“Uh-huh.” Alice put her feet up on the couch and leaned back into the cushions to make herself more comfortable. “I never really liked her. I liked the one before her.”
“I know you did.”
“You never told me what happened there.”
“Yeah, well. She told me I was too gutless to be emotionally intimate.”
“Did she have a point?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“You know when you and Dad split up, I thought he was a total asshole. Now I have no idea how the hell things are supposed to work.”
“Oh, you’re blaming your parents’ divorce for your romantic disasters. Honey, you were in college by that point.”
“I’m not blaming anything. I just don’t know how things are supposed to be maybe.”
“I didn’t leave him, you know.”
“I know. He said you never had to. You just vanished while you were with him.”
“He said that?”
“Yeah. Maybe you should have split up before I went to college.”
“Huh. Well he never told me.”
“How the hell does that work, Mom?”
“I don’t know, honey. But I have to admit, I’m a whole lot happier not having to look at his miserable face every morning when I wake up.”
Chapter 40
Ernie noticed with a feeling of growing unease that Guido and his sidekick, Jason, had more or less installed themselves at the grow facility. They took over a corner nook in the administration section that had comfy chairs and a long coffee table, and they sat at opposite ends, always with a tablet or laptop in front of them usually displaying some financial or investment news site. The silver-haired Guido, with his sporty tan and fine Italian tweeds, was there almost every day. Ernie noted he would only occasionally glance at his screen because he was apparently fascinated by the activities going on around him. Jason, by contrast, stared constantly at his screen or his phone, or he alternated between the two devices. And he didn’t show up as often. When he was there, with his shaved head, beard stubble and leather jacket, he freaked more than a few people out..
Neither Guido nor Jason had any title or position in the company. Guido said he didn’t want one. “Please, indulge an old widower his distractions. I just want to get the feel of this extraordinary operation and all its extraordinary people.” Ernie noticed the old guy wasn’t at all averse to running errands either. He was happy to take new display labels over to the Lyston dispensary or pick up new boot racks and hangers from the hardware store. He sat in on all the big meetings too. And it seemed he had no ambition or strong opinions about the operation, so the staff, managers and executives all chatted with him. In fact people talked with Guido now more than they did with Ernie. It was clear advanced years and European charm could turn you into a full-time father confessor. If Ernie had the goods on local gossip, Guido had his mitts on people’s actual pulses. It was unnerving.
The only other person who seemed to find it all peculiar was Percy. “Grieving old widower my foot!” the QA officer said. “He’s got more life in his step than I do.” And Percy raised his eyebrows accordingly.
So Ernie rarely spoke about himself with Guido. Instead he asked Guido about his life or stuck to pleasantries.
Guido occasionally carried a violin case around, and there really was a violin in it. He’d played with the Houston Opera until his father died and he was called in to help run the family business — high-end shoes. Guido handled the North American operations. One morning at CannRose, Guido gave a little concert during coffee break. “I’m getting into the jazz in my golden years. Roba forte, huh!” And then he whipped off something like you’d hear in a café. One of the tunes sounded vaguely familiar. He beamed at Ernie. “A Rodgers and Hart standard, ‘This Can’t Be Love.’ I learn listening to old Grappelli. What a master. He was still touring in his eighties.” Of course this little concert endeared Guido to the staff and put most of the rumors and Mafia jokes to rest. The trail of people darting into his space with their coffees in hand and gushing “Ciao” as they left was unending.
Lorne, the production manager, was often seen chatting with Guido. Ernie thought Lorne was beginning to show a few cracks in his surfer-boy oh-so-composed persona, especially when Caldwell was on the rampage about some new measure he wanted in place “yesterday!” As well, there was the ongoing issue about employees who were registered for medical marijuana and needed to smoke on the job. Some of them smoked an awful lot, and Lorne wasn’t sure they were very sick.
