From Chapter 4 Wally Levitt scratched under the black do-rag, telling Mitch Reno how he got chummy with Sunny, the waitress down at Chickie''s Diner. She''d been supplying them with names for the past six months, fat-cat customers with nice places to break into. And he''d been paying her fifty a pop, Wally not mentioning he laid another hundred down each time he climbed into her bed. "We just kind of hit it off, you know." He put on his shit-eating grin, took a toke and turned his head, hearing a thump from the garage. "You hear that?" "What?" Just his imagination. A couple more tokes and he''d be Gumby with no feeling below the knees. Mitch waved off the joint, the smoke making his bowels churn?high time to ease up on it, the Thunder Chicken, too, the name Tolley had for Wild Turkey back in the Hat.

Trade it for some Sunny D. "What I''m saying is we make what," Wally said, "a hundred bucks to run this shit, fifty each?" "Yeah, so?" Better than nothing, waiting for Sunny to come up with someplace worth hitting. Wally puffed smoke at the ceiling, looking down the hall, making sure Jeffery was still in the can, keeping his voice low. "So, why not grow our own--make some real dough?" "What the hell we know about it?" "Half the people in B.C. grow the shit." "Going against these guys ." Mitch shook his head, but then pictured getting Ginny a stove with all the burners working and slapping new shingles on her roof.

Holding the smoke in his lungs was like trying to hold a beach ball under water. Letting it out slow, Wally drew forward, the sofa springs digging into his ass. "This shit goes for what--two Gs a pound?" Mitch shrugged. It wasn''t time for math. "Thirty plants to a pound. We bagged what, a thousand or so last night?" Mitch cleared his throat, a signal that Jeffery was coming out of the can, the old man flushing, hacking like he was passing a furball, tugging his jeans over his paunch, snugging the chromed Python into his belt. Jeffery called it the king of handguns, the thing sticking out from his pants like a big dick. "What''re you girls jawing about?" Jeffery put on the hard-ass, flexing his knees and zipping up, no use for either of these assholes, two-bit punks Stax sent over, mules making the drop to JayMan at the docks, something he''d done solo going on a dozen years.

Suddenly Artie was letting Stax run things, making Jeffery feel too long in the tooth to take care of simple shit. It pissed him off, thinking he deserved better after taking care of the Asian guy who owed Artie ten grand six months ago. No questions asked, Jeffery got it done, catching the guy in his garage, knocking him down, setting a Lawn-Boy over the black-haired dude''s face, giving him a choice, pay or get his face mowed. Jeffery reached for the joint, Wally letting go of it, thinking no way he wanted it back after this guy put his scurvy lips on it, lips the color of earthworms. Reek rose off Jeffery like smog, his leather neck disappearing under the dingy wife-beater, the yellow eyes with the white shit in the corners, hair tipped with grey, looking like it was greased with Valvoline. "One of you girls out in the garage just now?" Jeffery asked, nodding toward the side door, trying to remember if he locked it. Wally shook his head. "So what you hanging around for?" Jeffery wanted to get back to the April issue of Barely Legal .

Wally and Mitch started to get up when the side door flew in, kicked off its hinges. The crack felt like an electric charge. Wally and Mitch dove for the floor, Jeffery yanking the Python from his belt, running into the kitchen and ducking behind the counter. "Come on, girls, let''s get dangerous." The blast of the hand cannon got them crawling for the front door, four sets of fingers scrabbling for the doorknob. The intruder fired, the shotgun blast tearing a six-inch hole in the kitchen ceiling. Another bark from the Python, Jeffery fired through the wall, guessing where the guy with the shotgun was. It sent the intruder running out the side door and around the front of the house.

Jeffery headed him off, shoving Mitch aside, ripping the front door open. The guy with the shotgun outfoxed him, standing poised, the Slugster barrel up as Jeffery opened the door. The blast knocked him back, tore him out of his sneakers and punched him down. A grunt came from his throat, Jeffery''s doll''s eyes looking up at the Florida light. Mitch and Wally looked up from the floor. A second guy in a white van, pointing a shotgun out the window, peeled down the driveway, screeching rubber. The gunman ran and dove into the open back of it, yelling, "Go, go, go." The van hopped the curb, wobbled on jelly springs, the driver bouncing like a bobblehead.

