have Wi-Fi wherever the fuck they are and not DSL or, God help them, dial-up. She wants all that plus she wants a TV, satellite TV—if I miss one more episode of The Bachelorette I’ll never catch up—an iPod and access to her iTunes account, and could they mix in a salad every once in a while because if she keeps wolfing down these starches they’ll need a forklift to get her out of here and deliver her to some fat farm in La Costa, which would make Paqu very happy and speaking of her mother …

  “You want to let me use the Internet,” she says through the door, “because if Moms doesn’t hear from me every twenty-seven minutes she will call the FBI and I think but I’m not sure that one of my stepfathers—Four, maybe?—anyway, it doesn’t matter, might have been in the FBI”—actually it was the FDIC but who fucking cares—“so she knows people, and, oh yeah, I want to contact my friends to let them know I’m all right, or at least some version of all right, and would it kill you to whip up a martini?”

  Esteban comes into her room.

  He doesn’t know what the fuck to say.

  She snaps, “Okay, what’s your name?”