Yeah, it was sort of funny but not really funny because Chon has smudged more than a few Al Qaeda, Taliban, and their assorted affiliates precisely because they fell into the bad habit of having a habit.
He either pulled the trigger himself or did it remote control by calling in a drone strike from some Warmaster 3 prodigy sitting in a bunker in Nevada knocking back Mountain Dew while he smoked some unsuspecting muj with a keystroke.
The problem with contemporary warfare is that it has become a video game. (Unless you’re on the actual ground and get shot, in which case it is most definitely not.)
Whether direct from Chon or run through the gamer, it had the same effect.
Hemingway-esque.
Blood and sand.
Without the bull(shit).
All true, but nevertheless Ben isn’t going to get into this whole subterfuge thing any more than he has to. He’s in the dope business to increase his freedom, not to limit it.
Make his life bigger, not smaller.
“What do you want me to do,” he asked Chon, “live in a bunker?”
“While I’m gone,” Chon answered. “Yeah, okay.”
Yeah, not okay.
Ben sticks to his routine.
This particular morning Kari, the waitress of Eurasian Persuasion and almost reality-defying beauty-golden skin, almond eyes, sable hair, legs longer than a Wisconsin winter-poured his coffee.
“Hey, Ben.”
“Hey, Kari.”
Ben is seriously trying to get with her.
So fuck you, Chon.
Kari brought the food, Ben dug into the machaca and the Times.
Then he felt this guy sit down across from him.
4
Burly guy.
Big, sloping shoulders.
Sandy, receding hair combed straight back.
Kind of old school.
In fact, he was wearing one of those “Old Guys Rule” T-shirts, which totally miss the obvious point that if old guys really ruled, they wouldn’t have to proclaim it on a cheap T-shirt.
They’d just, you know, rule.
These are guys who can’t figure out social media technology, so Ben figures their days of rule have gone the way of the compact disc.
Anyway, this guy who looked to be in his fifties sat there staring at Ben.
Very high creepiness rating.
Ben was like, do I know you, am I supposed to know you, is this some sort of weird early-morning gay thing? Or is this guy just one of those “I’m a people person” tools who thinks it’s his human duty to strike up conversations with people sitting alone at restaurants?
Ben is not I-like-to-meet-new-people guy. He’s I’m-reading-my-frea king-newspaper-and-flirting-with-the- waitress-so-leave-me-the-fuck-alo ne guy.
So he said, “Bro, no offense, but I’m kind of into what I’m reading.”
Like, there are five empty tables, why don’t you sit down at one of them?
The guy said, “I’ll only take a minute of your time, son.”
“I’m not your son,” Ben said. “Unless my mother has been deceiving me all these years.”
“Shut your smartass mouth and listen,” the guy said quietly. “We didn’t mind when you were selling a little custom shit to your friends. But when it starts showing up in Albertsons, it’s a problem.”
“It’s a free market,” Ben answered, thinking he sounded like a Republican all of a sudden. Seeing as how Ben is generally to the left of Trotsky, this came as an unpleasant epiphany.
“There is no such thing as a ‘free market,’” Old Guys Rule said. “The market costs-there are expenses. You want to sell up in L.A., compete with our little brown and black brothers, be our guest. Orange County, San Diego, Riverside-you pay a licensing fee. Are you paying attention?”
“I’m riveted.”
“Are you clowning me?”
“No.”
“Because I wouldn’t like that.”
“And I wouldn’t blame you,” Ben said. “So, for the sake of discussion, what happens if I don’t pay this licensing fee?”
“You don’t want to find out.”
“Okay, but just for the sake of discussion.”
Old Guys Rule looked at him like he was wondering if this kid was fucking with him, and then said, “We put you out of business.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Ben asked. He saw the look on the guy’s face and said, “I know-I don’t want to find out. And if I do pay this fee?”
OGR held out his hands and said, “Welcome to the market.”
“Got it.”
“So we have an understanding.”
“We do,” Ben said.
OGR smiled.
Satisfied.
Until Ben added, “We have an understanding you’re an asshole.”
Because it’s also Ben’s understanding that no one controls the marijuana market.
Cocaine-yes. That would be the Mexican cartels.
Heroin-ditto.
Meth-the biker gangs, more recently the Mexicans.
Prescription pills-the pharmaceutical industry.
But the 420?
Free market.
Which is excellent, because it runs by market rules-price point, quality, distribution.
The customer is king.
So Ben pretty much dismissed this guy as some whack-job trying to jerk his chain. Still, it’s a little troubling, Ben thought-how does the guy know who I am?
And who is this guy?
Whoever he is, he gave Ben one of those old-school stares until Ben actually had to laugh.
OGR stood up and said, “You motherfuckers think you’re the kings of cool, right? You know everything, no one can tell you anything? Well, let me tell you something-you don’t know shit.”
OGR gave Ben one more Bobby Badass look and then walked out.
The kings of cool, Ben thought.
He kind of liked it.
Now he turns his attention back to the game.