One day there was a kerfuffle. A dark affair with much whispering and tut-tutting. Apparently, two registered employees, who were buying as much weed at the company discount as they possibly could, were then reselling it on the side. They were so brazen they’d asked Lorne if he wanted to buy some too, and Ernie had witnessed this incident a few days before. He could see it shocked Lorne, leaving him tongue-tied and shaking his head while the two erstwhile dealers merely shrugged and pretended nothing had happened. So Ernie dusted things as slowly as he could on other side of dividing wall when he saw Lorne scuttle into Guido’s little corner.
“Caldwell won’t let me fire them.” Lorne sounded uneasy. “Or inform the authorities. It would look bad for the company. We’re supposed to deal with it internally. I don’t know what to do.”
“An interesting problem,” Guido said. “Caldwell is right of course. But you are in a perfect position. You can cut off the supply, yes?”
“Only if I rat to the DOH.”
“Stop the discount?”
“It would draw attention too. They audit the purchase records.” Lorne sucked in his breath. “But now we know what they’re up to, it means we’re party to the crime.”
“In other parts of the country, it’s not a crime. It would just be an independent resale.”
“We could lose the registration!”
“Caldwell says we could never lose the registration now.”
“Caldwell says a lot of things. Just check out subsection c32-1-a of the code. I think I could go to jail.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Guido cleared his throat and Ernie heard the clink as the old man put his cup back on the saucer. Everybody else used mugs.
“I’m having trouble sleeping . . .”
“That’s terrible. No one should have to lose sleep over these things.”
“What do you think I should do? What would you do?”
There was silence and Ernie imagined Guido chewing on his upper lip or stroking his collar. Finally he said, “I guess I’d tell Jason.”
“What would he do?”
“He’d take care of it.”
People only guessed at Jason’s function: assistant, business associate, bodyguard? Or maybe hit man. Somebody said he was a biker from Montreal and he had obscure tattooed symbols that crept up his neck at the back. He spoke French a lot on the phone and moved in and out of CannRose like a fast-moving shadow. Sometimes he was away for several days.
“What will Jason do?”
Ernie thought he heard alarm in Lorne’s voice.
“He will talk to them. He’s very good at this. Especially with the little punks. Yes? This is what you are telling me. We have two little punks here. CannRose is better not employing them. You are right. So we will see.”
“Well, I’m not so sure . . .”
“You are very busy. I will speak to Jason for you.”
Ernie watched as Lorne seemed to dash out from the corner, his head down. And he was heading straight for Ernie, who had now moved out from behind the dividing wall.
“Hey, Lorne. How’s your day?”
Lorne looked up. He was spooked all right. “Fine, Ernie. Thanks for asking.” And he sped on by, lab coat flaring behind him.
Two days later, the employees in question quit.
Ernie saw Lorne give Jason a thumbs-up, which was completely ignored. He looked flustered by the lack of response and turned to the person closest t
o him, who happened to be Cassie. He immediately struck up a conversation with her about the next day’s cloning. And Ernie thought he talked a little louder than usual.
#
There was enormous pressure to get the derivative products developed and on the shelf. The company was almost a year behind on extracts, oils, tinctures, lotions and suppositories. Interestingly, there had been a statewide push among commercial suppliers to get into the suppository market. Ernie was keeping track of all the CannRose luminaries who were in favor. So far only Lazlo and Guido were wholeheartedly enthusiastic.
Stoyan, the recently hired extraction specialist, told Ernie he’d never once imagined a life outside Moldova. Herbal medicines were the popular remedies there, often ahead of synthetic drugs, and Stoyan, wanting to be popular, had trained in pharmaceutical botany. For a good fifteen years he’d ground, pounded, pressurized, ethylated or otherwise clobbered plant material for the healing properties that Moldovans relied upon. But that couldn’t make up for statewide poverty. He figured he’d be better off driving a cab for his Uncle Nicolai in Poughkeepsie. And he was, until one afternoon when he gave Lydia a ride from the airport to the Women Bound for Green conference at the university. She told him about CannRose and he told her about his life in Moldova. It was immediately apparent to both of them that Stoyan’s herbal know-how was worth more than a Vassar degree. His skill set catapulted him out of that taxi and right into the CannRose extraction room.
