The donut shop was closed. That meant the surf was good. Jerry, the hippie donut man, only opened his shop when he felt like it. When the surf was good, he never felt like it.
I should be out surfing with Jerry and the other old dudes. Risking hepatitis from the Tijuana River runoff. Instead, I turned past the closed donut shop and pulled into my parking space. A crowd greeted me. Over a dozen random weirdos who don’t belong in my strip mall parking lot.
I counted two vintage, VW microbuses. When you see a car fire on the side of the freeway, it’s always a VW microbus. These two hadn’t suffered that fate. Yet.
I opened the door of my 65 Buick Riviera and stepped up into the crowd. Phone cameras were shoved into my face. A drone hovered overhead.
“Hey, Mike. Why do you think Golden Mountain is hiring you to crack the case?”
In My Dad’s Day, he would have been greeted by velvet-voiced Action News tv reporters. Polyester suits and hair sprayed hair helmets.
In my grandfather’s day, he would have been greeted by fast-talking newspaper reporters and photographers wielding speed graphics cameras. At least that’s what I’ve been told by the movies.
It’s my day so I am greeted by fat, neck bearded losers. They wore superhero T shirts. When they weren’t working, if you can even call what they do work, they played Dungeons and Dragons or some sort of Magic Monopoly. Reporters have always been losers. But nowadays they don’t even pretend.
After shrugging my shoulders into my suit jacket, I shoved my way through the crowd. It wasn’t hard. They were soft, doughy soy boys.
When I opened the door to my office, I was greeted by three Asian men. I only recognized one of them. John Park was a tenant of mine.
His cigar shop, shared a wall with my office. Besides always keeping my favorite Boneshaker Warhammers in stock, John had proved himself a loyal Rooftop Korean back during the riots.
“What’s up, John?” I asked.
The first stranger pushed past John and offered me his hand.
“Allow me to introduce myself Mr. Oakshott. I am Reverend Jung Soon Rhee of the First Unity Methodist Church of Seoul.”
I accepted his handshake, but didn’t trust him. John wasn’t talking. Something was off.
“My companion here is His Holiness, the Abbott of Golden Mountain Temple in Korea. “
His Holiness didn’t offer me his hand. He didn’t even make eye contact as I walked past him and sat behind my desk.
After withdrawing a cigar from my humidor, I performed my ritual. I rolled the cigar between my fingers before snipping the end off. I rotated the other end through the flame of my torch lighter. After six puffs to get the cigar burning properly, I spoke.
“So a rooftop Korean, a preacher and a holy man walk into detective’s office.” I said, “What’s the punchline? “
John smirked. The Reverend and His Holiness stared first at him then in my direction.
“You’ve heard of our Golden Mountain Temple monastery, Mr. Oakshott?” The Reverend asked.
I shrugged and played dumb. You get a chance to make a holy man give you his sales pitch. You take it.
“Our monastery was founded over 1300 years ago in the mountains not far from the DMZ. It has survived invasions, disasters, and war.”
I wondered if there really were mountains near the DMZ. I fought the urge to consult my pocket Google machine. Fact checking someone while they’re talking, and likely lying, is rude.
“The Brothers drink only the purest mountain spring water,” he continued, “and have dedicated their lives to meditation and prayer.”
“Can we fast forward to the part where you run a pyramid scheme that sells piss to foolish white women?” I asked.
I couldn’t resist the urge to blow a smoke ring at him.
When I said that, John was about to laugh before the good Reverend shot him a look.
“We don’t sell piss to white women as you so crudely and, I might add, racistly put it.”
He paused. I blew another smoke ring at him. If he was expecting me to backpedal and grovel in response to the R word, he would be disappointed. Too many boys have cried wolf in that regard.
“I’m going to keep blowing smoke at you until you think I’m a dragon,” I said. “I heard you Asians think dragons are magic. “
The Rev ignored my wisecrack and kept talking.
“Local villagers have long recognized the healing properties in the Brothers urine,” He continued.
This fucking guy, I thought. Next he is going to tell me their turds are sacred air fresheners.
“In the past few years, many of your countrymen and women have also come to appreciate the benefits of our brothers urine.
“That is why we have been importing it to Ensenada and bottling at our facility just across the border in Tijuana.
