by E. R. Brown
So instead of over-heated battery acid, we’ll serve lukewarm swill, I thought. More work for the barista — people who want to taste their coffee will have to buy espresso drinks.
“You should have told me you were in the market for a new machine, I could have talked to Vincenzo in Vancouver. He knows all the suppliers. There are good machines out there. These things —” are shit, I wanted to say, but I liked Jeannie.
“Well, you weren’t here to advise us, were you, dear?”
Anatole came in, carrying a piece of melamine shelving. He patted Jeannie’s bum as be passed, humming along with Don’t let me be lonely tonight. Those two liked each other — loved each other — after who knew how many years. Why couldn’t I have had parents like that?
“Tate! You’ve come to help?” He said with surprise. “He knows. That’s good.”
What did I know? I could see they’d pulled out the Internet station to make room for the new thermos jugs. I’d put that PC together for them, built it from raw components to save them money, to be a good team player for Human Beans. These days, anyone who wanted the Internet brought their own laptop.
“He’s just arrived, hasn’t he, Toley?” She clasped her hands together and took a breath. “All right then. We have some news.”
News?
She spoke slowly, her gaze somewhere in the middle of my forehead. “We’ve made some changes. We’re retiring now, really retiring this time. Lucas will be the new manager.”
Lucas. Manager. Not me, the trained barista, but the careless slob who couldn’t be bothered to set the grind, let alone control the pressure on the flaky Elektra. At least once every shift I had to step in and cover for something he’d screwed up. For that, he was promoted. Not that I wanted the job, but I should at least have been asked, and given the chance to politely turn them down. But apparently I didn’t even rate a warning.
I held my temper. This was not the time for a scene. I needed a job, or at least the appearance of a job, for a couple more weeks. So I sucked it up with a nod and a fist-bump to Lucas. “Luke, my man. Well done.”
If I’d had any doubts about choosing Randle over Jeannie, they were gone now. When it was time to get out of Wallace I’d be gone, with no regrets.
“I’m glad you’re down with it.” Lucas still wouldn’t meet my eye. “But, uh —”
“There’s more?”
“Christine. She’s full-time.”
“For the rest of the summer?”
Human Beans didn’t have enough work for two full-time staff. Jeannie had always given me priority, because I had a family to support. But if Christine was full-time, I was second-string to a high school student who pulled a worse shot than Lucas. I caught myself flexing my fists, and tucked them in the pockets of my jeans.
“She’s not a student anymore,” Lucas said. “You didn’t see her at the ADC grad? She saw you, dude, taking on those bruisers. We’ve all been wanting to hear about it. What were you trying to prove?”
“So I don’t have a job at all?” By now I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him, from the mouth of the dude who’d been my friend, whose ass I’d saved countless times.
“You weren’t here, man.” Lucas said.
Jeannie added, “And you never answered your phone.”
Of course not. Half the time it had the battery pulled out.
“You could leave a message.”
Anatole tapped Lucas and made the fingers-to-the-lips gesture, and a little whhp-whhp inhale sound. Luke countered with the eyebrow-waggle and giggle and the two of them left for the back alley. So subtle, those guys. Sharing the stoner bond. Being a smoker opened up social circles in this town. Got you promoted. You don’t smoke, you’re not a member of the inner circle.
Jeannie waited for them to leave. “This isn’t the sort of thing that you leave a message about. And you do still have a job. We need you Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings.”
The shifts that only I could work, serving Americans up for the weekend with Seattle coffee standards. No way could I support the family on two, maybe three shifts a week — she didn’t know I had income from Randle — and she was supposed to be a friend of Beth’s.
She added, “And we’ll need you to train the new staff that we’ll be bringing in.”
I saw her strategy. She wanted me to quit. She didn’t have the guts to fire me to my face, so she put me in a bind where I’d be forced to leave, either for my self-esteem or because I needed more money. But she didn’t want me going home and telling her friend Beth that I’d been dumped.
