They drive down to Dago.
You haven’t done a buck and change down the 5 through Pendleton in a bloodred Lamborghini, you haven’t had the full California experience.
It’s a… rush.
Especially with Doc steering with one hand and snorting coke off the dashboard with the other. Nevertheless, they make it to San Diego alive and pull off on India Street in Little Italy.
“You develop a sudden craving for meatballs?” John asks.
They walk into a sandwich shop-a few booths and a long counter with red stools. Doc sits down on one of the stools, orders two sausiche sandwiches with peppers and onions, and asks, “Is Chris around?”
“Yeah, somewhere.”
“Do me a favor? Tell him Doc’s here?”
“‘Doc’?”
“That’s me.” Doc grins.
“What are we doing?” John asks.
“Keep your shirt on.”
A few minutes later, a thirtyish guy in a black suit, no tie, comes in and shakes hands with Doc.
“Chris, this is my partner, John.”
Chris offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, John.”
“You, too.”
“Chris, you have a few minutes?” Doc asks.
“Sure,” Chris says. “Let’s take this somewhere else.”
Doc goes to pay for the sandwiches but Chris waves it off. “I got it.”
“A tip?” Doc asks.
“No.”
They walk out onto Laurel Street. The planes coming in to land make a lot of noise. Doc says, “Chris, I wanted John to hear what we’ve been talking about.”
Yeah, John wants to hear what the fuck they’ve been talking about.
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.