When Caldwell showed up hours later, he was no help either. People were still mopping up and cleaning off the tables and troughs in the plant rooms. He started yelling at everybody just as a matter of course. “This is not a swamp, people! We don’t need to singlehandedly restore the Everglades.” Mostly he was blaming Lazlo for the problem, and Gus was used to this. The floor drains were plugged, for example, because Lazlo hadn’t thought to thoroughly test them before construction, or maybe there was something about the construction that had plugged them. But when the septic and drain company that was supposed to be there by lunchtime didn’t show up, Caldwell lit into Gus.
“Why the hell aren’t they here? Didn’t you impress upon them the urgency of the situation? Or did the urgency escape you?”
“I told them. Most of the water’s vacuumed up anyway.”
“Right, just like that. Same monotone. The old Hullbrooke sewer-and-manure banter. You boys got a minute for us? Very effective. You know you need to pick up the slack here.”
“They were the first people I called.” Gus folded his arms and shifted his considerable weight to one hip.
“And was that before you called your father? Or did you call your mommy instead? You know because she’s so understanding — My boy’s poor flat feet — Your feet. Your flab. The two are connected you know!”
If it had been Ernie being spoken to that way he was pretty sure he’d have put his mop down and thrown the bucket of dirty water all over Caldwell’s designer jacket and shirt. But Gus just stood there for a second, then shrugged and walked away. Maybe the young man was just inured to it, or his notion of Caldwell saw him through. Maybe both. Whatever it was, Ernie was impressed with the refusal to engage. Very impressed. Gus probably was the right man for the job, even if he was family.
Interestingly, the advantage of having no relationship and no familiarity was also in evidence that day. As per Caldwell’s wishes, Greg had finally hired a war vet. The young fellow started just that week and was told to look after purchasing and supplies, though because of the flood he was pitching in and cleaning along with everybody else. In spite of all the chaos, Caldwell’s demeanor spun a hundred and eighty degrees when he met Ray, the recently hired veteran. He welcomed him so warmly and professionally you’d think Ray was worth millions and Caldwell had studied at the priciest business schools. Ernie wondered how long that would last.
Ray’s presence made Ernie particularly glad he’d corrected anyone at CannRose who’d assumed he himself had been a veteran. Even though he’d gotten quite comfortable with the notion in his panhandling days, it would have been nerve-racking keeping up the pretense with the real deal wandering around. Façades could only be maintained by the supremely talented.
PART FIVE
Mothers
Oh Monsters, dispense with the smiling. Button up the praises. Roast the cloying sentiment. Give us a break. Mostly there is no choice. We stay. Rooted. Undeterred in the grips of desire. One onslaught after another and we’re still churning them out. Decreasing the vigor, slamming the joy. But go ahead. Take another slice. Revel in the comfort of uncertain sorrows. We stay all giving until we’ve had it. As if you cared. We’ve heard everything by now. It’s made no difference. A word though. Do not miss the entry as the earth waits spinning in grace and primordial slime. The thin film of life edged like a sword will kill you. And it’s a gift. You’re welcome.
from Cannto III, Cannabidadas
Chapter 20
Luther, lawyer and junior partner about-to-be marijuana multimillionaire, was speeding again. He kept checking his rearview to make sure he hadn’t attracted any police attention. It was just going on nine o’clock and he’d had to get up in the dark without waking his wife to make this little foray into the hinterlands. He wanted a face-to-face with Caldwell and Lazlo. Alice too, if she could make it, although all she did of late was pester him about hiring somebody to get the oils and extracts happening. Of course Lydia would be there and whatever inane nonsense she might come up with would be anyone’s guess. God knows perfect bone structure and azure-blue eyes could never make up for the tapioca between her ears. But Luther couldn’t afford to dwell on the president’s eccentricities. He was anxious. Cyrus, his old bugger of a boss, was questioning his preliminary research regarding the start-up and he’d heard the old accountant Malcolm was vexed too. In fact the old accountant was particularly vexed. The grow facility had gone over budget by more than eighty percent and it wasn’t even finished.