I don’t care what you want, I’m not leaving, I decided. I’ll be the one who says when it’s time, not you. I needed to keep the job for a while. It was my cover. My excuse to Beth and Bree for where the money came from. I forced a supportive smile onto my face.
“That’s great news,” I said. “Lucas will do you proud.”
I took my place behind the counter at the Elektra. “This is cold.”
“We’re closed,” she said. “We can’t serve while we’re building the new coffee station. But you’re welcome to lend a hand. I know that Anatole would trust you with his tools.”
“Not this time.” It was all I could do not to throw my apron in her face. “Since I’m free this afternoon, there are a few things I should take care of.”
Chapter 14
“Make sense of this and you’ll save my life,” Randle said, ushering me into his home.
Exaggerate much? I don’t know what I’d expected it to look like, but when the Craigslist address led me to a private gated entrance and down a waterfront road to a glass-walled, cantilevered structure that hovered over the water, I was not surprised to find a smiling Randle, in a Japanese kimono, behind the heavy black door.
Everything inside was sharp angles, hardwood and polished stone. A few abstract paintings, no books. It had the pine-fresh smell of household cleaners. It was the opposite of Pop’s sagging mansion. I loved it.
Kaya Property Management had its office downstairs, where two glass-topped black desks faced each other against a wall of windows. Far off, near the marina, sunlight glinted off a row of holiday houseboats, putting along like ducklings in each other’s wake.
Randle bit down on his joint, “I thought I was stocked up, but the pressure’s on. Demand’s through the roof, I need more production.”
He padded around the room, which was littered with controller circuit boards, sensors and wires, rattling the words out, nervous and high-strung, despite the weed.
“They get here from Amsterdam in pieces. Can you put them together? I have a manual.”
A woman with large-framed glasses and unruly dark hair busied herself at a keyboard. In her thirties maybe, toned and tanned, wearing nicely clinging yoga clothes. He waved a hand to introduce her. Her name was Maddie. His accountant.
“You were genius at Skip’s grow,” Randle said.
I was learning Randle’s ways. I knew when he was sucking up.
“I hooked a cable to the box, I didn’t build the thing.”
I leafed through a few pages of the manual, looking for a list of parts. I knew a few things about PCs. Back in Vancouver I’d custom-modded some systems for friends who wanted faster gaming. But this was some kind of PLC system, a logic controller. Which might or might not be non-trivial, depending.
If I’d known there was a manual I’d have had an easier time at Skip’s grow. The pinouts and colour codes were all here. Assembly instructions in a final appendix. On the surface, it didn’t look much harder than putting together an IKEA bookshelf. But Randle didn’t have to know that.
“You have one here that’s already assembled? It would make it easier.” I felt I should ask for something, otherwise Randle might suspect.
He was really worried. “I’ll head over to a grow with a camera,” he offered. “It’s all supposed to be in there, pictures too.”
“I’ll give it a try, no guarantees.” My concern was maybe too exaggerated. For once I had so
mething on him — I could do something that he couldn’t — and I felt like making the guy suffer a bit for the young offender bullshit. And maybe I just wanted to push back a little. One more paycheque, I told myself, and I was gone. Maybe today would swing me a bonus.
I began sorting parts and laying out assembly instructions. Randle quickly became bored and left, saying I should be alone to concentrate. Maddie padded in and out, refilling my cup of green tea.
An hour later he was back, looking over my shoulder.
“Nothing missing, nothing broken,” I said, clipping on a humidity sensor. “So far.”
“Right on. How’s that truck of yours? Running all right?”
“No problem. But hey, who’s Edmond Ngan?” The mystery owner of the truck.
One of Randle’s eyebrows twitched. “Edmond, wow. That goes back.” Using the window as a mirror, Randle pulled the elastic off his ponytail and swung the grey hair loose. “A good dude, Edmond was. Made his money and took it home with him. Hanoi, I think it was.” He gathered it back in both hands and slipped the elastic tight against his skull, felt for stray hairs and settled down to watch. I don’t really like it when people look over my shoulder.
