The Kings Of Cool

89

“She’s a fucking kid,” John says.

“You were a fucking kid.”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“That was grass,” John says. “This is coke. That’s hard time.”

Doc shakes his head. “It’s juvenile time. Worst that can happen is that she does a few months in juvie.”

Doc knows this, for chrissakes-he did time in the juvenile system. He also knows that she may go in a kid, but she won’t come out one. Between the girl gangs and the dykes, she’ll be just a piece of white meat.

“She asked me,” Doc says defensively. “I didn’t ask her. Anyway, I remember who she is.”

“That’s great,” John says. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t care.

“You remember Freaky Frederica?” Doc asks.

“No.”

“When you were living in a fucking cave, hotshot?” Doc prompts. “That was her little girl.”

John doesn’t remember her.

“She’ll look just like any other teenager with a fake ID,” Doc says. “She’ll bat those blue eyes and walk right through.”

“Yeah?” John asks. “What if she doesn’t, Doc? What if she gets popped? You think she’s going to keep her mouth shut and do her time? She’ll give us up in a heartbeat.”

Worse, he thinks, is that we won’t know it. They’ll tape that coke back up to her and let her bring it right to us.

With an escort of narcs.

Doc’s ahead of him. “Our Mexican suppliers will clock her through the border check. If she doesn’t go right through, we go straight to the airport, cool out in Tahiti for a while.”

And the girl, John thinks, what’s her name…

Kim?

… can cool out in juvie.

Nice.