The Buds Are Calling

by Coyne Davies, B.

  “A week or so ago, some cop, a real hick from Hullbrooke, shows up asking questions.” Zack started to whisper again. “And today a couple of agents from the DEA were here. Cyrus was screaming at Luther about CannRose getting shut down. Luther was shouting back that he wasn’t the one giving blow jobs to garden-variety criminals.” He stopped whispering. “It was the only thing I heard clearly.”

  Alice was staring at the phone, giving it her full attention by this point. “I sure don’t like the sounds of the DEA being there. Oh lord!” She leaned back in her chair and put both palms to her forehead.

  “It stinks, Mom. This whole operation stinks. The law firm and the dope factory. I handed in my resignation yesterday!”

  “You got another job?” Alice sat back up.

  “I’m doing a master’s. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you decided to make a move. What’s the new direction?”

  “Environmental law. Mom, we can’t talk about that right now. You need to—”

  “Zack, that’s wonderful! Where are you going? Someplace close I hope.”

  “Vermont . . . Mom, you need to resign. You’ve got to get out of CannRose. I know I got you into it. And I’m sorry. But CannRose is dangerous. You need to walk away!”

  “I think you’re being dramatic, but I’ll call some people and find out what’s going on. I’m so glad you’re doing a master’s, honey.”

  So Alice called Percy.

  “Alice, the place is insane.” He sneezed. “Sorry, I have a cold. We’re all going to be questioned.”

  “They really think Caldwell was murdered?”

  “Oh that was a couple of weeks ago. Now they’re asking all sorts of questions about Greg.” Percy cleared his throat. “He retired right after the police showed up about Caldwell. Said he had to move up his retirement date because his wife was unwell. And now he’s left the country. Gone, vanished.”

  “So they think Greg murdered Caldwell? I can’t believe that for a minute.”

  “No, I . . . oh I don’t know. Greg started acting weird. Lazlo thought he was scared because Greg sold him his company shares for peanuts. And why would you do that right when you’re about to retire? Maybe he figured whoever killed Caldwell was coming after him next. That was Lazlo’s guess.”

  “Good lord!”

  “Or what if he did kill Caldwell? I wanted to kill him a few times.” Percy sniffed.

  “We all did. Doesn’t mean anything. Besides, I always had the impression Greg found Caldwell amusing. Laughable even.”

  “Alice, it’s a clusterfuck of the first order! As you know, I do not say that sort of thing lightly.” Percy sneezed again.

  Alice got off her call with Percy and sat down at her desk. It seemed smaller than she remembered. She needed a drink. The irony of Greg being scared, on the lam, possibly at the center of foul play did not escape Alice. He was a substantial investor in the company and Alice had always seen him as a beacon of hypocrisy. She’d wondered how many people he’d put away in his policing days for marijuana infractions, how many lives he’d managed to ruin and how many kids he’d ultimately turned into criminals by arresting them for a few joints. And now he was on the other side. Wasn’t that interesting.

  About ten minutes after she got off the phone with Percy, Luther called. He told her they might have to temporarily close the dispensaries. He’d let her know definitively in the next two days. She’d never heard him sound anxious before. Only frustrated or calculating. He told her not to worry, but his call left her completely rattled.

  Alice bade her staff goodbye for the day, popped into Tilly’s Oyster Bar for a quick scotch and water, then went for a long walk. After an hour of roaming the neighborhood, she sat down by the community garden. The harvested and spent beds suited her mood. A snowfall, early in the season, showered her with big, fluffy flakes. She sat huddled on the bench in her parka. There was no getting around it — CannRose was a mess. Maybe it was time to walk away. She didn’t need the headache or the worry. Sammy probably wanted to take over anyway. She’d moved to Lyston ages ago and was unfazed by delays and lousy business decisions. And sometimes she didn’t think they were such lousy decisions. Sometimes she even hinted that Alice was being difficult. There was a rumor Sammy and Guido were more than chummy these days. Alice had decided not to be inquisitive.

