Savages

55

The two Cartel reps show up in gray Armani.

Black silk shirts open at the throat, but no gold chains.

French cuffs. Italian shoes.

In contrast to Ben—faded denim shirt, faded jeans, huaraches.

And Chon—black Rip Curl T-shirt, black jeans, Doc Martens.

Handshakes.

Intros around.

Ben.

Chon.

Jaime.

Alex.

Mucho gusto.

Jaime and Alex are your classic early-thirties, Tijuana-spawned, San Diego–born, dual-passport Baja aristocracy. Went to school in TJ until they were thirteen, then moved to La Jolla so they could attend the Bishop’s School, then college in Guadalajara. Jaime is an accountant, Alex is a lawyer.

A&J aren’t flunkies or errand boys.

They’re highly valued, well-respected, handsomely compensated upper-middle management in the BC. They have stock options, medical benefits including primo dental, pension plans, and rotating use of the company condos in Cabo.

(Nobody ever quits the Baja Cartel. Not because of blood oaths or fear of getting clipped, but because … well, why would you?)

Ben serves lunch.

Wraps of duck in hoisin sauce with green onions. Club sandwiches with pancetta instead of bacon, smoked turkey, and arugula. Trays of sushi, platters of salad. Fresh fruit—mangoes, papayas, kiwi, pineapple. Pitchers of iced tea, Arnold Palmers, ice water. Gourmet cookies—chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin.

Coffee.

Very nice, very fresh.

Alex gets down to business.

“First of all,” he says, “thank you for arranging this meeting.”

“Pleasure,” says Ben.

As if.

“We appreciate your willingness to dialogue,” Alex says.

“Dialogue” is a noun, not a verb, Chon thinks, annoyed. “Decapitation” is also a noun, whereas “beheading” could go either way.

“I can’t help but wish,” Ben says, “that you had extended an invitation to talk before you took certain actions.”

“Would you have responded?” Alex asks.

“We’re always willing to talk.”

“Really?” Alex asks. “Because the last time someone had a market dispute with you, I believe you settled it with a shotgun and very little, if any, conversation.”

He looks pointedly at Chon.

Chon looks back.

Fuck you.

“I can assure you,” Alex says, “that we are not some motorcycle gang.”

“We know who you are,” Ben says.

Alex nods, then—

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