Slice of the Pie

by Maxwell Miller

  “I’m sorry, mom,” Denise said, sounding genuinely contrite. “But will you please just hurry up and go get the oils? David’s freaking out in there. You know he hates going out, and he especially hates going out to the dispensary. He’s a felon. And not everyone around here likes weed,” she said.

  Becca bit her lower lip. Her daughter was right. She didn’t particularly like it. But the intransigence and moral superiority complex of some of the people in eastern Oregon could really wear on anyone with half a life. Or a brain. “Okay,” she said. She stood up. “Even though I just downed a whiskey,” she said. “I honestly forgot that’s why I was coming over here. I’ve been a bit scattered since… well, you know,” she said.

  “I understand, mom,” Denise said.

  Chapter 3

  Exiting the house, Becca dwelled on the unfortunate reality of David’s situation. A Mexican kid from Los Angeles, he’d been orphaned and left to the state to raise. He’d grown up in some rough neighborhoods and been relegated to the margins, forced to exist in a perpetual quasi-state of humiliation. He’d endured abuse at the hands of foster parents, which had ultimately inspired him to run away and seek emancipation at the age of 17. Promptly thereafter, he got his GED. Whereupon, a chance encounter with an Army recruiter at his little graduation ceremony saw him pulled into the military family.

  Except, it turned out to be more dysfunctional than the life he’d tried to escape.

  “Why does everyone have to focus on the felon part?” Becca asked, gripping the steering wheel of her beater station wagon. She gritted her teeth. She was beginning to get angry, the more she thought about her soon-to-be son-in-law. “He was willing to sacrifice everything for this country,” she said. Then she hastily wiped her face as she pulled up to a red light. Looking over, she noticed a man in the next lane, sitting high above her in a jacked-up truck, watching her. Becca resisted the urge to give the guy a vulgar hand gesture.

  It wasn’t long before she was at the small, inconspicuous dispensary. One of only two in the town, it sat in a converted house in a residential neighborhood. A small green sign provided the sole clue as to what went on behind the heavy wooden door. Becca walked up the cobbled pathway, forcing herself not to look up at the American flag fluttering in the slight breeze. She didn’t feel particularly patriotic right then, thinking of all the creeps in the community as well as the VA, who’d utterly failed David.

  Pausing at the door, she waited for it to buzz open. Becca smiled at the woman wearing dreadlocks behind the counter inside. Reaching down, she dug through her pocket for her license, handing it to the lady. “When are we going to get more dispensaries?” Becca asked, trying to make small talk. It seemed so odd, the differences in the state. When Becca had been doing her initial market research, trying to figure out where in Oregon she wanted to place her pastry bar, she’d spent time in Eugene. And in that college town, you could barely drive a block without seeing a dispensary. Last she’d checked, the place hadn’t been consumed by raving lunatics or violent psychopaths, either.

  “Not going to happen here,” the lady said, handing back Becca’s license. “We’re lucky to have the shops we do have. Only other one out here is in La Grande,” the clerk said. “And don’t get caught in the national parks or anything with weed, because the Sheriffs will all come after you.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Becca said. “Am I okay to go back?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Actually, I’ll be your budtender. Let me just buzz you in,” she said. She reached down and pressed a button underneath the desk. “See you on the other side.”

  Grabbing the door, Becca cast a sideways glance at some of the elaborate, colorful glass-blown bongs resting on a display case next to the entry. Then she went back into the separate, secure area where the actual weed was kept. She’d always assumed the laws and other regulations were what necessitated the extra precautionary steps. However, something about the woman behind the counter seemed so approachable that Becca elected to ask. “Why do you have all these locked doors and hoops to jump through?” she asked.

