“You’re full of shit, Luther. And if by that mention of single mothers you’re threatening me, don’t even think of it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. You would be so fucked by my dad’s law firm.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d make sure you were ruined.”
Luther tossed his hand in the air dismissively and headed for the door.
“I’d fucking ruin you!” his wife screamed after him.
Luther got into his car. It was Saturday. Now that CannRose products were finally on the shelves he was going to go check on the dispensary in Lyston and then head over to the grow facility for a meeting with Lazlo. Every time he was in the area, Lydia offered to put him up overnight at Rosefields. He’d always declined, even the last time after the tenth-crop celebration when it was one o’clock in the morning. Well tonight he would take her up on her offer. Sure he felt guilty about being away from his family so much but it was for their benefit. His wife was just spoiled. She’d always been spoiled, especially by her father. The dithering old fart. If Luther had gone to work for him he’d be up to his butt in patent cases and poorer by half.
Luther occasionally regretted his choices as a younger man. In law school he’d been besotted by his future wife’s confidence and her patrician bearing. She’d so clearly come from privilege. He had not. He was just smart and not put off by slogging through masses and masses of paperwork. Now he wondered at the way he’d set himself up. His wife had no clue how financially invested he was in CannRose. Sixteen-hour days over the past two and a half years trying to ensure his place in the anointed class was beginning to wear on him. And though his wife wanted to see him more often, he knew she’d never take a cut in prosperity for it.
#
Lydia was delighted to host Luther overnight. He’d always seemed so preoccupied, eternally rushed. She couldn’t imagine having to keep one foot in a law firm and the other in a medical marijuana business. My gracious, just looking after the public and internal relations of one company was sometimes more than she could handle. Luther must be a wizard of some kind. And he did so much for CannRose even if Caldwell was less than appreciative. Lydia thought she would invite Damian as the other dinner guest and not bother to mention any of it to Caldwell. He was in St. Lucia right now, hoping to “reel in a progressive-minded investor,” whatever that meant.
Lydia had come to realize several months ago it was useless trying to understand the world from Caldwell’s perspective. It wasn’t helpful for her job. It didn’t usually make her happy. And it never made the people around her happy. Corinna at the spa, who was now back to being Lydia’s weekly confidante, had pointed out that given CannRose’s organizational structure, Caldwell should be making an effort to understand Lydia’s perspective, not the other way around. Corinna wasn’t for a moment suffering any delusion that Caldwell would ever make such an effort. And that clarity, though never actually expressed, seemed to be absorbed on some level by Lydia.
Lydia had recently hired a part-time housekeeper who especially liked cooking. So Lydia added another day to her schedule — Friday as it turned out — and the woman spent the day roasting, baking, concocting marinades, chopping vegetables and otherwise preparing meals for the week. So Saturdays the larder was full. It was difficult to decide what to eat; there was so much to choose from.
“What would you prefer, Luther?” Lydia was bent over scrutinizing the refrigerator contents. “A cold roast pork or we could barbecue some marinated lamb. Oh yum! She’s even made those delightful little salmon skewers with the spicy sauce. We must have these as hors d’oeuvres. They’re to die for, Luther. You like salmon? You’re not allergic to fish or anything are you?”
“No. I’m . . . I’m not allergic. It sounds wonderful.” Luther sat on one of the high kitchen stools and cradled his gin and tonic.
“And lamb or pork?”
“Oh . . . uh . . . lamb, I guess.”
“Oh of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” As Lydia closed the fridge and turned to face him, her blue eyes seemed to pick up the evening sunlight and they shone like sapphires.
Luther squinted briefly. “Oh no. Don’t worry about that. I eat ham sandwiches. Even bacon. He stared down at his drink again. Our kitchen at home is hardly kosher. My wife’s culinary skills amount to stir-fries and I don’t cook at all.”
Lydia noted his gloominess and slouch. Poor man. So overworked. “You know what you need, Luther?” Lydia said in her best Southern manner.
