and on the front door
identified it as Nastase's. No one appeared to be around. The lab
squad had probably come and gone already, doing their number in their
fire-retardant jump suits as they carried out the acetone and ether
that was used to lace the coke. I hoped they had gotten it all,
because one false step with that stuff could mean bye-bye to this
street and a couple of adjoining canyons.
I checked the neighboring houses. One of them was
abandoned and the other was about a hundred and fifty feet farther
down the hill behind a row of spiny century plants. Then I walked
around the back of Nastase's place, my feet crunching more loudly
than I intended on the dead eucalyptus pods. The side of the house
was boarded up and the rear had a small porch and a useless backyard
that sloped off at a forty-degree angle into the gully below. The
porch screens were ripped and the screen door hung loosely from a
hinge. Where the earth had slipped away into the gully, I could see
the foundations decomposing. This flimsy structure was a far cry from
the block fortresses one had come to identify with cocaine
laboratories, but then who knew? It was certainly isolated enough.
I climbed up on a crate and looked into the room next
to the kitchen. It was a laundry made over into a laboratory, all
right, and a pretty crude one at that. There were still some white
plastic buckets hanging around, the kind you buy in any hardware
store and which are often used to wash the coke paste. I could smell
the odor of hydrochloric acid, the wash chemical, coming from the
sink. In the opposite corner, by an old washer and dryer, were stacks
of cardboard boxes that must not have had any evidentiary use because
they were left behind by the police. The bottom four had the words
"Holy Bible—Made in USA" printed on the side. I wanted a
better look, so I reached up farther and found a break in the outer
sash of the window, pulling it toward me while pushing on the jamb.
The upper half of the window went crashing into the room, a couple of
panes of glass shattering on the cement floor. I was about to hoist
myself in when a piece of brick came flying past my head, rebounding
off the broken screen.
"Hey, smart dog, what you doin' here?"
I looked around slowly to see a pair of Korean
punkers in baggy suits and dark glasses staring at me. The one who
spoke was fat and wore his hair orange and long. "You been
tryin' to fuck with the Reverend, smart dog?" I didn't have a
chance to answer before he continued, "Anybody fuckin' with the
Reverend gotta deal with the Chu's Brothers." He and his partner
started advancing on me. "We call ourselves the Chu's Brothers
'cause you get to choose between us."
Orange hair laughed at his own joke. Then he stopped
five feet in front of me, right alongside his blue-haired partner.
Simultaneously they pulled out a chain and a pair of nunchako sticks.
"So choose."
I thought of what the teachers at Simon's hapkido
studio could do with those sticks and it didn't take me long to
decide. I jumped as high and hard as I could between them. But the
Chu's Brothers were one step ahead of me. They had already chosen.
8
The first person I saw when I came to was Chantal.
"Is this lesson one?" she asked. "Or
were you just standing me up? I was waiting in front of the Fun Zone
for an hour and a half. Thank God, you've got a good excuse."
I would've slammed her if I could've moved.
" Just be still and do what I say. I used to work
in an emergency room."
"I know. I know. You used to do everything."
I groaned, but I did as she said, rolling gingerly over onto my side
so she could see which and how many of my ribs were cracked. My guess
was about a hundred. If this was how I felt after duking it out with
a couple of Korean pogo freaks, one thing was certain—I'd never be
Rambo.
"You'll be all right," she said. "Come
on. We'd better get you out of here."
I started struggling to my feet. "How'd you—?"
"You said you'd be at Nastase's and
identified it as Nastase's. No one appeared to be around. The lab
squad had probably come and gone already, doing their number in their
fire-retardant jump suits as they carried out the acetone and ether
that was used to lace the coke. I hoped they had gotten it all,
because one false step with that stuff could mean bye-bye to this
street and a couple of adjoining canyons.
I checked the neighboring houses. One of them was
abandoned and the other was about a hundred and fifty feet farther
down the hill behind a row of spiny century plants. Then I walked
around the back of Nastase's place, my feet crunching more loudly
than I intended on the dead eucalyptus pods. The side of the house
was boarded up and the rear had a small porch and a useless backyard
that sloped off at a forty-degree angle into the gully below. The
porch screens were ripped and the screen door hung loosely from a
hinge. Where the earth had slipped away into the gully, I could see
the foundations decomposing. This flimsy structure was a far cry from
the block fortresses one had come to identify with cocaine
laboratories, but then who knew? It was certainly isolated enough.
I climbed up on a crate and looked into the room next
to the kitchen. It was a laundry made over into a laboratory, all
right, and a pretty crude one at that. There were still some white
plastic buckets hanging around, the kind you buy in any hardware
store and which are often used to wash the coke paste. I could smell
the odor of hydrochloric acid, the wash chemical, coming from the
sink. In the opposite corner, by an old washer and dryer, were stacks
of cardboard boxes that must not have had any evidentiary use because
they were left behind by the police. The bottom four had the words
"Holy Bible—Made in USA" printed on the side. I wanted a
better look, so I reached up farther and found a break in the outer
sash of the window, pulling it toward me while pushing on the jamb.
The upper half of the window went crashing into the room, a couple of
panes of glass shattering on the cement floor. I was about to hoist
myself in when a piece of brick came flying past my head, rebounding
off the broken screen.
"Hey, smart dog, what you doin' here?"
I looked around slowly to see a pair of Korean
punkers in baggy suits and dark glasses staring at me. The one who
spoke was fat and wore his hair orange and long. "You been
tryin' to fuck with the Reverend, smart dog?" I didn't have a
chance to answer before he continued, "Anybody fuckin' with the
Reverend gotta deal with the Chu's Brothers." He and his partner
started advancing on me. "We call ourselves the Chu's Brothers
'cause you get to choose between us."
Orange hair laughed at his own joke. Then he stopped
five feet in front of me, right alongside his blue-haired partner.
Simultaneously they pulled out a chain and a pair of nunchako sticks.
"So choose."
I thought of what the teachers at Simon's hapkido
studio could do with those sticks and it didn't take me long to
decide. I jumped as high and hard as I could between them. But the
Chu's Brothers were one step ahead of me. They had already chosen.
8
The first person I saw when I came to was Chantal.
"Is this lesson one?" she asked. "Or
were you just standing me up? I was waiting in front of the Fun Zone
for an hour and a half. Thank God, you've got a good excuse."
I would've slammed her if I could've moved.
" Just be still and do what I say. I used to work
in an emergency room."
"I know. I know. You used to do everything."
I groaned, but I did as she said, rolling gingerly over onto my side
so she could see which and how many of my ribs were cracked. My guess
was about a hundred. If this was how I felt after duking it out with
a couple of Korean pogo freaks, one thing was certain—I'd never be
Rambo.
"You'll be all right," she said. "Come
on. We'd better get you out of here."
I started struggling to my feet. "How'd you—?"
"You said you'd be at Nastase's and
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