Crystal Meth Cowboys (10 page)

"Hey, I got a million of 'em," said Bell, stooping to a pile of mini-cassettes on a shelf beneath the Ampex. "Just gimme a second here.."

"You play whatever you like, dear," said Sherri, taking Florence by the hand. "But we're jumping in the hot tub."

Bell looked up from his pile of tapes and said, “Ooooo."

----

"Orginally, Wislow was a small corner of the lands of the
Mission la Purisima Concepcion
. But then the Mexican government split off the mission lands into land grants that became the great Ranchos of Southern California, each one a sprawling tract covering hundreds of square miles. Now, soon after the United States took the California territory from Mexico in…"

"We didn't 'take' California, we 'won' California," said Bell to Florence as they luxuriated in the steaming waters of the barrel-staved hot tub that sat on a redwood deck in a corner of the back yard. "There was a war and we won it," he said, killing another Fosters. He threw the empty onto the grass of the back yard. The blonde Labrador trotted up and sniffed it.

Florence sat across from Wes at the south pole of the tub, the tin-bright half moon rising just above her bare left shoulder. Wispy vapors of rosy steam swathed her face and neck. She and Sherri had already been seated in the tub when Bell and Lyedecker arrived with cold beers, towels wrapped around their waists. Wes hadn't seen anything as yet.

"Anyway," said Florence, acknowledging Bell with a nod, "The surviving owners of the great Rancho de la Casillas fell into debt and had to sell off the northern portion of the Rancho to the Shepherd Kings, who ruled the area till the price of wool collapsed. And then the City of Wislow was founded as a Temperance Colony."

Florence had been rising higher and higher during this speech. Wes noted that her freckles seemed to melt away as they approached her swelling cusps, giving way to skin so translucent that he could trace the outline of pale blue capillaries underneath. Florence sank back down to her chin.

"Did you know that the Chumash Indian name for Wislow means 'The Last Place'," said Sherri, her hair twirled into a loose top knot.

Florence stretched out her legs. "Is that right?" Her foot brushed Wes' ankle, sending a jolt of pleasure through his nervous system.

"Because this was as far west as you could go," said Sherri. "The next step was heaven."

Bell raised his head. Wes followed his look. The back yard, at the far border of the housing development, was sealed off from the diatomaceous earth plant by a cinderblock wall and a phalanx of thirty foot fir trees that ran the length of the block. The upper reaches of the trees tailed away from the back yard, bent backward in growth by the prevailing wind. A slow motion snowfall of flaky white ash drifted down from above. Bell swatted at a drifting flake, sending it swirling around his hand.

"When you get elected you're gonna have to shut down the Department of Evil, Florence, you know that don't you? This is no way for a proud white man to have to live."

"Or woman," said Sherri.

"Or woman," said Bell.

"It is a problem," said Florence vaguely.

"Well," said Bell, "I know how we can make sure you win."

Florence hid her face behind her knees. "Oh?"

"OK, Boss Hogg's a notorious swillmeister, right? So all we gotta do is bust ol' Mister Law'n'Order for deuce sometime before the election and Florence Jillison wins by a landslide."

Florence lifted her head from her knees and eyed Bell dreamily. She took a long time forming her words. "Did you ever work in the Nixon Administration?"

This set off a buzz of laughter from Wes and Sherri and a flurry of obscenity-laced Tricky Dick impressions from Officer Bell. When they quieted down they heard the
circuit breakers on the high tension pole spit and crackle in the moist night breeze.

Florence lowered her left knee. Wes could make out only a murky, cubist image of her breast in the red underwater spa light. "He does go to a poker game once a week," said Florence to her thigh.

"Where and when?" asked Bell, sitting up, all ears. Florence shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't the ssshlightest idea," she said and sank down, submerging her head in the rosy depths.

Bell looked at Wes significantly, as if to say 'I'm way too wasted, you're in charge of remembering this', then splashed across the tub with a predatory growl and deposited his scalded pink body on Sherri's lap. He looked like an enormous newly-hatched chick. Sherri sat up and crushed her breasts against his stomach in a full embrace. Florence remained submerged.

Bell stood up and clambered out of the tub, dragging a shlong the size of a turkey neck. He held Sherri's arm as she stepped out after him. Wes watched the water sluice down her backbone and cascade off her full round ass. Florence resurfaced with a mild "Whoo."