  “Mostly the rules. But we also only deal in cash. Makes us particularly vulnerable to robbery,” the woman said. “See anything you like? Can I help you with anything? We have the spin wheel over there. You can get discounts or whatever. Specials are on the board,” the lady pointed up at a blackboard behind her. “There’s a chart over there that explains the indica-sativa stuff, all that. It’s honestly better than I am at detailing what strains will have what effects, so if you need a resource, go for that. Some people can get kind of anxious, so I wouldn’t want you getting something and then having a panic attack,” she said. “Last thing we need,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Oh, thanks, but I just came for the 90% CBD vape cartridge,” Becca said.

  “Okay, but can I say something?” the woman asked. She smiled, revealing a mouth full of stained teeth that appeared brittle. She flared out one pierced nostril.

  “Sure, but what’s your name?” Becca asked. “It’s so odd talking to someone when I don’t know their name,” she said.

  “It’s Saffron,” the woman said. “Like the spice. Anyway, so, I’m not necessarily anti-vaping, but the cartridges and oils are really inefficient. They’re, like, tainted. You know? I mean, it’d be in my interest to sell you them, since they’re more expensive and then pens burn out a lot. Pens are where they get you. But I’m really, you know, passionate about weed. I really think it’s a great plant with a lot of versatility and medicinal properties. That’s the reason I’m out here, really. I couldn’t put up with all the stuff if I didn’t love the business. But I give little old ladies and even former Sheriff’s deputies this stuff and I hear them tell me how they suddenly can play with their grandkids or go for a walk again, and it really inspires me, you know?” Saffron said.

  “Anyway, I have some really good flower here. Virtually no THC. 30% CBD. Strain is called Flash Crash. Some local author actually cultivated it. The only reason we can afford such a new and award-winning strain,” Saffron said.

  “Um, well… I, uh,” Becca smiled uncomfortably. “I don’t know much about this stuff. I’m just getting it for my son-in-law,” she said. Future son-in-law she instinctively corrected herself.

  “That’s fine. Like I said, the cartridges and all that, they’re laced with pesticides and stuff. The way they burn in the pens is also potentially bad for you. Plus, some of the big biochemical companies that are trying to patent all the seeds and mess up food forever, they’re seeing the money in weed and are trying to bogart the market. You know? And they’re doing a lot better with extracts and all that, especially CBD. Because CBD is more legal and has the research grants, mostly. But a lot of small cultivators support us little dispensaries. We were all selling and smoking weed back when it was illegal, so we all still kind of stick together,” Saffron said.

  Becca leaned against the glass display case. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I might need some of this stuff, before the day is over,” she said.

  “Rough day?” Saffron asked.

  Chuckling, Becca turned and looked at the woman. “To say the least,” she said.

  “Any of my business?” Saffron asked. “When it’s slow, I offer my unlicensed therapeutical services free of charge,” she said.

  Becca smiled. “This may be too big for you,” she said.

  “I’m a white weed shop owner with dreads in central Oregon. Believe me, nothing’s too big for me,” Saffron said. “Compassion and listening are the only things I do well, honestly. So, don’t worry about me.”

  There was something intriguing about unloading on a virtual stranger. It seemed so easy to just tell Saffron about her problems. Because the woman operated almost in a different world from the one in which Becca existed. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Becca finally decided to go for it. “So, just a bit earlier, this kid dies in my shop. Oh, I run the Three Sassters Pastry Bar. It’s downtown,” she said.

 
Suddenly, inspiration hit. Becca frowned. She didn’t like the idea that her business mind would still be working at such an awkward and vulnerable time. But she’d long ago given up on any desire to suppress it. She seemed to have just been born with a penchant for seeing and seizing upon opportunities. “We should talk sometime. You have all these, what do they call them? Medibles?” Becca asked. She smiled when she noticed Saffron nodding her head. “Anyway, yeah, if it’s all legal and everything, maybe we could do some cross-promo. I’m sure between Tank, Charlie, and myself, we could come up with a great brownie recipe,” she said, snickering and blushing at the thought. There was something very radical embedded in the concept.

  “Sure,” Saffron said simply.