He was a year or two younger than Ernie but he had an aura about him of the Beat Generation, the cool edge of the Cold War. Everything he owned was black, including slightly pointy shoes that he kept in a superlative state of polish, which Ernie thought contrasted strangely with the state of his nicotine-yellow fingers. He frequently threw his head back to fling his dyed-black hair out of his eyes, clearly a gesture perfected to accompany his smoking. And he sported eyebrow and ear piercings, a more modern touch to the retro look. Stoyan, having found himself in the new cool of weed works, realized this wasn’t just your granny’s medicine. He was hip to the ways of botanicals. And getting hip to weed, man, that was child’s play.
But speaking with people? That could be complicated. “What you can expect?” he’d say flicking his wrists. “Bulgarian raised in Moldova! Little boy force to learn Romanian and Russian! Now must to conquer English.” Ernie wondered if Stoyan wasn’t just crafty with the misunderstandings.
“I am not using this shits. Has bugs. If has bugs, has also bug poo.” Stoyan tilted his head to one side and leisurely leaned against the Extraction Room doorframe.
“Dear Stoyan, it’s just to develop the methods,” Percy tried to explain as Lorne stood beside him holding two large Ziploc bags of dried plants.
Stoyan folded his arms and nodded at the QA officer and the production manager. “Yes, of course. I develop methods!”
“So you can use it?”
“You should know! No heating. These extracts, pressure only, ethanol only. Give bug headache maybe. Drunk maybe. No stopping poo.”
“But it’s not for sale. It’s just for development. And—”
“Yes. I already say! I develop methods.”
“It’s just for testing.”
“Yes! Yes! Test of course! Testing too. But still bug poo. Maybe wrong test. Has risk!”
“Right.” Percy mopped his brow with a Kimwipe.
“I am right? Yes?”
“If we were going to sell it after, yes. But we’re not going to sell it. We don’t sell product until the product is validated.”
“Of course. I validate product too!”
“So can you use this stuff or not?” Lorne asked, shaking the bags.
“I never do that! You should know! Is trick. Trick question. Yes? Test for me. I am right?”
The production manager sighed. Despite their best efforts, Lorne and Percy were not able to unload any of the slightly buggy crop of Jamabalaya Skunk for Stoyan’s method development that day. Clearly only the best product would do to establish extraction parameters and make sure the result was always repeatable.
Ernie thought Stoyan’s interactions with Caldwell were particularly skillful. Rather than keeping his head down like most people when Caldwell was on a rampage, Stoyan took the opportunity to be particularly gregarious and cryptic.
“Caldwell! Come. What I done here. Very cool. Is good. I show you.”
“It better be. I’m paying you enough,” Caldwell grumbled.
“Ah yes. Beautiful Lydia pay. Yes. I understand. Is very cool.”
“What have you got to show me?”
“Lydia very cool. Yes?”
“You said you had something to show me. What have you got?”
And Stoyan would put his hand to his heart. “Lydia! . . . she give me best opportunity in America. Best opportunity in life!”
“You said you had something to show me!”
“Ah. Yes. Two parts! Different colors. You see. Test each one.” And Stoyan had presented Caldwell with two small half-full stainless-steel vats.
“That looks disgusting. What is that stuff?”
“Is extract! From CO2 extractor.”
“That thing?” Caldwell pointed to the collection of equipment, mostly tanks and large vats with bolted lids sitting by an assortment of pressure gauges attached to the wall.
“Yes. Very nice. First time I use. Is not so much in Moldova.”
“I thought we hired you for your experience.”
“Yes. I have lot. Many experience. Many plants.”
“Well we can’t sell stuff that looks like that!”
“You want we sell this? Caldwell! This not cool! Not good.”
“What? What are you trying to tell me? I know it’s not good. Looks like it came out of a sewer.”
“But is beautiful extract! No? We test, Caldwell. We test.”
“Why would you?”
“Is stupid not to!”
“Just get rid of it!”
“No! Caldwell! We test. Test. Test each one.”
Caldwell threw up his hands.
