The Kings Of Cool

274

John walks down Ocean Avenue toward the beach and feels strange.

Strange to see the ocean, strange to walk outside and not see coils of barbed wire and guard towers, strange to not think about who is walking behind him and what they might want.

Ten years in the federal lockup in Indiana, and now he’s back in Laguna.

A free man.

Ten years of a fourteen-year sentence before the pardon came through, but now he’s out-no parole officer bullshit. No one to report to every time he wants to drain a beer or take a dump.

He walks over to the lifeguard tower, then up the boardwalk.

Roger Bartlett is already there.

“Hi, John,” Roger says. “Welcome home.”

“Yeah.”

“And thanks for meeting me here,” Roger says, “instead of in the office.”

Yeah, John thinks, banks are morally sensitive.

John snorts. “We’ve put money in every bank in Newport, Laguna, Dana Point, you name it. Shit, I was fifteen I was delivering bags of cash to you assholes. Nobody complained. Wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t have the funds to lend to anyone.”

We built this city on rock-and-roll bull shit.

They built a good chunk of this city on dope. Cash that went into the banks and came out as mortgages for houses, stores, businesses. Built it up pretty good during the ten fucking years he spent in the hole for selling something somebody wanted to buy.

Comes home, there’s a ten-year-old stranger sitting on the couch, Taylor tosses him the keys, says He’s your kid now, and walks out the door. Hasn’t been back since and it’s been two weeks.

He looked at the kid and said, “Hello, John.”

Kid answered, “My name is Chon.”

Fuckin’ little asshole.

And thanks for all the cards and letters and visits, Chon.

Of course, he puts that on Taylor. Divorced him eighteen months into his stretch. He signed the papers-what difference did it make?

Now he looks at Roger, who seems a little nervous, a little edgy, and says, “I want my money.”

“It’s all there for you, John,” Roger says quickly. “It’s been earning interest, performing nicely.”

“How much?”

“Fifty-two grand.”

“The next words out of your mouth better be ‘April Fool’s,’ motherfucker.”

“You think pardons are cheap?” Roger asks. “Check it out with Meldrun, he’s logged every fucking hour. Not to mention judges, congressmen. Everyone has their hand out. And Taylor? You think she doesn’t come around every other week? I’ve never seen her in the same dress twice, by the way. Christ, I thought my wife could shop. And you have a kid, John, in a private elementary school-”

“Yeah, well, that’s going to stop.”

“Whatever,” Roger says. “I’ve done my best for you. We all have. You’re free. Enjoy your life.”

“Cash me out.”

“John, you don’t want to-”

“Cash me out.”