  In fact Alice figured she could resign altogether. Nobody listened to a word she said anyway. The only people she talked to now were Petra and Percy, and it didn’t sound like anybody listened to them either.

  What she couldn’t get over was that, after the company had taken a year or more to finally find an extraction specialist — and Stoyan was better than she’d imagined they could ever hope for — she’d heard Guido and that awful Herbert Cuttle were getting rid of him. They were bringing in some twenty-year-old technician who’d worked briefly for a pharmaceutical company and had no experience whatsoever with botanicals. Worse still, they put the old black-market guy with the blond dreadlocks in charge of product development. He was clueless! CannRose didn’t stand much of a chance as far as Alice could make out. Especially with that miserable inspector running around. Alice still hadn’t heard a word back from the DOH in response to her letter of complaint. Then again, she’d have been very surprised if she had.

  Chapter 63

  Ernie was busy wrapping burlap around some of the more delicate shrubbery at the foot of Mrs. Cranston’s terraces. Never knew what winter might bring in the way of global warming irony, the dreaded polar vortex. If it was a nasty winter like the last one, shrubs would need a little help. He’d also discovered Gladys’s toad nest. It was right at the base of the bottom terrace wall. He’d noticed the dug-up soil and peeked in the hole that went in right under one of the rocks. Gladys was already groggy and into hibernation mode. He figured she might need a little help too. So he piled dry leaves as high as he could in front of the wall where she’d tucked herself underneath.

  Jim Thorpes, the chief, pulled up in his truck. It was Saturday, his day off, and he was out of uniform. He jumped out of the truck and wandered over to Ernie with his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans.

  “Chief! What’s new? How are you?”

  “Hell, I could be better. Beautiful day though. Last one we’ll see before the snow flies.” He took his right hand out of his pocket and scratched his neck. “Can I talk to you for a second? I got a few questions for you if you don’t mind.”

  Ernie put down the shears he was using to cut up the burlap and motioned to the bench in the sunshine where they could sit down. “How can I help you?”

  Jim Thorpes let out a big sigh. “You know it goes without sayin’, Ernie, that the damn grow-op where you work is nothing but a shitload of trouble for me.”

  “Has been quite a mess lately.”

  “Been a pain in the ass right from the beginning. All those false alarms. Havin’ to send a cruiser out every time a raccoon farted.”

  “They man the place 24/7 now, Chief.”

  “You know I had the DEA on my ass?”

  “Jesus, no. What did they want?”

  “Not even sure exactly. Did you know Greg very well? You know, the security guy.”

  “Can’t say I did, really.”

  “Some story about retiring two months earlier than planned because of his wife’s health. That strike you as bogus?”

  Ernie’s attention was drawn to two little sparrows that were on the ground hopping and picking at seeds in front of them. “I don’t know. Maybe she needed to get out before the cold.”

  “The guy just disappeared overseas. You haven’t heard anything, have you?”

  “Nope.”

  “No trace of him since Spain, they said. Bank accounts closed. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Shit.” Jim Thorpes coughed up some phlegm and spat it out with obvious irritation. “So as a kid, I mean in high school, did you
ever hear of Rainy Day Dope?”

  “Um . . .” Ernie looked thoughtful.

  “I was a good seven or eight years ahead of you. I’d never heard of it.”

  “Maybe. There was dope around, sure . . .”

  “Those three Lyston kids working at CannRose, they know something about it. Sure as shit. One of ’em’s Greg’s nephew.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Jesus, Ernie. There’s so much about all this I don’t know, makes me wanna puke. Goddamn DEA said I was under suspicion. Can you believe that?”

  “Holy crap!”

  “Accused me of willfully ignoring the local drug scene. They cleared me though. I showed them the list of infractions. It’s substantial, Ernie. I can be proud of it.”

  “You should be, Chief.” Ernie watched the little sparrows fly away.

  “Greg was a Lyston cop, for Chrissake. Good guy. Only one with any brains at CannRose that I could see, present company excepted of course. He was twenty-five years on the force. Twenty-five years! And they’re tellin’ me he probably operated in three states but they can’t prove it. You know what that means if it’s true?”

