The Buds Are Calling

by Coyne Davies, B.

  “Oh! Okay.”

  Ernie and Damian got on either side of Caldwell and walked him into the house to the big daybed that looked out onto the pool through the French doors. He could stretch right out there, and as he did, he seemed to go right to sleep.

  “Do you think we should call a doctor? Or take him to emergency?”

  “It’s past midnight,” Luther said, suddenly appearing. “But I could drive him.”

  “He’s breathing fine.” Damian was bent over watching Caldwell’s chest move. Then he picked up Caldwell’s wrist to check his pulse. The other three looked on, waiting for Damian’s verdict. “His blood’s pumping okay. Nothing weird.”

  “Maybe he just needs a little nap.”

  “He was very surprised by the party.” Luther had noted the tears. “I mean that it was a birthday party for him too. As well as the anniversary of the first sale.”

  “He’s very sensitive,” Lydia said. “People often don’t see that about him.”

  “I can sit here for a while, if you think somebody needs to,” Ernie said.

  “No, man. I think he’s fine,” Damian said. “He’s been overdoing it again, that’s all. The food, the booze. He’s been pretty stressed lately too. What’s new? I know.”

  “I’ve never seen him dance like that before,” Lydia exclaimed.

  “Me neither. Man, and whoever knew Greg could dance!” Damian started laughing.

  “That’s the biggest surprise of the night.” Luther grinned.

  The worry had vanished from the four of them. They left Caldwell sleeping soundly and went back to join the party. An hour or so later as Ernie was packing up his various pots and platters for the evening, Luther appeared with a blanket. Caldwell was snoring quite loudly and Ernie saw Luther laugh as he put the blanket over him.

  “I think he’s just fine,” Lydia said. “He could always snore up a storm. That I know. I used to have to wear earplugs.”

  Luther frowned a little at this revelation.

  When Ernie was back at work two days later, the old familiar Caldwell was back, driving everybody crazy again. Particularly Percy. Caldwell had finally stopped talking about making the CannRose facility cGMP. Instead he claimed the Canadian deal fell through because of Percy’s poor-quality system. Percy said he’d like to kill him.

  #

  Apart from the man’s love of old Broadway, Ernie didn’t know Greg’s history all that well. He just knew Greg had been a cop in Lyston for years. It was surprising he’d never heard of him given Ernie’s teenage activities of mall-roaming and frequenting the video arcade. It’s not that Ernie had been a bad kid. He was just a normal teenager pushing boundaries, and in towns and smaller cities that makes kids more familiar with their local constabulary. Mostly it’s just gossip. Or if the cop is a complete dick, they all know about them.

  When Greg asked Ernie one day if he’d like to go on a little field trip because he had a proposition for him, Ernie assumed it would have something to do with wild beasts, fruit or maybe some mushroom patch. It was a long drive and Greg talked on about CannRose or baseball, never mentioning what it was they were going to look at. Ernie was surprised when their trip took them right across the state line.

  They pulled into what looked like an overgrown private park. There were woods on three sides and they hopped over the fence to their right. “This is the quickest way into the site,” Greg explained. They walked silently through an acre or so of mature forest that petered out into scrub and young saplings regenerating a burned area. Then they came to a farmer’s field. It was full of tomato plants fruiting up nicely. Probably would be ready for harvest by the end of the month. Greg just stood at the edge of the field smiling. Ernie had all the tomato varieties he ever needed either from his own garden or from Carl. Plenty for salads, sauces, chutneys and preserves, so he wasn’t exactly excited by the view.

  “Look a little closer my friend.”

  Ernie walked up the row directly in front of them looking to his right and left. He stopped about sixty yards in and then looked all around. “Fuck me!” he whispered under his breath. From where he stood, as far as the eye could make out, which wasn’t all that far given the prevalence of the staked tomato crop, about every third plant was marijuana. They were lusciously flowering, frosty looking and about a week away from harvest. As far as Ernie knew, even medical cannabis wasn’t exactly legal in this state.

