by E. R. Brown
Skip turned to me, peevish. “It’s the rippers that freak me. Mounties are pussies beside them. The only thing that makes money faster than growing pot is ripping someone else’s grow. That’s why we pay for security. The kind of security that lets a little dog burn to death inside a protected house. Right?” Now he was yelling, because Ivan had just entered the room carrying loops of rubber hose. “And what then? I want to make an insurance claim, bro, can you send me the forms? How much for Mabel’s life?” He blew his nose.
Ivan said softly, “Please, please.” He looked sincerely sympathetic. “We are here to help.”
“Please yourself. I’ll fall apart if I want to.” Skip kicked, and a roll of tape scuttered away. “Somebody’s gonna pay for what they did. I want you guys to get on to that.”
Above his head, the ceiling had been cleaned off and the two workers were working on parallel ladders, using drills to drive rows of screw hooks. The standard Randle grow pattern was taking shape. The ventilation, fertilizer, and power lines were going to hang off the hooks, running from the plant racks to the controller panel.
His voice took on a businesslike tone. “I won’t fall apart until the babies are growing. When do they get here?”
Ivan answered, “They don’t get here on their own. You will pick up the plants yourself.” He turned and began working on the water supply. “When the house is ready.”
Randle called me to the door. “There’s my favourite computer geek. The controller’s in the truck.”
Outside, one of the Asian guys was waiting. We carried the controller together, depositing it where Randle instructed. He didn’t have much English, but he knew his way around a Randle-standard grow op. With hand signals and a few short words he showed me where and how to start.
The controller was a steel box the size of a mini-fridge. My task was to open it up, find its connection panel, and hook it up to the system cable. The cable led to the lights, fans and water pumps that regulated the atmosphere and growing conditions.
There were a couple of challenges. First, the system cable — a heavy rubber-covered snake—spewed hundreds of smaller wires like a rainbow afro. Each tiny wire was unique: one was red with blue and purple stripes, another was green with white and orange stripes. There were hundreds of combinations.
Second, there were no labels or instructions, just a scrawled sticky note that the system had checked out, signed by Bl0nd, with a zero in place of the letter O. With nothing else to go from, I decided that the logical task was to match the colour codes on the circuit board wires to the colour codes on the system cable, and hook them to each other using the screws on the terminal. To match, say, the yellow wire with the blue stripe in the controller with the same pattern on the cable.
I squatted and examined it like a puzzle. I found a couple of the easier combinations right away, and hoped that the others would become clear once I was underway, like a jigsaw puzzle becomes more obvious once the picture begins to show itself. I had three combinations matched and connected, and was sorting through the stiff, threadlike copper wires looking for the next, when a gentle voice spoke from behind my shoulder.
It was my installer friend, the man of few words. “Yes, good.” He pointed and nodded encouragingly.
“I was going to wait for Randle to check it before I went much further.”
“Is good.”
“I’m Tate.”
He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up, and indicated that the next step was to hook up the far ends of the cable, where it split off to control the nutrient pumps, heaters, ventilation, and lights.
I disappeared inside the challenge and didn’t look up until the racks were in place and the plumbing and ventilation hung from the ceiling in symmetrical rows. Skip and Ivan had left to pick up the baby plants.
A hand grasped my arm.
“Amazing.” It was Randle, with a broad smile and warm eyes. He’d changed into pale grey flannel pants and a short-sleeve silk shirt with a Japanese design.
“I can’t believe you got that together already. I tried to do it once, but I asked Oshi so many questions, he pushed me aside and took over.” He touched my arm again. “I knew you’d be a great addition to the team.”
I waited for a sharp word or a double meaning, something that hinted at my screw-up on the Timejackers set, or how Bullard had followed me to the hash shop. I wanted a chance to let him know what it had been like to be stranded across the border, in the armpit of northern Washington State, for Christ’s sake.
Randle said, gently, “Do you have a minute? Let’s sit outside, it’s just rank in here.”
He wiped the seat of a plastic lawn chair before settling into it. “This kind of dirty work is rare, which is a good thing.”