Bell smacked his wife's bottom playfully. "She's a bit broad in the beam," he rasped in a pirate voice, closing one eye to suggest an eye patch, "But
steady
in a '
eavy sea
!" They ran off then, Bell and Sherri, grabbing and giggling, leaving Wes Lyedecker sitting alone with Florence Jillison in the hot tub under a tin-bright moon.

"It's so hot," said Florence, running a wet hand over her plastered-down hair. She arched her back and sat up straight. Her unfreckled alabaster breasts sprung from the water, naked and dripping. Wes watched the chill wind stiffen their nipples.

Chapter 10

"Always back into your parking spot," said Bell, backing the LTD into a parking spot. "That way you're ready to roll when the call comes in."

Bell and Lyedecker were code seven in the Taco Bell lot, steaming bags of burritos on their laps at 8:58 PM. It had been a slow night. "Why didn't we go inside, get out of the car for a bit?"

"It's not a safe house," said Bell. "Too many people handle the food. Too many chances for Paco to slip you the secret sauce. If you drive through the drive thru they don't know who you are till you pull up."

Wes opened his bag to the aroma of ground beef and hot lard. "So a safe house is a restaurant where you know the chef?"

"Correctamundo, moosebreath." Bell cocked his head to one side to give himself a better angle of attack on the soft white underbelly of the Supreme Burrito he had just unpeeled. "You never fuck with anyone who prepares your food, works on your car or handles you medically."

Wes pondered this pearl of wisdom as two long-haired, scrawny white boys spilled out the door of the Taco Bell, extra-large sodas in hand, riffing a mile a minute, knocking into one another. They wore only jeans and t-shirts against the cold night and even Wes Lyedecker could see that they were seriously twisted.

Bell strobed them with the high beams. The white boys looked up at the squad car as if it were bearing down on them at 90 mph. By the time Bell flicked the headlights again they were gone.

"I'm beginning to wonder whereabouts all this methamphetamine in town is coming from," said Bell.

Wes struggled to open a plastic packet of Taco Bell hot sauce. The damn things were too small to get a grip on. He noticed that Bell inserted the head of the packet inside his burrito and squeezed from the bottom till it exploded. Being a cop was pretty amazing, he thought. You could kill people, you could save lives, you could dematerialize malefactors with a flick of your brights.

"Maybe it's weight that Bjornstedt unloaded before you…you know…"

"Shot him six times at close range causing his bloody and gruesome demise?"

"Yes."

Wes followed a big chunk of burrito as it swelled Bell's skinny neck on the way down. "Well, I don't b'lieve ol' Biker Bob unloaded any weight. Not in this town."

Wes tried to puzzle through to Bell's conclusion. Bell said, "Aren't you going to ask me how I know?"

"How do you know that Bjornstedt didn't sell any drugs before he died?"

Bell brightened, ready for the punchline. "Because he only had 60 bucks in his satchel. And selling bags of meth from the back of your Harley is a cash only business, trust me." Bell took another bite. "Which is how they say fuck you in Hollywood."

Wes said, "I think that Bjornstedt was murdered. Forcibly OD'ed by rival dealers. As a warning."

"And that's a warning he won't soon forget," said Bell.

"No, I meant as a warning to other, you know, uh, interlopers."

"I thought of that," said Bell, resting the stub of his burrito on the flattened sack in his lap. "But say some bad boys bust into the room and overpower ol' Biker Bob. What do they do then?"

"Well, they hold him down and inject him with a massive overdose of crystal meth."

"OK. And
then
what do they do?"

Wes picked at the edges of his flour tortilla. It was getting cold. "I see your point," he said.

Bell elaborated anyway, sawing the air with his arms. "They can't tie him up if they want the pigs to think the OD was accidental, which they must've cuz they left ten grand worth of meth sitting in the closet. Can't knock him out, same reason. So, once the bad guys geeze up ol' Biker Bob they've got to sneak out without being noticed. Only
now
they're facing one
extremely
agitated speedfreek superman who wants to rip their eyes out and skullfuck 'em!"

Wes tossed his burrito back in the bag. He sipped his Dr. Pepper. "They could have held a gun on him," he said, then immediately regretted it.