“We test. Then make formula. We mix. Test more. Okay?”
“Whatever!”
“Yes. I work formula. Write. Beautiful pen writing. Yes? Is joke! I type.”
“You’re driving me crazy. You know that?”
“Crazy? Caldwell. No crazy. No! How I can work in crazy?”
Chapter 41
Alice saw the flashing lights of a police car in the rearview mirror and looked at her speedometer. Good lord. She couldn’t remember the last speed limit sign. She slowed down, moved over to the shoulder of the road and took a deep breath as she braked her car to a full stop. The police car pulled in front. A fat, bald-headed officer got out and hitched up his pants as he walked back to her. Alice lowered her window. She smiled but looked straight ahead.
The officer leaned down. “Hello ma’am. You know why I stopped you?”
“I suppose I was speeding, Officer. I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, I guess you were.” The officer chuckled. “But that’s not really why I’m stoppin’ you. I’m gonna give you a ticket though now you mention it. License, ma’am?”
Alice gasped inaudibly. Where the hell was her head that morning? She always told Zack to put his license and ownership right on the dash, especially on long trips. She needed to wake up and follow her own advice. Alice slowly lifted her handbag into her lap so the officer could see the contents of her purse, so there would be no mistaking what she was doing. She handed him the license. He took it back to his car and then took his time. Alice felt a little queasy, and the longer he took the queasier she felt. What in God’s name would be taking him so long? Finally, he reappeared and handed her license back to her.
He started to chuckle again. “Not exactly from around here, are you?”
Alice smiled at him briefly and then looked ahead again.
He leaned down. “So where you headed?”
“Lyston, Officer.”
“Well there’s your trouble right there.”
Alice felt the panic beginning to rise in her throat. They were in the middle of nowhere. “I’m sorry if I was speeding, Officer. I have an appointment and I was thinking about the meeting. Not paying enough attention I imagine.”
The officer cleared his throat. “Well, I guess you were speedin’, ma’am. But like I said, that’s not why I stopped you.”
“I see.” Alice held her breath. The officer’s gun was in its holster, just about at her eye level.
“See, I can’t in all good conscience let you continue on this road.”
Alice was still looking straight ahead. She was a little breathless.
The officer stepped closer and practically put his head right in her car. “Because the damn road is washed out!” He tried to catch her eye but Alice was having none of it. “Yup. Caused a real nasty accident too.” He straightened up. “Never seen anything like it. Big propane truck exploded. Prob’ly three people killed at least!”
Alice finally looked at the officer.
“They just blocked the road a mile back but you managed to slip through before they got there.” He paused. “That there,” he said, pointing to a rough gravel road veering off to the right about fifty yards ahead, “is your only turnoff. Unless you want to go back. But you take that gravel road west for a mile or so — take it easy, there’s potholes —’til you get to the paved road and the signs there’ll take you to the interstate. Get you to Lyston faster anyway.” The officer smiled faintly. “An’ you can pick up your speeding ticket on the interstate if you like.” He walked back to his patrol car. Alice noticed a lightness in his step now, as if he’d just had himself a mighty fine time. He got in, and as he was doing so, pointed to the gravel road again.
Alice nodded. He drove ahead of her and stopped just past the turnoff. As she turned onto the gravel road, the police car made a U-turn and sped off the way it had come with its lights flashing. As Alice watched it disappear, she wiped the sweat from her forehead.
She was on her way to the dispensary in Lyston and thought she’d take the scenic route. Avoidance is always helped by good scenery. Alice had recently put it to Caldwell and Luther that something would need to change. Even now, with CannRose finished product finally making it onto the shelves, sales barely covered the cost of running the dispensaries. How could they ever keep the grow facility going? Caldwell had been indignant and implied Alice was such a small-time player she wouldn’t understand. It was all part of the master plan. “This is a venture of go slow, perfect the model and don’t let early returns fool you,” he’d announced. He had all sorts of buzzwords and phrases, like “falling forward,” to legitimize what Alice could see as only lousy decisions and poor management.
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