Page 18 of Monk
“Good to know. Anyway, should we get this done?”
Tarantula nods. “Let’s do it.”
Cosmo gives me a nod and I walk over to the van with Bala and motion for the boys to open the back doors. As soon as they do, Bala inspects the contents: two hundred pounds of medical-grade weed. Bala picks up one of the bags and gives it a sniff. He turns to Tarantula and gives him a thumbs-up.
Bala and I step back, and I let my guys help his guys load the bags of weed into their van. Neither of us speaks for a long moment, but the air between us crackles with tension. Finally, he looks over at me with a curled upper lip.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he asks.
“I don’t know you.”
“Yeah, but you stand there all high and mighty. You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
I give him an incredulous look, but don’t say anything because I think the question’s so stupid it doesn’t even merit a response. I don’t think he’s challenging me, though. There’s no hard edge to his voice. I honestly think that, for whatever reason, he’s just curious.
“Yeah, you think you’re better than me,” he says.
“I never took you to be the insecure type.”
He shrugs. “It ain’t like that, homie. It’s just curious that you think you’re better than me.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’m a biker. You’re a biker. I deal drugs. You deal drugs. I buy guns. You sell guns. You do crimes. I do crimes. From where I stand, we’re two sides of the same coin, homie. You’re no better than me, and I’m no worse than you,” he explains.
I watch Max and Eric carry the bags to the other van, letting Bala’s words rattle around in my head for a minute. It’s a perspective I haven’t considered before. The truth is, I’ve never actually thought of myself as being better than Bala and his crew. It’s just that I’ve considered them to be criminals and have somehow spared myself the same label.
To be fair, neither I nor any of the Pharaohs do anything remotely close to what the Raiders do. We don’t deal in the kind of drugs they do. We don’t murder people—and I know for fact that they do. And it’s in those distinctions I’ve found a way to tell myself I am not like them. Nor any of the other MCs we deal with.
But put in stark terms like that—terms I’ve shielded myself from, I suppose—a criminal is a criminal. Crimes are crimes. Yeah, there’s a matter of degree, but the bottom line is that I still commit crimes. Same as Bala. I guess I’ve been engaging in a little self-delusion to protect myself from the idea that I really am the dirtbag Sheriff Singer seems to think I am.
“Well, I never said I was better than you,” I finally tell him.
“You sure act like it.”
“Don’t mean to. If it helps, I know I’m not.”
He nods as if it does indeed help. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what he’s just said. I’m not one who likes to lie to myself. And I definitely don’t like being a hypocrite. Finding out I’m doing both things is kind of a trip. It’s something I’ll have to think more about later.
“We good?” I ask.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
The guys finish loading and close the doors on the vans. Cosmo and Tarantula look pretty engaged with each other and are having an animated conversation. What about, I have no idea. It doesn’t look heated, so I’m not overly worried about it, but I’m keeping an eye on things.
“You know what they’re talking about?” I ask.
He nods. “Our prez wants to know if you guys have a hookup for meth. We’re lookin’ to get into the biz.”
“Yeah, I can already tell you that’s not gonna happen. We don’t roll with that shit.”
Bala shrugs. “Money can open a lot of doors, man. And that market is flush with cash. There’s a lot of money to be made.”
I shake my head. “Ain’t gonna happen. Weed is as hardcore as we get.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll see.”
“Suppose we will.”