Bell snorted. "Oh, yeah. You saw how that worked when I tried it. No, Braintree, you were right when you said ol' Biker Bob wanted your gun to shoot himself. I didn't think so at first because Bjornstedt didn't immediately stick the gun barrel in his mouth. But you can't decock with your wrist twisted around like that. He raised it up to release the safety. After I replayed the scene in my brain twenty or thirty times I remembered hearing it. That click."

Unbelievable, thought Wes. His training officer had actually agreed with him. Sort of. The naked man had definitely wanted to shoot himself when he looked up from Wes Lyedecker's holster, his arteries about to burst. But that didn't mean that he had overdosed himself.

"If a meth freak wanted a quick and painless death it seems to me that a massive overdose is the last method he would choose," said Wes. "Maybe those guys in the El Camino did it. And no, I don't know precisely how but they gave you a thumbs up, remember?"

"I remember."

"Maybe that was their way of saying thanks for finishing the job."

Bell checked his watch and fired up the unit. "We've still got some code seven time," he said, weaving out of the lot. "Let's go visit our ol' pal Esteban at Doctor Wog's."

-----

"You get in the froghouse last night?" asked Bell as he and Lyedecker waited in the general admissions area of the Wislow Hospital, a spartan facility that rambled through a converted high school on the west side. The general admissions area was housed in an ancient high-ceilinged gym.

"Huh?" said Wes.

"The froghouse, the bearded clam, the warm and fertile delta."

Wes stared straight ahead. He had always disliked this aspect of male behavior, the sticky detailed boasting of sexual conquest. He especially disliked it when he had nothing to boast about. "No comment."

Bell clucked his tongue sympathetically.

Wes had heard their radio commercial on the ride over to the hospital. When Florence said 'I founded the Rape Crisis Center in 1988', the events of the previous evening came flooding back. Lounging in the hot tub, his muscles relaxed and his loins on fire, Wes had asked Florence how she came to be a community activist. She related a grim tale of stranger-rape in her own bedroom. She went on to recount discovering her fiance weeping bitterly. She had been deeply touched. Later she came to understand that he was weeping for himself, now that she was soiled goods. This discussion took the erotic charge right out of the evening and Wes politely averted his eyes when Florence climbed out of the hot tub to grab her towel.

Wes Lyedecker's talking brick spit static. Bell had told the dispatcher only that they were code four at the
hospital. If a call came in they'd have to take it. And Wes didn't want to. He'd been teacher's pet in Questioning and Communication at the Academy, consistently scoring 'excellent' as both cop and suspect in the role plays. He was primed to discover mutual interests, build the golden bridge, refute the zero sum game, craft a win-win solution and clearly demonstrate to Officer Bell the error of his prehistoric ways.

Bell and a bespectacled Pakistani in a doctor's smock greeted one another warmly. Wes followed them down a hall, their footsteps echoing off the thirty foot ceiling. The radio remained silent. The doctor, prattling to Bell in the singsong cadence of the the Subcontinent, stopped and unlocked a door.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Bell, snapping a smart salute. The Doctor bowed and walked off.

"He's all yours, peachfuzz," said Bell, pushing Wes inside the room. "You're the one he likes."

Rodriguez lay alone in the small room, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, a glucose drip bag attached to his arm. Rodriguez raised up and propped his head on some pillows, blinking his eyes awake. He looked gray-green against the white pillowcases, his large head bobbing along on gentle waves of morphine. His dark eyes came to life when he saw a cop bearing down on him from above.

"Esteban, how you feelin'?

Rodriguez mumbled something into the oxygen mask.

"Are you feeling any better?" Wes leaned down to hear the response.

"Shhh…shhhh…shhh…shhh," said Rodriguez, fogging the plastic mask. He appeared to be snickering. Wes drew back. This was not a promising start to the initial 'inquire to explore' portion of the negotiation. He wondered if Rodriguez recognized him.

"You look a lot better than you did in the back yard."

Rodriguez stopped his snickering and glared. Wes recognized his mistake immediately. He had reminded a proud man of his moment of humiliation.

"I'm glad you're better, Esteban. Glad you pulled through. I just came by to check on you. And see if you could help us with a problem." In class, Wes had learned that the world's eight most powerful words were, 'I have a problem. I need your help.'