  “No.” Ernie was looking at the chief again.

  “That I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

  “Jesus, Chief. I wouldn’t take it personally. I thought Greg was great too. Level-headed. That’s a rarity for CannRose.”

  “Shit, if it’s true, could mean your weed boss in the ditch got offed in some drug war. Not just a random hit-and-run.”

  Ernie raised his eyebrows. “That’s scary.”

  “I blame the goddamn coroner for that mess. ‘Straight forward,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the report to you in the morning,’ he says. You can smell the booze on him. Doesn’t mention a goddamn thing about a heart attack or broken bones. That’s pretty crucial information.”

  “I don’t think anybody at CannRose was too surprised to find out it was probably a heart attack that killed him.”

  “Yeah, but who’s crazy enough to go seventy miles an hour on that side road, and where’s the goddamn vehicle that hit him? It’s still fifty-fifty, the impact gave him the heart attack.”

  “Guardians are pretty crazy.”

  “Oh, I checked them out all right. He was related you know.”

  “I did know that.”

  “Yeah well. Not their style.” Jim Thorpes shook his head and gazed across the road at nothing. “They got so many guns in that compound, you wouldn’t believe. But not a single driving infraction against any one of ’em in the whole history of Hullbrooke. Not a one. Vehicles all kept immaculate too.” He was silent for a few moments. “You know Lyle Cordoff? The exterminator guy?”

  “I see him staggering home from Chelsea’s from time to time.”

  “You ever seen him driving like that? Drunk?”

  “Nope. But I tend not to notice the truck traffic. It’s the staggering and yelling about vermin catches my attention.”

  “Yeah, well he swears he hasn’t been on that side road in five years but that’s sober. You know anybody else likes to stunt drive?”

  “I didn’t even know Lyle did.”

  “Oh, he’s a crazy bastard. I swear it’s all the goddamn pesticides — his brother twitches like a dying weevil.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that.”

  “And what about that Guido Batelli. Who the fuck is he?” Jim Thorpes squinted.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. High-end shoe guy is all I know. Oh, and he plays the violin.”

  “What a joke. It was Greg checked him out, right? And Lazlo Porter, he’s as sneaky as they come.”

  “You know mostly I just mop the floors, Chief.”

  “I know.” Jim Thorpes stared off again and idly tapped the bench. “Say, you got any extra venison jerky? Given the time of year.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do.”

  “How much you sellin’ it for?”

  “For you, Chief, and all the trouble you bear for this town, it’s free. I’ll drop some by your place tomorrow.”

  “Much appreciate it, Ernie.” Jim Thorpes got up and walked back to his truck and gave a little nod and a smile as he climbed in.

  Ernie stood up and watched him drive away. He looked up at the puffy cumulus clouds speeding along overhead and then he walked to the terrace wall and threw himself face down into the pile of leaves he’d raked up for Gladys. He just lay there for a few minutes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Were all little towns like this? At that moment it occurred to Ernie that Lenore hadn’t crossed his mind in six months.

  Later that same day, Ernie did some tidying up of his own container beds on the rooftop. He found a couple of onions he’d missed. There was still kale growing and he took some leaves for his dinner. An omelet would be nice. He’d traded a jar of his chutney for some shiitake mushrooms and he still had some goat cheese lurking in his fridge. Just before he started to chop the onion, he paused and looked at the beautiful set of knives that now graced his counter. They were a gift. Three weeks ago Greg had knocked on his door.

  “Just dropping by for a second,” he’d said. “Gotta tell you, the wife can’t stop raving about that jar of chili sauce. She wanted you to have these. We sure as hell can’t take ’em with us. She says they’re professional. Chef grade. Real good, anyway. And there’s this thing here too. Don’t know if you already got one.” Greg pulled a Japanese soba knife out of the shopping bag.

  “Wow! These are gorgeous, Greg.”

  “Glad you like ’em. Wife’ll be happy about that.”

  “So you’re off?”