Swiping the neighbor''s mailbox, the bumper torn off, the van ripped through a bed of marigolds before getting back on the road, racing to the intersection, making a hard right and was gone. Mitch got to his feet, watching the getaway, Wally crawling to Jeffery, the king of handguns slipping from the old man''s fingers, a wet sucking sound coming from his throat. Jeffery stared up, blood bubbling from his mouth, finding it hard to speak. "One of you dickheads give me a hand." Wally knelt next to him, caught the foul breath and the sucking sound, blood pooling under him, Jeffery''s chest looking like bloody hamburger. Wally picked up the Python, saw himself in the chrome, spinning its cylinder, saying, "Think you''re done being dangerous, huh, Jeff?" The distant sound of sirens got them moving, Wally tucking the Python in his belt. He ran across the street to the knocked-over mailbox, getting out his all-in-one, thinking he''d look up the guys in the van, give them first bid for the license plate, pretty sure he''d seen the one driving someplace before. The second bid would go to Stax, the guy who hired him and Mitch to transport the weed.

With a few twists, he had the plate from the bumper and chased after Mitch, going through the backyards. Wally flipped a coin and said he was going to hang back for Sunny''s shift to end. What he did, he went up to Third and got himself the bold pick of the day, preferring Starbucks over Tim''s, came back and glanced inside. The construction guy was still shoveling it in, bitching about finding one of Sunny''s hairs in his rice pudding, Wally figuring the guy should be so lucky. He went around to the parking spots, no windows on that side of the diner. The pickup had Karlson Construction painted down the side in orange, a Ford from before the time of alarms and airbags. If Wally hadn''t downed two orders of burgers and rings, he would have done the guy mano a mano. Sliding the slim jim down the window, catching the notched bar on the rod, he popped the lock.

Getting in, he had her wired up and purring in no time flat. Onto the Esplanade and through the intersection, he burped up onion and lit a Newport from the pack he''d lifted off the table. Chirping the tires, he coasted along Third to where it became Marine, spinning the radio knob until he found Rock 101, the afternoon DJ putting on "Thunder Road" after saying he was giving away Springsteen tickets to the first ten callers. Wally dialed the station''s number, getting a busy signal. The Boss had really rocked that time at the Tacoma Dome. Hitting redial like a Morse operator until he was coming down Taylor Way, still burping onion, getting a busy tone every try. The bridge crew was busy slamming the piles for the bridge over the Capilano, Marine Drive reduced to two lanes, Wally checking out the flagger chick. To Wally''s way of thinking, traffic was getting more fucked every time an immigrant stepped off a boat.

An extra bridge lane wasn''t going to make a shit bit of difference. He drove past Park Royal, remembering the bowling alley, movie theater and driving range, back when there was stuff to do in West Van besides shop. Pulling into Ambleside Park, he turned past the sailing club, a couple of parked cars and a truck with its trailer. Lining the pickup nose first on the boat ramp, Wally ground his cigarette on the passenger seat, burning through the cheap vinyl. The hole smoldered until Wally unzipped his fly and put it out, laughing like a school kid. Nobody around except an Asian guy tossing a crab trap from the pier. Getting out, he found a toolbox in the truck''s bed, setting it on the gas pedal. The Asian guy looked over, Wally giving him a wave, then he threw the stick into drive.

The pickup rode down the ramp until the salt water rose over the Karlson lettering, swirling into the cab before the engine stalled. The Asian guy couldn''t believe it, Wally calling to him, "You Chinese ain''t the only ones can''t drive worth a shit." Strolling like he had all day, he made his way back to Marine, happy with the way this day turned out, passing the West Van cop shop, a sign out front warning visitors about swooping birds nesting overhead. It got him laughing?swooping birds too much for the boys in blue. It brought up an idea he had been playing with since he was in high school: decals of a big donut with a hole. The idea was to stick them over the O in the word police, tag every squad car in town, give every pig in town a donut. Fishing around in his pocket for bus fare, burping onion again, he wondered how much was in Artie''s safe. Maybe he''d get some wheels with style, something like an Escalade with vanity plates.

Good time to pick one up with the eco.