Luther looked up at Lydia confused. No one had addressed anything to do with his needs as far back as he could remember.
Lydia smiled. He was sweet, so boyish. “Two good weeks on a lovely beach, or in some beautiful mountains somewhere,” she said. “No cell phones and nothing to do but eat, sleep and play.”
“That’s hardly going to happen any time soon.” Luther suddenly felt himself on the verge of tears and he had no idea where it was coming from. Luckily Damian appeared and he’d brought a bottle of wine and some dark-looking cookies or crackers.
“Are those what I think they are?” Lydia asked.
Damian nodded as he reached out to shake hands with Luther.
“You’re so naughty,” Lydia tittered.
“One of Ernie’s creations,” Damian said. “Savory, gluten-free Misdemeanor Crackers. For cheese or something. Or seriously, just on their own, they’re pretty fine.”
“They’ll be terrific with the little salmon kabobs then. Speaking of which, Damian dear, could you fire up the barbecue for us? Grab yourself a drink too. Caldwell brought some fancy tequila back from his holiday. You’re a tequila aficionado, aren’t you? Tell me what you think.” Lydia turned and smiled at Luther again. “One day, I’ll get caught you know,” she giggled. “I’ll have to fire myself from my own company.”
It took Luther a second to realize the crackers were laced.
“Damian’s registered here. Of course you don’t need anything in Colorado. And he’s very generous as you can see.” Lydia began picking artichokes out of the quart basket sitting on the counter. “So’s Caldwell by the way. You know Caldwell uses it medicinally?”
Luther shook his head. This was new. If anything he’d imagined Caldwell was on amphetamines or at the very least too much coffee.
“I thought everyone knew that about Caldwell,” Lydia said. “It’s why he’s so fussy about what goes on in the facility. I just haven’t gotten around to getting registered yet. He keeps telling me I’m an idiot not to. And I do have pain you know — sometimes in my feet. I suppose it only makes sense to get registered so I can at least legally test my own products. I test them anyway. Shush.” She turned back to washing the artichokes.
Luther wondered how the evening was going to progress and if he should take a pass on the crackers. Then again, what the hell. Not like half the clients he dealt with on a day-to-day basis weren’t on something. The recreational habits of the wealthy and powerful were hardly restrained.
Damian came waltzing back in. “You know it’s freaky warm out there. We should eat on the patio.”
“A great idea. Would that suit you, Luther?”
“Sure.” And he smiled a wan little smile.
#
Everything was delicious. The dinner party for three stretched to an hour or so after midnight. The crackers had an extraordinary effect on Luther. He was laughing like never before and in the quiet moments when he thought of it, he saw his own life was outlandish. He worked like a slave, for what? He’d become a crazed idiot. Damian told him he needed a “chill tutor.” Damian had also brought some “high-end Colorado product” along with his bong. They polished off a bottle of champagne with the salmon and crackers, and a substantial quantity of French merlot with the lamb. Luther had rarely eaten artichokes, and like a kid, he found them fun to pull apart. Damian had barbecued the eggplant and lamb to perfection, and Lydia’s housekeeper had triumphed with the balsamic-and-basil dressing for the tomato salad.
Luther couldn’t ever remember feeling so light or pleasant. Nor could he remember enjoying company so much or having such amusing conversation. Not since his college days. And Lydia, as it turned out, was hardly stupid. She was just odd and seemed to be tuned in to some other channel. She was also incredibly beautiful in the candlelight wrapped in her pale-blue Angora shawl. Damian bade the two of them a good night and tottered off to his apartment at about 1:30 a.m.
Luther found he couldn’t take his eyes off Lydia. She noticed this and pondered what Corinna would advise. Of course she knew the answer. Corinna was ever in favor of carpe diem, or carpe noctem in this case. Lydia reached out and stroked Luther’s face. She thought she saw a tear in his eye. He was so sweet and, my gracious, so very boyish. She took his hand and got up from the table. He stood up too, held her hand to his chest and then he raised it to his mouth. He kissed it so gently, all the while looking most forlornly at her.