  “They’re all dwarfs,” Greg called to him. “Pretty much the same as CannRose, though there’s nothing super potent. We like to keep it mild. Pretty damn fine this year too, I’d say.”

  Ernie looked at the tomatoes as if they might offer some explanation as to what the fuck was going on. But they were mute, too dignified to offer any black-market intel in spite of the company they were keeping. Ernie wandered back slowly, looking at the crops around him again and then at Greg in some bewilderment.

  “Been intercropping for years,” Greg said, grinning. “When we started out we just had a couple of buried Sealift containers but the generator costs for lights and cooling were prohibitive, considering we never charge much.”

  Ernie continued to stare at Greg.

  “We had to do something. The war on drugs was a disaster. Just made everything worse. I lost a kid sister, you know, because some little prick sold her laced weed. We never did find out exactly what it was. My partner had a couple of nephews who were getting into trouble too. You couldn’t keep the kids away from it. So the plan was, educate the youth and undercut all the little rat-faced suppliers. Remember Rainy Day Dope?”

  Ernie thought for a second. “Yeah. Of course! That’s what you bought for a couple of bucks from one of the other kids.”

  “Yup, and you still can. Cleanest organic supply you’ll get anywhere. And not too strong. Well, my friend. This is Rainy Day Dope.”

  “No shit!”

  “Yeah, no shit. Actually lots of it this year.” He chuckled. “See my old partner and I are retiring come December. The wife wants to move someplace a little warmer.”

  Ernie wondered why the fuck Greg had brought him here. What was the point if he was retiring? Did he need harvest labor?”

  “So here’s my proposition, Ernie: Would you like to take over and partner the operation?”

  Ernie’s good eye popped open so wide the one under the patch practically realigned on its own. “What? No!”

  “Hear me out now. Fifty-fifty split. We have other sites too but we’ll split this particular one with you. It’s premium. Now we’d look after the regional distribution this year and then we’d ask you to take that on. You’re homegrown, smart, got integrity, I’ve noticed, so we’d trust you to keep the prices low for the kids and make sure it all stays organic and clean. There’s a lot to catch up on of course. But we’ve got an excellent infrastructure working — farmers and so on. Great bunch. Just a great bunch. You’d fit right in.”

  Ernie was somewhere between a laugh and total breathlessness. “There’s no way.”

  “You’re not into something similar?”

  “Jesus! Fuck no!”

  “Always thought you were.”

  “Do I look like a drug lord?”

  “See that’s the thing. My old partner and I had a bet that you were cooking more than gourmet food. You know, you’re educated. Got burned in the housing crisis, so did a lot of people. But you’re just pushin’ a broom and growin’ produce on your roof. I figured you were an inventive independent. You know, maybe other plants and things. Connections south, in the big cities. Nice little network going for you.”

  “No. I … I like pushing a broom. It’s enough.”

  “So I can’t interest you in the business?”

  “No.” Ernie was shaking his head, still in disbelief. “No. No.”

  “Not even a tiny bit?”

  “No thanks,” he said, shaking his head more vigorously and breathing rather quickly. “It’s way too much work anyway.”

  “So you are a lazy bastard! God
damn, man. You just lost me a thousand-dollar bet.” Greg looked slightly morose. “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Sure as shit!” Ernie paused and then said, “I’ll have you know, the roof garden is a lot of work. So’s the cooking. Plus I look after Hilda Cranston’s terraces. Some days I don’t finish until eight o’clock.”

  Greg sighed wistfully and looked out over the field. A gentle breeze was stirring the plants and sending the lemony and mildly skunky odors their way. Greg took a deep breath through his nose. “Oh well.” He brightened. “Really good crops this year and we do sell the surplus to a reputable distributor.” He paused, furrowing his forehead for a moment. “Now, Ernie, I trust you’ll keep this little field trip under your hat. At least until the wife and I are safely retired elsewhere.”

