The Kings Of Cool

280

The room is big and perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean.

Spotlights illuminate the beach and the breakers.

A foot trail runs from the compound down to the beach, and John sees a quiver of long-boards leaning against the wall of the deck.

Doc wears a Hawaiian shirt over an old pair of khaki shorts and huaraches. A ball cap even though it’s night.

He’s vain, John thinks, covering up the receding hairline.

“How’s life?” John asks.

“Life is the same,” Doc says. “Luxurious exile. I surf, I fish, I grill the fish, I watch shitty Mexican TV, I go to bed. I get up at least once in the night to piss. I’m not going to ask how life is with you.”

“Things have gotten a little out of hand.”

“No shit?” Doc asks.

Doc has a deep tan that looks darker against his snow-white hair. It hangs down to his shoulders, but it’s still white. Deep lines in his face, deep lines under his eyes from squinting into the sun. He looks like an old surf bum.

“I’ve got enough fucking agita down here right now,” Doc says. “This whole thing with the cartel.”

“I still think siding with the Berrajanos was a mistake.”

“They’re going to win,” Doc says, “and I have to live down here, whoever’s on the fucking throne. You want a soda? I got Diet Pepsi and Diet Coke.”

“I’m good.”

“When did people start saying that?” Doc asks, going to the refrigerator and taking out a Diet Coke.” ‘I’m good,’ instead of ‘No, thanks.’”

John doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

Doc pops open the can and takes a long drink. Then he sits down on the couch and says, “We had us some times, didn’t we, Johnny?”

“Yeah, we did, Doc.”

“Those were some days,” Doc says, shaking his head, smiling. “ Good times. Your kid, what do they call him…”

Chon.