“Our affiliate partners have helped spread the word of Golden Mountain Temple and have allowed us to grow large enough to become a publicly traded corporation.”
“There’s a billboard in my parking lot for gas station dick pills ” I said. “They make all the same claims you just did. I don’t think you are trying to persuade me to join your pyramid scheme.”
I paused. I pictured myself hosting one of their sales parties. Pitching magic piss.
“Why are you really here?”
The Good Reverend glared at me. I had him on full tilt. Perhaps now he would cut to the chase.
“Our trucks have been recently experiencing hijackings on the road from Ensenada to Tijuana.”
“Did you neglect to pay your tax to the Cartel? Last I checked Felix still controlled that stretch of road. “
“I can assure you, Mr. Oakshott, we have understandings with all of the cartels. “
“If you’re dealing with a crew that’s unafraid of the cartels, you have an unique problem.
“If I were a cartel boss, and I noticed you guys making bank shipping bottles of magic piss across the border, I might get jealous.
“I might want a taste… Of the profits, probably not the piss.
“I might want you to ship some of my product along with yours.
“I might even sell bootleg magic monk piss to Mexican women for a hundred pesos a bottle before you get a chance to sell it to white women for 20 bucks. “
Rather than respond, he placed a briefcase on my desk. I cracked it open. My geometry estimated there was 2.1 million dollars in 100 dollar bills.
I closed the briefcase and pushed it back towards him.
“Hard pass,” I said.
All 3 of them, even the holy Monk, stared at me with wide eyes. John spoke up.
“Mike, that’s life changing money just sitting on your desk. “
I shook my head. I picked up a brick of Benjamins and spun the ends with my thumbs.
“Nah. Each of those hundos is worth what a twenty was a few years ago.
“A few years from now, they will each be worth a five. “
“Aha, I see you are even smarter than I suspected,” the Reverend said. He turned to his Holy Man who reached into his orange robe and handed me some prayer beads.
I rolled those beads between my fingers. Polished stone. Not that valuable. But at the end of the strand I saw something that was. A hardware crypto wallet.
“If you agree to take our case, we will provide you with the key to transfer the contents to your own personal wallet. I think even you will find the sum to be adequate.”
I continued rolling the beads in my fingers.
“Just so we’re clear Reverend, Your Holiness, I will describe your predicament and spell out exactly what you expect me to do.
“You got a bunch of monks back in Korea pissing in bottles.
“You pack those bottles of very special piss on ships and sail it all the way across the Pacific.
“My good friend Inspector Javier Castaneda has already turned down your generous offer to ignore those hijackings.
“You want me to persuade him that your recent problems are just random crimes he doesn’t need to worry about.
“If I happen to discover and point out the culprits to you, but most definitely not him or God forbid the FBI, that would be the icing on the cake.”
All three men just stared at me.
“You don’t have to say as much out loud but I will need you to at least nod in agreement,” I said.
They both nodded.
…………….
As we walked across the border at San Ysidro, I spied one of Golden Mountain Temple’s trucks crossing North. A fresh load of holy magic piss. Rich white ladies pay 20 bucks a bottle for it. I did some more geometry. Assuming a 100 percent markup charged to the distributors, the truckload was worth 43 grand to my clients. I chose the wrong racket.
“Mr. Mike, my friend, ” Julio the Mexican border guard greeted me.
A sign behind his head said firearms and ammunition are forbidden in Mexico. I had a fully loaded .357 Magnum in my shoulder holster. Everyone knew I carried an illegal unregistered firearm. Everyone knew my unregistered illegal firearm was connected to a series of unsolved killings. Nobody wanted those unsolved killings solved.
My new clients didn’t want to be in Mexico. At least, they didn’t want to be in Mexico with me.
“Why are we even down here?” Reverend Rhee asked.
“Because this is where your stuff is getting jacked,” I told him.
“But why do we need to be here with you?”
“Because if I am right, I will need you both to identify the culprits. “
Before he could answer, the taxi drivers accosted us.
Before the taxi drivers could begin their sales pitches, a 1972 Buick Riviera pulled up. Its candy apple red paint job contained flecks of gold. It sparkled.
I shoved my clients past the taxis and towards the chariot.