Construction had not only been running on forever but also into endless snags. Roof rot, fraying asbestos, mice, fungus-ridden bats. It also struck Luther that possibly shoddy materials and shoddy workmanship were at play. Lazlo, with his dubious contractor origins, was pinning the blame on suppliers and subcontractors. He also pointed at Caldwell’s insistence that they implement as much high-tech growing apparatus as they possibly could. They’d installed so much expensive lighting, Luther figured they could have done up a major opera house cheaper. The energy costs were breathtaking already and they were far from running at capacity.
Then there were the storefront dispensaries. The one in the city was ready but for some reason the one in Lyston was on hold. Luther wanted to know why. Of course there was nothing to sell yet anyway. Luther had heard the crops had had several false starts, whatever the hell that meant. And as for when finished product could be expected? He couldn’t get a straight answer out of Caldwell.
It was coming down to the wire. CannRose had only a month or so left to produce something sellable. The state registration would wait for no man, woman, child, dysfunctional technology or uppity vegetation. They’d already extended the deadline once. Companies unable to meet this new deadline would forfeit their registration. Given the law firm’s involvement, this would mean litigation and all manner of lawsuits that the firm already excelled at anyway. Still, actions against the state would be a waste of time and a further distraction. Luther was determined to avoid this.
This was only Luther’s second visit to the grow facility. The last time he’d seen it work had barely started on the administration section. In the face of Caldwell’s strident claims of expertise, the executives had acquiesced to the notion it was better to leave people to do their jobs. It was how both firms were run anyway. Bad move. They should have implemented restrictions. Severe ones. Lydia and her daft generosity! Caldwell should never have been allowed so much control.
Luther turned his Porsche into the parking lot and drove straight into mud. Recent rains had transformed the lot into a series of large potholes filled with clayish muck. This place was a disaster. You’d think a paved parking lot would be a given. Luther cursed quietly to himself and grabbed his laptop. As he opened the car door, Caldwell’s furry head came into view.
“Luther, your timing couldn’t be better! I was just about to give a tour here to Bob Stensen. You know Bob?”
How the fuck would he know Bob? How did Caldwell function with all these improbabilities floating through his head? “No, I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Luther, smiling tightly and exiting the car. He scraped the mud off his shoes on a stray rock.
“Luther is our legal mover and shaker, and CannRose’s illustrious CEO,” Caldwell exclaimed.
Luther extended a hand to Bob Stensen, who grabbed it in a vice-like grip. He had a fleshy mitt the size of a dinner plate and gave Luther the most excruciatingly painful handshake he’d ever experienced. Fucking hell. Luther quietly gasped and wished Bob all manner of catastrophe.
“Well, Bob here is from Idaho and he’s very interested in our technology. Isn’t that so, Bob?”
“Yes. I hear you have a top-of-the-line facility!”
It could have been a breeze but Luther saw the hair on Caldwell’s head puff up even higher at this suggestion.
“We certainly do, Bob,” Caldwell said. “We certainly do. Luther, Bob here is looking to invest in Emerald Air, the specialty HVAC supplier.”
“I see,” said
Luther, massaging his fingers.
“Since Idaho still won’t allow even medical marijuana to any extent, Bob is very wisely” — Caldwell nodded and smiled at Bob with unmistakable admiration — “looking to put his money in the support side of the industry. With luck of course, his investments stay clear of the state and any FDA or DEA nonsense. Lets him go nationwide. Maybe we should think about that too, Luther. It’s a very smart approach.” And he smiled again at Bob, who grinned back.
“Let’s just get this place up and running first,” said Luther, squinting at the building in front of him, a grim industrial box full of shortcuts from the 1980s. What were the old geezers Malcolm and Cyrus thinking?