  “Jesus. Of course! Fuck. My lips are sealed.” Ernie started rolling his shoulder, which seemed to be seizing up all of a sudden, and realized he still had a two-hour drive back to Hullbrooke with Greg, the Rainy Day Dope Kingpin. “I swear, sealed for all eternity.” Ernie made a zipping motion with his index finger and thumb across his lips. “With Krazy Glue. With Krazy Glue, Greg.”

  Greg just looked at him. “You’re kind of a pussy, you know that?”

  Chapter 55

  There it was, thrashing in all its aphid irritation. “You little bugger!” Cassie adjusted the magnification from fifteen to thirty. She watched the insect’s determined maneuvering as various parts of its anatomy came into focus. Antennae almost longer than the bulbous body trailed and shifted from side to side, gauging the boundaries of its tiny prison. The bug’s colors were indistinct, mottled gray, green and brown. It looked to be in camouflage fatigues. The needle-like proboscis came into view as the bug reared up to negotiate the wall of the microscope well.

  Cassie’s skin crawled. There could be thousands more just like it. Whole battalions of aphids armed with capillary force probes, sucking the life out of the plants. Possibly there were squadrons already flying, scouting the room for fresh birthing grounds. The leaves she’d just trimmed had those telltale specks. They were on about five plants in the trough farthest from the door. How does that even happen? A complete infestation of Flower Room III could take no time at all. Aphids were born pregnant, like little Russian dolls. Mothers would sit there sucking away at the sap, dropping out a new little mother every several minutes. Their kind of cloning beat human efforts by magnitudes.

  Cassie felt a wave of anxiety wash over her. Her butt was on the line now. She was newly returned to CannRose and doing yoga therapy. She’d been right about all that anger-management nonsense. And also right again that CannRose didn’t want to lose all its cultivation managers. But she was back by herself. Joe was off creating a company. She would keep steady money flowing in while he did more research and got the new business rolling. They still weren’t at all that sure what they were going to come up with. Maybe it should be something to blast aphids all to hell!

  The idea of blasting things to hell brought Damian to mind. He’d been rehired too but with a different title, something about product strategy. Director of Some New Idiocy. Probably got a raise too. It was ridiculous. He was back from a month’s holiday in Colorado. How he managed to negotiate all that was a mystery. Maybe he was screwing Lydia like Joe said. Whatever. Cassie was on her best behavior and trying to not appear dismissive of everything that came out of Damian’s mouth.

  Now that Lorne was gone, Cassie had a lot of responsibility. She was looking after the production scheduling and it wasn’t so easy. Stoyan had wisecracked as he flicked cigarette ash on the CannRose driveway during coffee, “Is very special, your timing! You have maybe event horizon time sense?”

  But most importantly, Cassie now had the final say on all cultivation practices, and she’d made changes. She was steam sterilizing the grow media before it was inoculated. She figured it could even be recycled that way. The practice would keep the operation cleaner, reduce pests and disease and wouldn’t violate organic requirements either. The cultivation staff were really pleased with the new arrangements because they weren’t getting conflicting instructions anymore, and Cassie thought the plants were starting to look happier too. Until today. Aphids were a whole new nightmare.

  A few days earlier Caldwell was all shook up by a big scandal a couple of states over. The medical marijuana there started making people really sick. The problem was traced back to designer pesticides. Like some performance-enhancing drugs, designer pesticides were made to avoid detection. Testing labs wouldn’t suspect that the blips they thought were probably just noise in the chromatograms actually signified some vile little neurotoxin or worse. Caldwell was paranoid. Cassie had been in the lab with Petra when he barged in and started opening all the cupboards and drawers.

  Petra scowled. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Why is this locked?” Caldwell was struggling to open the incubator.

  “It’s in the middle of incubating and it’s on a timer. What on earth are you looking for?”

  Caldwell ignored her. He opened the refrigerator and started moving flasks and trays around.

  “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? The future of this company. That’s what’s going on.”

  Petra took a few steps closer to see exactly what he was rearranging. “And why should it involve rifling through the lab?”

  Caldwell shoved aside a rack of vials to pull out a box that was behind it.

  “Careful with that! That’s four days’ work,” Petra said.