I opened the door and both the Reverend and the Monk shot me a pissed off look. John was scared.
“What took you guys so long?” Queto, the driver asked.
“You know how it is. I can’t go anywhere these days without being mobbed for autographs and selfies.”
Queto laughed and before I could ask him if he knew where we were going, we were speeding down Avenida Revolucion. He swerved around a zonkey without slowing down.
“Remember what happened when I stopped for one of those chingaderas?”
It’s hard to forget a Russian gangster pulling a zonkey in front of your car, taking out an AK, and opening fire.
“My boy Sergei kept his word and fixed this car good as new,” I said. I slid my hand across the dashboard.
Queto shot me a stare.
“First of all, fuck that cabron. He’s lucky he didn’t get twice as many bullets in his fat ass.
“Second, Watch it Homes. If you get too familiar with her, I’m gonna have to defend her honor.”
We laughed and exchanged fist bumps. My clients in the back seat looked terrified.
They should be. Queto still scared me. He was a few inches taller and had at least 30 pounds more muscle than me. That put him around six foot five and 250 pounds.
Both his arms were sleeved with tattoos. A good number of those were prison tattoos. Mexican prison tattoos. While he never mentioned it, he didn’t have to, Queto had clearly seen some shit.
Before I expected it, we were in the maquiladora zone. Queto somehow picked the Golden Mountain Temple warehouse out of the others. He blocked the entrance with his parked car.
When we walked in the front door, the manager, a Mr. Kim, tried blocking our path. He saw the Reverend and the Holy Man and let us pass.
One thing immediately struck me. Besides the overwhelming odor of magic monk urine. All of the workers were men.
Maquiladora companies, especially Asian maquiladora companies, prefer female workers. They perceived women as more docile and obedient. My lived experience had taught me otherwise.
All of these men also appeared to be drunk. If I had any doubts as to their sobriety, the empty Modelo cans rolling all over the concrete floor dispelled them.
Plastic funnels also littered the floor. I tapped one with my shoe.
“Is this your sales funnel?” I asked the Reverend.
His face turned red. Whether out of embarrassment or anger who knew.
Before he could answer, a forklift crashed into a rack of cardboard boxes. Urine spilled all over the floor. Something else was also in those boxes.
OSHA didn’t exist on this side of the border. If it did, a lesbian civil servant with a clipboard would be interested in the driver’s blood alcohol level.
Another worker brought forth a five gallon bucket of Fabuloso and began mopping.
” Hijole!” Queto shouted. “That smells worse than the piss.”
I was interested in the contents of one of those cardboard boxes. Both the Reverend and His Holiness blocked my path. That told me all I needed to know.
………………..
Queto drove us out to the dump. He grumbled about getting trash on his tires.
” What can this place possibly have to do with our business?”The good Reverend asked me.
“Follow me and I’ll show you exactly what your business is here,” I said.
I stepped out and folded my seat forward. When they hesitated to step out, I folded my fingers towards my palm. John stepped out first. The other two followed.
I counted 50 paces away from the car. I stopped. In a fluid motion, I reached into my jacket, withdrew my gun from my shoulder holster, and put a bullet between The Reverend and His Holiness’s eyes.
“How long you been a North Korean spy, John?”
He shivered. He stuttered. He pissed his pants.
“How did you find out?”
“The way your fellow Rooftop Koreans acted around you told me something about you wasn’t quite right.
“I’m used to most people being low key afraid of me.
“I noticed them acting the same way around you. You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, John.”
He nodded. Closed his eyes. I tossed a couple of bricks of c notes I had palmed from the briefcase at him.
When they bounced off his chest, he opened his eyes. I think he was surprised to still be alive.
“It’s counterfeit, ” I told him. “But you already know that. It should be good enough to pass as real anywhere between here in Tijuana all the way down to Tierra del Fuego. Get lost before I change my mind. “
I turned my back on him.
When I rejoined Queto in the car, he held out his hand. I handed him the crypto wallet. It was still attached to His Holiness’s prayer beads.
“I took my cut already, ” I said. “Your people should be pleased with their share.”
“You know what I don’t get Homes?”
I shrugged.
“Why do guilty people keep hiring you?”
“If I only took innocent clients, ” I said. “I’d starve.”