“You poor boy. Poor boy,” Lydia said softly and she put her arm around him. They stood kissing in the candlelight for a long time. And Luther again felt for some odd reason he was on the verge of tears. Then Lydia took him by the hand and led him upstairs to her bed where all thoughts and tendencies to tears were washed away.
And so Lydia began the fifth and possibly most passionate affair of her life. Luther was a wonder. Such a surprise too! She never would have imagined the energy behind that bespectacled, ambitious façade. Jordan would have seen him as a type, as a typical lawyer, acclimated to tedium and versed in argument — “something of a blight” — but for all she knew her dead husband’s best friend, Cyrus, had been no better in his younger days. Why had Jordan held those kinds of opinions about people anyway? You never really could tell what someone was like unless you got very close, and even then sometimes you still might not have a clue. She’d often felt like that with Jordan himself.
Enough of Jordan. Now she had a whole new prospect for diversion and enthusiasm. And a veritable cornucopia of items to discuss with Corinna. She’d already told Corinna about the night she’d had with Damian. She admitted it had been ill-considered. She’d felt lonely and was still missing Caldwell. Damian had made the first move. But. Well . . . the poor man was awfully thin. Not much energy or stamina there. Or genuine inclination when it came right down to it. They’d agreed, Damian and Lydia, they’d just be good friends after that. Upon hearing this, Corinna had voiced not only her approval but the opinion that at Lydia’s age, quality sex was absolutely of the essence. When she heard about Luther, Corinna gave Lydia a round of applause and then produced two small glasses and a bottle of grappa she always kept handy.
Chapter 36
It had taken Petra forever, and occasional tumblers of vodka, to feel caught up on the science of weed. Almost a year if she wanted to be a little more precise about it. Then again she’d hardly had a functioning lab until now. So in what direction should her research go? Initially she’d assumed CannRose would want to increase yield. “Oh of course, that would be perfect,” said Caldwell while Luther and Lydia enthusiastically agreed. Then she’d explained perhaps characterizing cultivars for metabolite profiles and genetics would be beneficial since there were so many cultivars now and very little documented about them. Marijuana was complex. It had several cannabinoids apart from the almighty THC, and possibly well over a hundred terpenes. Characterization could allow for better pinpointing and breeding of specific assortments of the active drug ingredients. “Oh of course, that would be perfect too,” Luther said while the other two nodded this time.
And the facility had problems with pests and disease. Cannabis-breeding for the black-market over the last fifty years had perhaps led to losses of the plant’s natural resistance. Back in the old days, hemp, for example, was planted with other crops to reduce pests. Reintroducing old genetics might improve resilience. She might retrieve vestigial cannabinoids and terpenes in the process. “My gracious, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?” Lydia spoke up, and they’d smiled and murmured among themselves.
Petra stared at the lemon slice and single ice cube floating in her tall rum and water, and then gradually took in the distorted view of her muddy backyard through the liquid. She sighed. The CannRose people were clueless, and it only served to increase her options. She could just show up at the lab and quietly drink herself into the grave and they’d be none the wiser. Or maybe she could personally explore her own endocannabinoid system with lots of in vivo trials, and dwell in a permanent haze. On the other hand, she could finally do some research! Hell, the field was wide open and even though it was very modest, she did have a budget. The situation challenged her cultivated cynicism.
So Petra set up a lunch date with Alice. Her research might as well benefit the frail and infirm as soon as possible. Alice at least was a pharmacist; she’d have some idea of the areas most in need of investigation from a patient’s perspective. Best of all they could talk science.