  Taking a deep breath, Becca launched back into her story. “So, yeah, this kid dies. I’m doing my thing, busy, as always. And I hear a scream. Then I find this girl sobbing. I go into the bathroom, see the body,” Becca paused and closed her eyes, trying to forget the memory seared indelibly into her consciousness. “Then some weird guy, owns the restaurant across the street, he appears, telling me this is his son, he knows the DA, just don’t call the cops,” she said.

  “Mario Esposito?” Saffron asked.

  “Yeah,” Becca said, raising one eyebrow. How do you know him? Becca wondered.

  “OWNS the DA is probably a better way to phrase it,” she said.

  “Okay, what am I missing here?” Becca asked.

  “He’s probably mafia. Or something. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies. I do have an active imagination. But he moved in a few years back. Basically took over the town since. And almost every small mom-and-pop Italian restaurant in American history has been a front for the mafia. Anyway, my boyfriend came out here to try to get away from gangs in Idaho. He says the guy is a thug. I don’t know… most of the people that come here from out of town are trying to escape something,” Saffron said.

  “Couldn’t it be the noise and traffic?” Becca asked. “I mean, I guess I was trying to escape that. Plus, my ex-husband,” she said. “I used to live in New England. Then I moved to Dallas. Texas is great, but, God, I started to really hate living in the city.” Becca said.

  “Yeah, could be that,” Saffron said. “But I still think he’s running from the cops. Or his mafia enemies,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t he try to keep a low profile, though? If that were the case? I mean, if I were trying to keep from getting locked-up or assassinated, would I really be paying off politicians and running flashy restaurants?” Becca asked, growing more skeptical by the minute. She didn’t like the guy. But that didn’t mean she needed to jump on any rumor that might disparage him.

  Saffron shrugged. “Good point,” she said. “So, Mario’s son ended up dead in your bathroom. What, then?” she asked. She crossed her arms over her thin chest and leaned back against the wall.

  “He, uh, he asked me if I wanted to investigate,” Becca said.

  “Now THAT is interesting,” Saffron said. “That sounds like it could be a lot of fun, really. Like something out of a good book,” she said.

  “You read?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow incredulously.

  “Well, yeah. Nothing like getting stoned and curling up with a good whodunit. Have some tea, get the cat on my lap, and escape into a good story,” Saffron said. “Beats watching the news any day.”

  “Very true,” Becca said. Then she looked at her watch. It buzzed. Revealing an angry text in all-caps, it told the confectioner that it was time to skedaddle. “I’m so sorry. My daughter. Uh, I guess I’ll go with the, what did you call it? Flower? Uh, I mean, I only brought $30, I think. I almost never have cash. How much can I get for that? How much do I need?” she asked.

  “You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll expense it as a promo. You can possess up to one ounce in public. That’s normally $450 for this strain, but I’ll give it to you. I mean, I want to hear more about this mystery. Takes the edge off of my boring life, you know? Let me live vicariously through you,” Saffron said.

  “Um, okay,” Becca said. “That’s awfully generous,” she said.

  “Maybe you can give me some brownies or something,” Saffron said. “I don’t know. Life is about more than profit. Humans do things based on factors other than price. Seriously, swing back by and tell me what’s going on. I want to tell my boyfriend if Mario’s mafia or not,” she said.

  Becca laughed. “Okay,” she said.

  “Let me just weight you up and all that. Take just a sec,” she said.

  Saffron retreated off to the other side of the display case, where she used clear tongs to place several nuggets of dense green cannabis into a metal tin atop a digital scale. When she’d finally succeeded in getting the desired weight, she dumped the contents of the container into a small silver-backed plastic container. Extracting a label from a nearby pad of stickers, she taped it onto the package before writing in a few details with a fat marker. Then she headed back to hand off the freebie to her new friend. “I always love hearing new stories. I’m attracted to weirdos. Might be because I’m a Pisces,” Saffron said.

  “Well, thank you again,” Becca said. “David’s a little resistant to change, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” she said.