He straightened the seam on his pants, and lit a joint. We had business to discuss. The House was under more pressure than ever to meet growing demand. Now that I had my truck, I wasn’t going to work under Skip anymore.
“You’ll receive your assignments directly from me, like all my senior operatives,” said Randle. “It’s time for you to learn the drill.”
He began with the same old story about the security risks of phones and computers and the Internet, seeing my eyes glaze, he emphasized that there was a surveillance network, and it wasn’t just the transmissions, it was the content of the messages that was monitored, whether it was a phone or the Web. Email providers, Google, Facebook — they were all in on it.
“There are emergencies, of course, which is why you carry a phone. But electronics and computers are the enemy.”
“But you use the Web for online sales. You use FedEx to mail seeds.”
“I’m not paranoid, man. When I use the networks I do it with a secure system that routs through so many countries the messages are untraceable. And I don’t use a home PC.”
But there was a way for us to connect, he said. Hide in plain sight. Before there were computers, spies used to pass coded messages with fake classified ads in the newspapers. His solution was to do the same, using Craigslist.
He wore a Cheshire cat grin as he explained. “Your code name is gre3n. The colour green, with a little typo.”
“Like Blond with a zero for the o.” I said.
That shook him. He was so certain he didn’t leave fingerprints.
“It’s on a sticky note in the controller box.” I knew it was his code. He thought he acted like the CIA, but I couldn’t resist the stoner jokes. Mr. Blunt for deliveries. Gre3n for green weed, bl0nd for blond hash. “Who was bl0nd? Your last favourite geek?”
He instructed me to go online every morning between eight and nine and do a Craigslist search for my code name. From the tens of thousands of ads, one would come up containing that unique typo. On a busy day, there might be two or three. It might be an ad for, say, a Ford Pinto with a gre3n leather interior. A lost and found note for a gre3n locket. When I saw an ad, there was a job for me.
If the ad instructed buyers to call a phone number at a certain time, that was when and where for me to call. If the ad contained an address, that’s where I’d go.
“Pretty simple for someone who appreciates a good riddle.” Randle laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. “No ad means you have the day off.” He pulled out a credit card. “For the good work you’ve done today.”
It’s easy to forget how much I liked being with Randle. The business was cool and all, but I enjoyed watching him interact with people. I envied his style, his confidence and self-assurance. When I was with him I dressed better, walked straighter, looked people in the eye.
Chapter 12
Rachel’s grad night finally arrived, and as promised, I showed up at her dad’s house in a cleaned and polished pickup, carrying the required white orchid wrist-corsage.
Rachel opened the door at the first knock. She was transformed. Her piercings were gone, her tats covered by makeup, and long black hair framed her pale, uncertain face. A dye job to her natural colour, and the most realistic extensions I’d eve
r seen. After Beth’s chemo, I knew my wigs. Her only jewellery was a pair of very nice tear-drop earrings of crystal and silver, with a matching pendant necklace. She’d warned me about the grad dress, and it was a shock to see her in a Disney princess-fantasy gown in floor-length lavender, but no amount of polyester could diminish her beauty.
“You look fantastic,” I said. “Unbelievable.” Draped over her shoulders was the charcoal shawl I’d given her, its miniature crystals austere and ill-matched to the eruptions of crinoline.
“We had these huge fights. Mom put a deposit on the dress in, like, February, back when I didn’t give a shit, ’cause I had no intention of going.” She shrugged, and the skirt made a synthetic rustle.
Her mother was a former refugee, a boat person, and could be controlling, even fierce. Fortunately, Mom lived in Chilliwack and didn’t have day-to-day influence, but her opinion on body piercings and ink was clear. Today she’d come over to Rachel’s Dad’s—a rare event—to spend the afternoon creating the daughter of her dreams.
“It was kind of nice, a mother-daughter thing, until Dad came home,” Rachel said. “And they had this major hissy-fight. Just like old times.”
Dad had wanted to bring her to Grad, but Mom wouldn’t be seen beside Dad, so Mom got mad and ran off. Then Dad made the mistake of gloating that he’d won, and Rachel refused to have anything to do with him.