“Why, Luther, we are up and running! With the best of them too!” Caldwell said this jovially, again smiling at Bob, but when he turned and caught Luther’s eye, he scowled. Luther ignored him. He couldn’t have been less interested in Caldwell’s show for this midwestern boob.
Caldwell began in an even louder voice, “Did you know that Emerald sent Bob here to showcase their technology? That’s how we’re looking in the industry these days, Luther. A showcase facility.”
“I’m really excited to see it,” said Bob.
“Well we’re just delighted you came,” said Caldwell. “And we’ll be more than happy to answer any questions.” Caldwell turned toward the building and took a deep breath of the skunky stink emanating from it. He strode across the muddy parking lot as if it were a red carpet. Luther and Bob followed more gingerly, weaving their way around the worst of the puddles. Caldwell pressed the door buzzer and yelled into the two-way speaker. After a few seconds the door clicked to let them in.
They walked into a fishbowl of sorts. There was floor-to-ceiling glass on all three sides and another electronic lock on the glass door directly ahead of them. Beyond that, a woman was sitting at a desk and to the right of her, adjoining the entrance, was another much larger elevated fishbowl of a room. In it sat the big red-bearded security director, staring at his flat screens. He was head of HR now too because Lazlo was hopeless at it. The security director turned and waved at them. The glass door in front of them buzzed and Caldwell ushered the two men in.
“We have to have the highest level of security here, Bob. The criminal element is always a present danger. Greg there has extensive background in policing and security forces. He was even with the FBI for a time. Isn’t that right, Luther?”
“Yes.” Luther was still wiping mud off his shoes. “Early in his career, I believe.”
“Well, our motto, Bob, is that you can’t be too secure.”
“I see you have a lot of cameras,” Bob said, staring up at a little shiny black sphere attached to the corner of the ceiling.
“Sixty-two, Bob. All motion activated and recording all activities everywhere in the facility as we breathe.”
“That’s very impressive.”
“You’ll be even more impressed by our production processes.” Caldwell looked into the distance and then raised his arms as if to caress a great imaginary sphere. “I like to think of this facility as the mother ship, Bob. We’re charting new territory here, boldly going where no one has gone in terms of automation, efficiency and quality marijuana. It’s the heart of the company. It’s where everything, every impact that we have on the health of patients in this state, begins. This is where we grow the plants. It’s where the magic happens, Bob.”
Caldwell made a grand sweep of his arm encompassing the open-concept workspaces and the ceiling with its hanging light arrays. “As you can see this area is all administrative. We’ll come back later and I’ll point out the innovative office features. But I know what you came here for, Bob. We should get right to it.” With Bob in tow, Caldwell quickly walked past the various work niches and pressed another buzzer beside a heavy steel door. Bob looked up at the camera glinting down at them as they waited.
Luther, in a thoroughly foul mood by this point, held up his phone motioning he had a call that needed answering and he took off in the opposite direction. Caldwell’s voice droned on behind him. “We’ll start at the beginning, Bob, and I can show you how the air handling systems are functional and crucial even in our . . .” The door finally opened and they vanished into the bright white production space.
Meanwhile, Luther was counting to ten. Just being around Caldwell was infuriating given all the questions that needed answering. Luther was at the far end of the administrative section by this point and began looking for Lazlo. There was no sign of him and Lydia wasn’t in her office either.
Luther went to the young woman at the front desk. Her nametag said Lily and she was hugely pregnant. Either twins or just about due. “Lazlo’s gone into Lyston,” she told him. “About some lighting matter I think. He’ll be back within the next hour I imagine.” She smiled up at him.
Luther was annoyed. Lazlo had either forgotten he was coming or didn’t give a damn.
“Oh, he’s expecting you,” Lily said. “We were all expecting you. You made it in record time or got up awfully early to get here by nine o’clock.” She nodded with enthusiasm in an effort to soothe his irritation. “How was the drive?”
Luther noticed one of the muscles in his neck was beginning to twitch. “It was fine.”