The main circuit boards went into the housings easily enough, I just had to line up the mounting holes. There was only one way they could fit. I closed my eyes and visualized the system in Skip’s grow.
Which reminded me, “That grow. That burned down?” I said. I tried to sound like I was just making conversation while I probed inside the housing with a fingertip, feeling for a metal clip.
“That was harsh, but Skip’s getting over it.”
“That was the one with the extra plants. They were Vietnamese too, the couple that ran it, weren’t they? The Trans.”
“Extra plants? I’ve got no memory of that.” He was very busy all of a sudden, pulling the lit embers off his joint to save the rest for later. Like there was shortage of marijuana around here. A thousand dollars a plant, Skip had estimated. Triple that for one of Randle’s specials. He wouldn’t have forgotten.
“We talked about it, driving to see Rory Doyle. They’re the ones who died in the fire.”
Suddenly angry, Randle killed the glowing coals under a fingertip. “Don’t buy into that propaganda. It’s the media, they’re in it together, the press and the pigs. If they can’t find anybody to arrest, they run a headline, Two perish in grow op inferno. Complete bullshit. No evidence. Why? No bodies. They never found a body, not one, all they know is that two people are missing. Missing! Not dead. And why are they missing? Because they’re illegal, that’s why. If their grow op burns down, they’re not going to stick around to be put in jail and deported. They took a powder. Wouldn’t you?”
True enough, I would. “That’s one done.”
I picked up the manual to double-check the parts list before moving to the next. I’d triggered something, though, Randle was on a roll, spitting out the words so steadily that he was having trouble lighting his next joint.
“Any time you see those bullshit headlines, like, Police bust nets two million in crystal meth, you got to ask yourself, two million? Who says? Who did the math? Is that wholesale or street value? Pure product or stepped on a thousand times? What I think, they probably got fifty bucks of cold medicine and some plastic pails. But that wouldn’t make the headlines, would it?”
He paced, waving the joint in my direction. “And they always have a photo spread of weapons. You see those? I always wonder, do they haul out the same stash of guns each time? Because, hey, do I have weapons? No. Who needs weapons? That’s what I have protection for.”
“He’s got one done, Randle.” Maddie spoke softly from the door.
“Motherboard’s in place, sensors are on, connections are all made and secure.”
“Excellent. Don’t let anyone say I don’t reward my people, right, Maddie?” He swung an arm casually around her waist, and she spun away with a ballerina’s grace.
The controllers — assembled, tested, and functional, as far as I could tell from the diagnostic software — gave Randle a measure of calm, but he hadn’t stopped the pacing or the chain-toking. I finished my last cup of tea while he stood at a window, looking down on my truck and Maddie’s little blue Beetle.
“That truck of yours, it’s too familiar around here. Next time park it inside.”
“I’d better be going now.”
“You’re not done yet. Maddie has plans.”
I stood up to see what he was looking at. Maddie was in the drive, with the hatchback open, and Randle was leering at her ass as she bent inside to retrieve something. He had to be twenty-five years older than she was. He caught me looking at him and winked.
Down on the cobblestone, Maddie was struggling with a box, something large and red with ornate fittings. I moved to run down to the door, but Randle put out an arm.
“Chill, man. She’s not your wife, she’s a professional. Treat her as an equal.”
A moment later, Maddie walked in carrying a carved wooden box painted with what looked like Indian gods and goddesses. She wore a salesperson’s smile.
“This is a spice merchant’s case,” she said. “From Darjeeling. Randle brought it back for me.”
She placed the box on the floor and left for the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Perrier and three glasses. She leaned over and undid a clasp on the box, one hand lifting her hair out of the way. The box unfolded, opening to reveal a half-dozen round containers and a storage area filled with bottles, bowls, and little baggies.