“I told him I’d rather go alone. With you,” she said, blinking to preserve the makeup.
I took her by the arm and led her to the truck.
Expelled from the Steelhead Inn by midnight, the grad class dispersed to private parties and fast-food outlets. By two in the morning, most had regrouped and migrated to the seclusion of the marina, skate park and surrounding woods, the same spot that Rachel and I preferred for our cocktail hours.
Rachel’s arm was warmly tucked in mine as we sat in a sleepy circle on the grass, with her friends Tanya, Rebecca, and their dates. Grads ebbed and flowed around the meadow, into the dark of the trees and out to the floating wharf. Some grads, including us, were still in their suits and dresses. Some of the guys were definitely going to lose the damage deposit on their rented tuxes. The better-organized had packed a change of clothes in their cars. Some had come totally prepared: their trunks and pickup beds were stocked with beer, booze, and snacks. Somebody’d phoned for pizza and had it delivered to the wharf. From time to time someone would let out a whoop, or try to spark some sense of group electricity.
Rachel slid closer, which encouraged me to wrap one arm around her shoulder. Bringing her to the grad had been the right thing to do. She’d been in hundreds of photos, had shared in dozens of farewell hugs. She was slowly sipping vodka from a flask she’d had under her skirt. I hadn’t brought any alcohol. Since I’d made it into Randle’s inner circle, I’d been working hard, plus holding down a few shifts at the shop, and there hadn’t been time for drinking. And not much interest.
A shrill cry of Anybody want Bud? E? nearly echoed off the condos across the lake. I stood up, surprised that I recognized the voice. Nolan, Bree’s friend that she insisted wasn’t a boyfriend. I hadn’t liked him from the minute we’d met. What was he doing here, and didn’t he know that dope sales in Wallace belonged to the bikers? Or did he work for Bullard?
“He’s not a grad,” I said, trying to be certain of the shape silhouetted in the parking lot lights.
“No-lan,” Tanya’s boyfriend made the name a singsong insult, “Such a dweeb.” She elbowed him with a stop it! “Well, he is!” He drained another can of beer and tossed the empty on the grass.
Being an asshole didn’t make him wrong.
Rachel leaned into my ear. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Just what I was going to suggest.”
I put my hand in the small of her back and took a step toward the parking lot for a better look. Nolan circulated along the perimeter of the meadow with a lineup of customers, trading bills for items from his pockets.
Shit, I thought. It’s her. As I’d feared, he had a helper, a familiar round-shouldered girl who handed him supplies from a backpack. What was Bree thinking? Selling dope, out in the open, to students from her own school.
I pulled away from Rachel. “I’ll be a second. I’ve got to talk to this Nolan dude.”
“Are you going to buy a j?” She caught up with me. “You don’t smoke.” She dropped her voice. “Or are you checking out the competition?”
“There’s no competition. That’s my sister with him, she’s fourteen. I’ve got to get her out of here.”
Nolan was all elbows as he fumbled with money and baggies, but he tried to act cool. “A big fatty for the little lady, don’t smoke it all in one place now.”
I walked past him and took Bree by the arm. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here, you don’t go to ADC.” She tried to pull away.
I held my grip, suddenly angry with her, and with Nolan. “Go home. Go home right now.”
She hunched her shoulders and struck at my hand. Behind us, someone complained, Dude, get to the back of the line, and there was the unmistakable smack of a hand on skin. Bree and I stopped and turned. Nolan was backing up, slow step by slow step, while someone — not a high-schooler, he was in his mid-twenties — had a hand clamped on his shoulder and was forcing him back towards a fir tree. A few feet behind him, someone else was dispersing the line of would-be purchasers. They were both clean-cut, well-dressed with a heads-up alertness that stood out among the drunk and stoned. Dealers.
He’s getting busted, someone said, it’s the narcs.
I heard Rachel whispering urgently to me, “The Menzys.”