They met just outside the city at a trendy roadhouse known for its hearty food, and the lunch extended well into the afternoon. They discussed how marijuana’s medicinal value was invariably about the entourage effect — every time a single cannabinoid was isolated or synthesized and used on its own, its effectiveness was muted or sometimes nonexistent. Patients often had to try various products until they got it right. Often, even individual lots of the same product had differences. Every patient was unique too. More understanding of the human endocannabinoid system would help. Add to that the forms of administering: smoking, vaping and ingesting. Edibles particularly could have unpredictable effects because the liver was involved. And almost no one had even looked at what terpenes added to the mix. They were playing an important part too. While several terpenes, like limonene, had been well studied for pharmacological effects on their own, the combined effects of these with cannabinoids — whether synergistic, complimentary, inhibitory or merely inactive — were barely identified let alone understood. But regardless, marijuana was effective medicine judging by its use over the ages.
“It’s astounding,” Alice remarked, digging into her plate of baked sole and roasted vegetables, “the number of ailments historically treated by cannabis, especially in Victorian times. Lord, the list in the old pharmacopoeia was extraordinary: any kind of pain; all manner of convulsions; tics and brain tumors; impotence; insanity; the three g’s, goiter, gout and gonorrhea; dysentery; dyspepsia; palpitations; toothaches; spasms of the bladder; and hydrophobia!” Alice smiled. “Oh, and let’s not forget the treatment of women!” she rolled her eyes. “But you know, they used it successfully for difficult births and healing afterwards, not to mention menstrual pain and of course hysteria and neurasthenia!”
“They’d try just about anything for hysteria and neurasthenia,” Petra said, and they both laughed.
“Oh dear. Will women never behave!” Alice said.
“I sure as hell hope not.” Petra took another swig of her Bloody Mary and then launched into her own summary of cannabis research from the 1960s, most of it on rats. It turned out it was some of that research on rats that had changed Alice’s mind two and a half years before.
“The studies coming out of Israel now,” Petra said, still picking at her salad, “are suggesting that it just might be a wonder drug after all. Kind of like the Victorians, they’re finding effectiveness for everything from epilepsy and ulcerative colitis to cancer, arthritis, MS and skin diseases; never mind all the common uses, PTSD, glaucoma, that sort of thing. There are even ongoing studies showing promise for its use in autism. It’s mindboggling.”
Alice agreed.
While discussions with Alice were infinitely more enjoyable than trying to converse with the company executives, Petra still had trouble focusing, so she decided to start building a database, at least for the few strains CannRose would sell. Genetic, cannabinoid and terpene profiles. Pretty basic! Alice agreed to set up an ongoing survey with clients: What is your ailment? What product works? What doesn’t? Were there pleasan
t or unpleasant side effects? Petra would look for patterns and brush up on her stats. She’d buy expensive software — always a good investment.
As Petra got in her car and waved goodbye, she was pleased she’d set up the meeting. A research project with Alice would keep her on track. And besides, Alice was fun.
As a sideline and also fun, Petra would be on the lookout for landrace strains, even if they were rare and approaching extinction more rapidly by the month. The frenzy of hybrid breeding put purity at a premium. There was a Dutch company that traveled the world looking for these unadulterated strains and claimed to have an extensive, not to mention expensive, seed bank. But Petra had put the word out quietly among the staff that she’d be interested in “old-timer weed.” The contemporary genetics were a jumbled mess for sure, thanks to years of black-market R and D focused on one narrow objective: the highest high. In fact all the hybridization and confused terminology over the last fifty years had totally erased any distinctions like sativa, indica and ruderalis. Chemovar was the term of choice now in the medical weed world and it was based only on chemistry, the cannabinoid and terpene profiles.
Petra might also cultivate plants that Damian wanted to toss because they didn’t grow according to expectations. In fact once she got the cannabinoid and terpene characterization going, she could start looking at the effects of environmental stressors on the secondary metabolite production. Down the road, maybe she could ally herself with a doctor keen on clinical studies. She could start looking right now. Clinical studies were finally happening even if they weren’t happening in this state. No matter how much it made her feel like an impostor, she would endeavor to start talking to other researchers again. She’d rather stick pins in her eyes of course.
The Buds Are Calling Page 18