Savages

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to,” Ben says. “I’ve always worked for myself. I have no interest in working for anyone else. Nothing personal, no offense.”

Alex says, “I’m afraid our client will take it personally.”

Ben shrugs. Pop-psych-Buddhist truism—I can only control my actions, not other people’s reactions. Ben tries to explain. “I want out of the dope business. I’m bored and it’s become a drag. I want to do something different.”

“Such as?” Alex asks.

“Clean, renewable energy.”

Alex looks puzzled.

“Windmills and shit like that,” Jaime says.

“Oh.”

Alex looks puzzled.

“And solar,” Ben adds.

“Green,” Jaime says.

“There you go.”

“Couldn’t you do both?” Alex asks.

“Again,” Ben answers, “don’t want to.”

He walks out, Chon behind him.

58

They look down at Aliso Creek Beach.

The water is a deep, cold blue.

“You don’t want to work for these guys, do you?” Ben asks.

“No,” Chon says. “Let me rephrase that—fuck no.”

“Then we don’t,” Ben says. “I mean, they can’t force us to grow herb.”

He appreciates the irony, though, that the Mexicans basically want to turn them into field workers. Plant, grow, and harvest their crop for them. He digs the reverse colonialism of it, but it just isn’t his thing.

Chon looks back at the suite. “We could just kill them both. Get this party started.”

“Buddha would be so pissed.”

“That fat Jap.”

“Fat Indian.”

“I thought he was Japanese,” Chon says. “Or Chinese. Some ‘ese.’”

“Indianese.”

They walk back to the room.

59

Ben’s fucking had it.

Reached the limits of his hydrocrisy.

Goes off on a rant:

Let’s cut the shit, shall we? You guys are here at the behest of an organization that cut off seven people’s heads, and you’re talking like you’re from Goldman Sachs? You represent a regime that murders and tortures and you sit here and lecture me about my business practices? You’re going to increase profits by coercing me to sell at a low price—that’s all, that’s your genius “business plan”—and now you want me to eat your shit and call it caviar? You can put a thug in an expensive suit and what you get is a well-dressed thug, so let’s not pretend that this is anything other than what it is, extortion.

Nevertheless—

You want our marijuana business? You got it.

We can’t fight you, don’t want to fight you. We surrender.

Hasta la.

Vaya con.

AMF.

(Adios, motherfuckers.)

60

Alex turns to Chon. “What do you have to say?”

Oh come on.

Come onnnn.

We know what Chon has to say.

We’ve covered that already.

61

It’s the baditude.

His beatitude.

62

O is at—

South Coast Plaza.

The Mecca and Medina of SOC consumerism where retail pilgrims pay homage at a multitude of shrines:

Abercrombie & Fitch, Armani, Allen Schwartz and Allen Edmonds, Aldo shoes, Adriano Goldschmied, American Eagle and American Express, Ann Taylor and Anne Fontaine

Baccarat, Bally, Balenciaga, Bang & Olufsen, Bank of America, Banana Republic (you can’t make this shit up)

Bloomingdale’s, Borders, Brooks Brothers, Brookstone, Bulgari

Cache, (speaking of which) Cartier, Celine, Chanel, Chloe, Christian Dior

Claim Jumper

De Beers, Del Taco (what the fuck is that doing in there), the Disney Store, DKNY, Dolce & Gabbana

Emilio Pucci, Ermenegildo Zegna, Escada

Faconnable, Fendi, Fossil, Fresh (no, seriously)

Godiva, Gucci, Guess

Hermes, Hugo Boss

J.Crew, J. Jill, Jimmy Choo, Johnston & Murphy, Justice (uh-huh)

La Perla, Lacoste, Lalique, Limited (sans irony)

Louis Vuitton

Macy’s, McDonald’s (see Taco, Del), Miu Miu (what the fuck?), Montblanc

New Balance, Nike, Nordstrom

Oilily, Optica, Origins, Oscar de la Renta