I knew the name from one of Skip’s lectures about the business. The Menzy brothers ran the local street trade — of course, with the protection of the Devil’s Own. I took Bree’s hand.
“You’ve got to get out of here.” I said, pulling her away from the scene.
“She stays, pal,” one of the guys barked. “But you, take a walk.”
I kept my voice calm. “She’s got nothing to do with this.” I wanted to avoid confrontation. I wasn’t particularly noble or heroic — they could flatten Nolan’s nose if they wanted, it might do the guy good — but I wanted Bree out of it.
Bree was having none of my big-brother protection. She slipped out of my grip and walked straight toward Nolan, saying something reassuring. The kids in the crowd were no help at all. They’d pulled away to a safe distance but were sticking around to watch. I scanned for helpful faces and saw only Rachel, far in the back.
I had to do something. I chose the dominant Menzy, the one who’d just ordered me to walk. “What’s the problem? She’s a kid, you don’t care about her.”
I slid between him and Bree, a buffer, I hoped, ready to hold his attention long enough for Bree to back off and blend into the crowd. Behind me, Bree disagreed. I caught Rachel’s eye and tried to convey the idea that she could help get Bree out of here. The other Menzy held Nolan with one arm behind his back and used his leverage to swing him around. The two brothers now faced me.
“I really don’t want any grief.” I tried to sound low-key and non-threatening. I didn’t want to get hit. “I’m not trying to hassle you. But you and I, we know some of the same people. I don’t want to talk about it right now, but if you want that guy away from here, I’ll take care of it. You take his bag and all the product in it. I’ll make sure he’s gone.”
I took Nolan’s free forearm in mine and began to back away slowly, hoping they didn’t see the quiver in my legs.
Somebody across the field yelled. “There’s going to be a fight!”
“Fuck this,” said the Menzy holding Nolan, twisting Nolan’s trapped arm up and into his back, while his brother spun on one foot and leaned into a punch, hitting Nolan deep in the gut. Nolan folded at the waist, pulling his forearm from my grip and vomiting explosively. He dropped to the ground in a puddle of foamy, half-digested food. One Menzy curs
ed at the goo on his sleeve, and they circled closer, angrier now. Their backs dismissed me.
Someone said eww-gross. Most of the entertainment-seekers were shocked into silence. I got the feeling that they were disappointed that the spectacle was over so soon. I scanned for Bree and saw her, whispering a protest to Rachel.
It was time for me to walk away. Bree was as safe as I could make her and Nolan had been humiliated in front of half the school. I couldn’t help feeling he deserved it. What kind of shit-for-brains deals in the bikers’ territory?
Then one of the Menzys swung back a leather-booted foot and buried it in Nolan’s side. And again. Nolan’s body quivered and he curled into a ball. With each kick, he let out a soft, urgent hunh.
I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t leave. They were only getting warmed up. I’m not a hero — I still thought I could quietly whisper something about the Devils and stop this before they sent the guy to hospital — but I reached out and pulled at an arm.
I tried to say, “Hey, man, listen to me.” But almost nothing left my lips. Louder this time, “Hey! Stop — will you listen to me? You’ve got him. Hold off for a second.”
Wake up, Nolan, I thought. I’ve got them distracted, this is your cue to scramble the hell out of here. But he didn’t move. He lay there, watching me with big cow eyes. He was stupid.
“You want something?” The nearest Menzy shook his head, disgusted. “For fuck, you want a piece?” With no sense of hurry, he lowered one shoulder and assumed a boxer’s stance.
“Bullard —” I’m not sure I got the whole name out.
A fist flashed at me. I saw the punch coming and dodged, thinking, for a moment, that I was pretty quick. Then all I could see was night sky and my legs above me. I landed, painfully, on my neck and shoulders. The other twin had pulled some kind of martial arts trip-kick, and I rolled up onto my knees, with the realization that they’d done this before.
Their attention was on me now. A kick landed on my ribcage, which shot with pain, and I rolled out of its reach. Nolan was still there, coughing and whimpering on one knee. Fuck him, I thought, and lifted myself up on one arm.