  “Flyin’ out tomorrow. Lookin’ forward to warmer weather and a sea view. Cocktails on the balcony.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You know, I don’t know who the hell ran over Caldwell, but I don’t like the looks of it. You might have been wiser than I thought giving Rainy Day a pass. Could be new players. I’m too old for all this.” Greg sighed. “Maybe I wasn’t as thorough on a couple of those background checks as I shoulda been. I don’t know. Hate to cast any aspersions though. Best just to wrap things up sooner than later.”

  Ernie had nodded.

  “Well, jeez. This is it. Been great workin’ with you. You take care of yourself, and if you’re ever in Montenegro, you’ll probably find me on a beach. Oh. I almost forgot.” Greg reached into the shopping bag again and pulled out a baggie full of weed. “A little nostalgia for your neck pain. RD Gold.”

  Ernie laughed. “Thanks, Greg. And congrats on the retirement.”

  “You bet.” And with that, Greg vanished from Ernie’s life. And vanished too from Hullbrooke, USA.

  After Ernie finished his omelet and cleaned up the dishes, he rolled himself a fat doobie from the Rainy Day Dope rather than his own homegrown. He put on his winter coat, grabbed a cushion and headed out through the window to the rooftop. While Ernie lit up his joint, the stars were busy lighting up the universe. The Milky Way, serene and majestic, smiled down on him. He took a deep inhale and, by golly, it did bring back a few old memories. The agonies of adolescence were almost delightful in retrospect. The pimply gangly kid who worried about his sneakers not being cool enough. The tallest klutz to never make the high-school basketball team. The teachers he fantasized about. The girls who teased or sleazed. The prim girls. And oh, all that masturbation. Surprising he hadn’t drowned in his own juices. He wrote poems too. Most often about death of course. He wished he’d kept them. He was sure he’d find them entertaining at this point. He really was way too earnest as a kid. Ernesto the Crane. Ernesto the Bean. Ernesto the Besto. Ernesto the Gnarly. He started to laugh. Maybe it was just the weed kicking in. He was glad he wasn’t a kid anymore but he was pretty sure he liked the kid he’d been.

  PART THIRTEEN

  Sales

  Oh Friends. Dear Friends. We caution with care from the ages. Beware of the dwindling repose. Here is the punch of your profits. Your mind wrapped in sums, your heart fixed to close. It’s rough to see the sunset when y
ou never caught on to the rise. So many riches and so much rashness. Sadder even than the silence that vanished for trading on noise. We sing for you still. We must. That’s the deal. Your loss is our loss, your gain, our gain, and the traffic of time, the ledger.

  from Cannto III, Cannabidadas

  Chapter 64

  Petra rang the buzzer on Dr. Grange’s door.

  “Hello,” the voice said. “Petra? Come right up.”

  Petra pondered the seemingly unvetted invitation. What if she wasn’t Petra? I could be an ax murderer, she thought, but then she hadn’t seen the shiny little black sphere bulging above her at the doorway. She opened the door after the buzzer sounded and climbed two flights in a steep, claustrophobic stairway. Petra wasn’t handling life as well as she might. Percy had found her passed out at her desk. He told her she needed to get some help. He was right.

  Two months after Caldwell died she’d come home from work to find her mother dead on the couch. She’d slipped away during the day. Probably during her afternoon nap. The doctors said it was likely painless — a massive stroke that would have killed her instantly. Petra felt a heaviness that made her weak in the knees when the doctor said that. And then she had taken only a few days off work to look after the funeral arrangements. Percy said that was ridiculous and she needed more time to deal with the grief. But the truth was, she’d been a mess since Sanjay left.

  Petra asked Percy what the wedding was like. He said he had more fun than he’d ever had at a wedding. Indian weddings were a blast, or at least this Indian wedding of the diaspora was a blast. And Gavin outdid himself on the dance floor. The food was incredible of course. He told her the quiet guy from security was there too, with a couple of women, but Percy had barely said two words to them because there was so much going on.

  Petra arrived at a landing under a bright skylight. There were two doors at opposite ends. The door to her left opened and a large billowy matron in a maroon shirtwaist dress welcomed her. “Come on in. Call me Phyllis,” she said.