Chris says, “I talked with my people, and they’re eager to get in. We’ll take as much product as you can give us, offer national distribution, a certain level of protection.”
“Who are your ‘people’?” John asks.
He realizes that he sounds a little rude.
Chris looks at Doc, like, who’s your little friend?
Doc says, “Chris, give us a minute?”
Chris nods. “I’ll go get a coffee. Just give me a wave when you’re ready.”
When he’s out of earshot, John says, “What the fuck, Doc? The Mafia?”
“The amateur hour is over,” Doc says. “These people can give us national distribution-Chicago, Detroit, Vegas-”
“I thought they worked with the Mexicans.”
“Chris says they’d rather work with white people,” Doc says. The truth is that the Mexicans are bypassing them, dealing directly with L.A., and the San Diego mob wants its own source.
“Jesus Christ, Doc,” John says. “Once you let these people in, you never get them out.”
“That’s all the movies,” Doc says. “They’re businessmen, same as us.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want to do?” Doc asks, “just stand around with our thumbs up our asses, let Bobby and them steamroll us? Fuck that. Fuck ‘the Association.’ That shit’s over. We gotta look out for ourselves.”
He waves to Chris.
Chris comes back out on the sidewalk. “We all on the same page now?”
“Totally.”
Chris looks at John. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They get down to details-price per ounce based on volume, delivery methods, who talks to whom when and how-the nitty-gritty logistics of the dope trade.
Then Doc says, “Chris, I have one other thing.”
“Tell me.”
“Some people aren’t going to be happy about this,” Doc says. “They might try to do something about it.”
Chris says, “No problem.”
“No?”
“Your turn to get coffee,” Chris says. “Let me make a phone call.”
Twenty minutes later Chris and another guy walk into the coffee shop.
The guy is middle-aged, professionally dressed, built like a refrigerator.
“Doc, John,” Chris says, “this is Frank Machianno. He’s going to move up to Laguna for a while, keep an eye on things.”
Frank offers his hand to each of them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says.
Very quiet voice.
Competent.
John doesn’t miss it Frank’s a stone killer.
153
John’s coming out of Papa’s Tacos in South Lagoo when Bobby Z rolls up on him in his pickup.
“Hop in,” Bobby says. “We need to talk.”
John’s not so sure they need to talk, but then he remembers Doc’s request to stay close, feel Bobby out, so he gets in.
“You give any thought to what we talked about?” Bobby asks.
“I don’t believe that Doc would flip on us.”
Bobby says, “Someone I want you to meet.”
They drive back north, up into the canyon, and pull over in the parking lot where hikers leave their cars. A white Ford Falcon’s sitting there with a guy in it, and both the car and the man have narc written all over them.
The cop rolls down the window when the truck pulls up. Bobby doesn’t waste any time.
“Tell this guy what you told us,” he says.
“Halliday’s under indictment in the San Diego Federal District,” the cop says. “I don’t have details because it’s sealed, but I know it’s a Class A felony, fifteen to thirty. They’ve had him under surveillance for two years.”
“Tell him the rest,” Bobby says.
“They’ve got him out there proving ‘good intent,’” the cop says. “Man’s a walking sound studio.”
“Will he testify?” Bobby asks.
“He better,” the cop says. “No testimony, no deal. Anything else?”
“Anything else?” Bobby asks John.
John shakes his head.
The narc rolls up his window and pulls out.
“Horse’s mouth,” Bobby says. “He’s Dago DEA.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?” Bobby asks. “I mean, the rest of the guys are going to want to know where you come out on this thing.”
“What thing?”
“We’re not just going to sit back and let Doc give us up one by one,” Bobby says.
John’s reeling.
First, proof that Doc is ratting them out. Shit, he could have been wearing a wire while they were talking in Dana Point, while they were meeting with the people down in Dago. Then there’s what Bobby seems to be saying “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” John asks.
“You wearing a wire, too?”
“Come on.”
“Open your shirt.”
“Fuck you.”
“Open your fucking shirt!”
John opens his shirt and shows Bobby his chest. “Happy?”
Yeah, John thinks, ain’t nobody happy about anything these days. But Bobby seems satisfied that John’s not miked up.
“So where are you at with this thing?” Bobby asks.
“I’m neutral.”
“No such gear on this bus,” Bobby says. “Not to traffic in cliches, but you’re either with us or against us.”
John gets it.
Like the man said You’re gonna have to serve somebody.
154
Sitting back in his chair, Stan puts his fingers together in a prayerful gesture in front of his chin and asks, “How can I help you?”
This man slept with my wife, Stan thinks, and now he’s coming to me for help? It will be a pleasure to turn him down, cite ethical reasons, and refer him elsewhere.
