The Kings Of Cool

58

Ben packs a briefcase with $35K in cash and drives up to Newport Beach.

Chad Meldrun’s office is on the seventh floor of a modern building overlooking the greenway, and his receptionist is so clearly fucking him that she can barely bother to look up from the magazine she’s reading to tell Ben to take a seat, Chad is with another client and is running a little late.

Ten minutes later, Chad comes out of his office, his arm around a grim-looking Mexican guy, telling him to “chill out, it’s going to be okay.” Chad’s in his late forties but looks younger, a result of swapping his services with a cosmetic surgeon in the next building who doles out Oxy along with the Botox.

So Chad has a virtually undetectable eye tuck and a total absence of worry lines, which is appropriate, as his nickname in the general drug defense industry is Chad “No Worries” Meldrun.

He ushers Ben into his office and into a chair, then sits behind his big desk and locks his fingers behind his head.

Ben sets the briefcase down by his own feet.

“You’re lucky to get an appointment,” Chad begins without small talk. “I’m overbooked. The War on Drugs should be called the Defense Attorney Full Employment Act.”

“Thanks for seeing me,” Ben says.

“No worries,” Chad answers. He stands back up and says, “Let’s go for a ride. Leave the briefcase.”

They walk back out into the waiting room.

“I’ll be back in twenty,” Chad tells the receptionist.

She looks up from People. “Cool.”