“Would you like a coffee or tea or water or . . . something?”
“No. Thanks.” Luther softened a little. She was a pretty young woman and Luther had never been immune to ministrations from pretty women.
He moved away from her desk and gazed around at the gaudy lobby with its backlit chartreuse panel. The CannRose-Medi logo, garish and clunky, stared back at him. He’d never approved it. He’d been too busy and hadn’t cared much until he saw the pictures. In fact he’d never approved anything about any part of this building. Cyrus had told him, “It’s hardly important. Just let them decorate. It’s a grow-op for Chrissake.” All the chairs were retro orange, and the walls that weren’t glass were an iridescent pearl-gray, as was the exposed ductwork up in the rafters. The floor was a gray-blue slate tile. It had cost a fortune and to Luther, it looked appalling. Some failed attempt at contemporary postmodernism, surrealist structuralism, obstructionism or some other fucking “ism.” The overall effect made Luther feel like he was trapped inside a diseased oyster. He looked over at the pretty young assistant again. She was busy typing and he thought how healthy and hopeful she looked in this bizarre setting. He went back to the desk and asked her where he might find some water after all. She pointed to the conference room that had a sink and a bar fridge.
Luther found the conference room as hideous as the rest of the place. The table, an elongated oval slab of milky, green-tinted acrylic was more than two inches thick and also slightly iridescent. It was suspended by three steel rods descending from the exposed structural supports of the ceiling and was embedded with what looked like the inner workings of old wristwatches: tiny spiral springs and assorted sizes of small brass cogs and gears. When Luther sat down with his glass of water, he found the acrylic slab dizzying. The high-back leather chairs around it were lime green, a slightly deeper shade than the chartreuse on the logo that was staring back at him from yet another wall. The prevalence of gaudy greens cast a pall over the room that Luther guessed would make anyone look bilious.
As he was sitting contemplating his nausea, the security director walked in. “Hello, Luther,” Greg said, heading for the fridge. Not hello sir or hello Mr. Cohen. Luther didn’t remember ever meeting the guy, but clearly CEO status in this business did not inspire deference. Not that Luther ever counted on it in his life generally, but he’d never been a CEO before and in the back of his mind perhaps he’d hoped a few modest perks might come with it. Then as Luther watched him pick through the cans of pop he remembered Greg had done a background check on him too.
“So how’s it goin’?” Greg said, turning around as he casually snapped open the pop can.
The notion that information is power — and in this instance was completely unequal and pro
bably promoted way too much familiarity — irritated Luther. He decided to take the offensive.
“So tell me, Greg, you’re a guy in the know. Any idea what the hell is going on and why this operation is mired in so many delays?”
Greg took a sip of his pop and stood contemplating the question with his head tilted to one side. “It’s a little complicated, I guess.”
“Complicated.”
“Well, there’s the regs that keep changing. The technology is extensive. Then there’s actually growing the stuff.” Greg took another sip. “I get your point though. It shouldn’t take so long. It’s just weed.” He appeared to go on thinking deeply about the matter. He wasn’t often consulted in this way. “It’s a new direction. More sophisticated,” he said, nodding to himself. And then he sauntered out of the conference room without waiting for a response from Luther.
Luther sat back in his chair. After a few minutes and feeling calmer, he decided he may as well see what Caldwell was telling people these days. While Caldwell’s perception of reality was a mystery to Luther, Cyrus had told him it was a function of personality type. It could be mined to great advantage. He should treat Caldwell with some care and try a little flattery now and again if he really wanted to see the ease with which Caldwell could be directed. But Luther was not good at watching others reconstruct or embellish reality. Clearly Cyrus was more psychologically dexterous. Luther looked around again at the hideous décor and sighed as he stood up. He left his water glass by the sink and stepped out of the conference room into the open concept. He found the door that led to the production area and pressed the buzzer. As the door swung open, the whiteness that greeted him was a relief.
The Buds Are Calling Page 11