As she settled into a Buddha-like cross-legged pose behind the open case, I tried not to be caught like I’d caught Randle, staring at her soft curves. Her body was fuller and more relaxed than Rachel’s. She was methodical, almost ritualistic, in setting out a semicircle of containers with a glass candle-heated bowl in the centre. The containers held colas — buds — with deep green leaves, some streaked with pinks, reds, and lavender.
“Maddie is our master taster,” Randle said. “She decides whether a product is House of Dreams quality, or whether we dump it on the bikers at a discount. She is here because it is time you learned to toke.”
I pursed my lips and nodded. Toking or not didn’t seem particularly important anymore. I was fascinated with the alchemical array and the enormous bong.
Randle took on a teacher’s tone. “You don’t have to love the shit like I do, but you can’t take anything on faith, not in this trade. When some grower hands you a spliff, you’ve got to know what it is. Actually, this is not a matter of debate.”
I know how to spot the shitweed, I thought, but said, “I thought this business was about trust. These are your people growing your weed. You don’t trust them?”
Randle’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “You got that trust pep talk from Ivan, didn’t you? Maddie, let our young protégé know about Ivan.”
“Ivan is more than friends with Bullard and his crew. He’s their eyes and ears. If we buy fertilizer from the wrong supplier, or hire someone who’s not on their list, he’s the one who leaks it. If we didn’t know better we’d think Bullard doesn’t trust us.” Little dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled.
“People who talk about trust are the ones you have to watch,” he said with a sly smile. “Trust me. But seriously, if you work for me, you verify quality at every step. It’s what our customers are paying for. Maddie?”
“You make coffee at that little place near the border. And you trained at Napoli on Commercial Drive.” Maddie said, rocking back on her buttocks. “Don’t look surprised, Randle’s quite proud of you. At Napoli, you did some cuppings?”
I nodded. I knew she was trying to flatter me, but I let it go. I was pleased. I thought that cuppings — coffee tastings for professional buyers and for supposed connoisseurs — were totally coffee-geeky. Which is why I liked them, and I was amazed that she knew about them.
She lit the tea candle. “I usually compare this to wine-tasting, but for you, coffee-cuppin
g is the analogy we’ll go with.”
She nodded in Randle’s direction. “Doctor Bong there has travelled everywhere weed is grown, and he’s brought back the best seeds from every region and every grower. He’s combined strains from the Middle East, the Himalayas and Southeast Asia. He’s crossed them with clones from Holland and California, and of course our own B.C. bud. We have a lot of varietals, and eventually, I will teach you to recognize the basic groups.”
Randle pulled out a joint and put it to his lips.
“Take that outside.” She sounded like a grade-school teacher. “One scent at a time.”
Randle tucked it back in his pocket.
“Today, we’re just covering the basics. How to recognize good from bad.”
She slid the candle under the silver bowl and waited for it to warm up. “Are you wondering how a girl accountant from Burnaby ended up as your mistress of maryjane?”
As she arranged samples in tiny bowls she explained. She had Crohn’s Disease, which was like razor blades in her intestines. She’d been in treatment since she was a teen, had been hospitalized for weeks at a time. It took her longer than usual to earn her CGA, but at least the schools were understanding about her illness. When it came time to get a job, employers were less accommodating. Once, she’d returned from medical leave to find she’d been laid off while she was ill.
She selected a gummy-looking bud and twisted a spiral of leaves into the bowl.
“Then I discovered the marvellous weed that puts Crohn’s to sleep. The more I smoked, the more I liked it. And the more I appreciated quality.”
Smoke rose from the bowl. She waved for me to lean in.
“When you taste wine,” Maddie said, “You take a sip, roll it around your mouth and spit it out. So you don’t get drunk. With coffee, I don’t —”
“With ganja, use the Clinton technique,” Randle interrupted.
Maddie smiled tolerantly. “Don’t inhale. Bring it into your nasal passages and concentrate.” She demonstrated. “Take a little in your mouth.”