  “Isn’t it clear? How do you spell pesticide, Petra?”

  “With a P?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No I don’t, Caldwell.”

  “What’s in pesticides?”

  “How should I know?”

  “But you test for them!”

  “No. I test for terpenes and cannabinoids.”

  “But that . . . that instrument there tests for pesticides! Lazlo said that’s what it was for.” Caldwell, red-faced and sweating, pointed shakily at the tall beige box on the other side of the lab.

  “You mean this one.” Petra patted the instrument beside her. It whirred while its arm shifted and hovered over the sampling tray. “They used it for pesticides at the EPA. But that’s not what I use it for.”

  “I want you to test all the crops for pesticides.”

  “You should talk to Percy if you want that. And these instruments need to be dedicated. Pesticides could—”

  “I don’t care. I want pesticides tested.”

  Petra rolled her eyes. “Really? Which ones?”

  “All of them!”

  “There are hundreds!”

  Caldwell had been looking in the cupboard under the sink, finding only sponges, spare wash bins and paper towels. He stood back up to his full height and frowned. “There could be banned pesticides or even legal pesticides banned for marijuana. They had that going on in Oregon just last month!”

  “Caldwell, our growers don’t use those kinds of pesticides.”

  “That CEO of Greenmont said he had no idea how pesticides got on their plants. You could be creating them here and no one would know it.”

  “Jesus, Caldwell! I’m a biologist not a chemist! And even if I were I wouldn’t sabotage the company!”

  Cassie ventured in nervously, “The R and D guy at Greenmont claimed the order came straight from the owner. He said he got bonuses for it. It was all on CannaBlog yesterday. And there’s an old selfie with him and the owner holding wads of cash on Instagram too.”

  “I don’t care. I want every crop tested. They could be in the coconut coir . . . or the fertilizer mix! Pesticides . . . could ruin us!”

  Petra leaned against the bench and folded her arms. “Fine. Then have grow media and fertilizers tested before you use them. Testing every crop will cost a fortune.”

  “We’re testing everything!”

  Sanjay had been listening to all of this,
looking puzzled. “Caldwell, do you think plants can just end up with pesticides? You know, even if pesticides weren’t applied or taken up during growing?” Sanjay was being sincere. He was trying to home in on the root of Caldwell’s anxiety.

  “Well, obviously . . . you never know, do you!”

  Cassie grimaced and shook her head.

  “So this is the problem,” Sanjay announced. “It’s not Caldwell’s fault. Fundamental science literacy. That’s the problem. They should teach the laws of mass and energy conservation in kindergarten. I’m telling you.”

  “Here, here.” Percy had poked his head in the lab to see what the fuss was. There’d been no mention of cGMP or “Percy’s system” at all for a couple of weeks, so Percy was upbeat. The resignation letter was still on the computer desktop just in case though.

  Caldwell exploded at the sight of Percy. His dashed hopes for a Canadian partnership were still raw and Percy’s cheerfulness was goading. “We’re testing everything and we’re throwing out all our pesticides too!”

  “But we only have organic-certified ones. Natural stuff,” Cassie said. The anxiety in her voice was apparent to everyone in the room but Caldwell.

  “And they’re in the potting room. Not here!” Petra said.

  “I don’t care. Everything’s going! Everything even remotely resembling a pesticide.”

  “You’ll have to destroy more crops then,” Percy pointed out and he gave Cassie a sympathetic look. “State labs aren’t keen on creepy crawlies. And you won’t get anything past Stoyan either, not even for trials. He’s running a kosher shop.”

  Caldwell glared at Percy.

  “Caldwell, I’m sure I could help you understand this a little better. I’ve tutored lots of students,” Sanjay said.

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense! Get rid of the pesticides.” Caldwell turned and strode out of the lab.

  “I think he thinks pesticides can morph,” Percy said.

  “Actually he thinks they can spontaneously arise,” Sanjay added, shaking his head.

  Cassie wanted to weep. Caldwell had just left the grow rooms defenseless.