  “If he doesn’t like it, you should give it a rip. Seriously,” Saffron said. “Great for anxiety. Hey, I guess I should’ve asked,” she said, playfully slapping her forehead. “Does he have a pipe? Since you came in for a vape cartridge, it just hit me that you might need a pipe,” she said.

  “You know, I don’t actually know,” Becca said. “But, let me go ahead and pay for that. I’d feel bad taking anything else,” she said.

  “Suit yourself. We’ve got the expensive glassware outside. Or we have these little guys over here. 15 bucks can get you a decent little pipe,” Saffron said, holding one up. It possessed a longish, curved stem and a colorful bowl.

  “Sounds good,” Becca said, extracting the money. “You can just take the $30. Least I could do,” Becca said. She smiled and waved as she made her hasty exit, afraid of anymore small talk. Some people could continue a conversation all day, if you let them.

  Getting back into the car, Becca felt her chest growing tight. She experienced a sudden angst. It hit her in the gut. Resting there, staring off into the afternoon sky, Becca felt a bevy of volatile emotions brewing inside. She couldn’t help but sense danger looming on the horizon. While she wasn’t necessarily afraid of adventure, she also wasn’t exactly an adventure junkie, either. She didn’t particularly want to be the one to have to shoulder the burden of all that conspired to confront her. Being a business owner was hard enough. Add to that being a mother, and it became almost untenable. How was she supposed to become a veritable private eye on top of everything else?

  Sighing, Becca decided she needed another drink. She figured Tank was more than competent enough to take the reins for a day. She needed a day off.

  On the short drive home, Becca tried to deal with the competing ideas rotting in the dense undergrowth of her mind. She didn’t like Mario. But she enjoyed the idea of trying to solve his son’s death. Especially if that investigation provided her an opportunity to bust the confident man down a peg. However, any time she diverted to other activities necessarily implied less devotion to her growing pastry bar. She owned it. And she felt responsible for it. Not only that, but she also didn’t feel like it was fair to Tank and Charlie to just tell them, hey, I’ll be doing my own thing for an indefinite amount of time. Take care of my business for me.

  But then she wondered if she might actually- in her heart of hearts- not trust her team as fully as she should. The thought caused her a fair amount of consternation.

  When she pulled into her short driveway, Denise rushed out, anger written all over her features. “What took you so long!” she screamed, before her mother had even opened the door.

  “Hold on,” Becca said, rolling down the window. She took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll be inside in a
second,” she said.

  “David is freaking out,” Denise said.

  “And I understand that, sweetie. But he’s a grown man. And a veteran. He’s tough. Plus, it’s not my responsibility to take care of him. So, if you’re just going to throw tantrums, I’ve had a rough day. I may just tell you to go stay in a hotel, at this point,” Becca said. She hated doing it. But it also was reaching a point where she needed to impose some sort of discipline. Becca owed it to her daughter to not always coddle her. Otherwise, the girl might never grow into a capable and independent adult.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” Denise said, somewhat taken aback by the sudden shift in tone.

  “No, it’s not, my love. Now, please, give me a few seconds of space. I have the stuff,” Becca said.

  “Well, can you at least give it to me?” Denise said, her tone plaintive.

  “No, sweetie. Just give me a second,” Becca said. Then she rolled up the window.

  She closed her eyes, ignoring the sound of the front door being slammed. Becca rested her head against the seat and enjoyed the brief respite silence and solitude provided. However, after a few seconds, she returned to images of the poor deceased man sprawled out on her bathroom floor. Feeling her pulse accelerate and her body tense, she nonetheless kept her eyes shut. She didn’t want to give the memories power over her. They’d haunt her if she let them. Plus, the more she remembered, the more clues she might be able to use later.

  Inspired by that last thought, Becca pulled her cellphone out. Looking down at the slim, bedazzled purple case, she briefly wondered if she should go through with her impulsive plan. Lawrence could be a stubborn man. And if he reacted the wrong way, it could send her life into a sudden tailspin.