by Craig Dirkes
Dalton wheeled his chair to my desk. “Ready for our editorial meeting?”
“Sure,” I said, right as I pressed send on this message to Taylor:
Wow, sorry to hear you busted Bristy and Hope smoking weed. Bet you’re pissed. I smoked weed once in high school — twice actually, but the first time I didn’t feel anything. The second time was a paranoid nightmare. Haven’t done it since. I don’t know how anybody does. Doing weed is bad news.
I thought the doing weed bit was a nice touch. Putting it that way made me seem ignorant, naive, innocent. Like I thought smoking weed was on par with doing heroine. And I wasn’t going to mention the one time I smoked with Finn on the tundra because I still felt guilty about it. In my mind, that time didn’t count.
Though it was true I’d only smoked a few times, I knew that in Taylor’s eyes, selling the stuff would be an entirely different and deplorable ballgame. I needed to hide my little marijuana operation from Taylor because I thought I still had a chance with her, even though time was running short.
Dalton sat down across from me. “All right, Eddie — what you got?”
“Kind of hard up this week,” I said. “I thought I could do a preview of the upcoming run of silvers. Then maybe I could stop by the courthouse and dig into something from the police blotter.”
“That’s a good start,” Dalton said. “Most people don’t know this yet, but the principal at Kusko Elementary is about to resign. The district will make it public later this week. Get that story too.”
“Done,” I said. “But I still need one or two more. Got anything else?”
Dalton didn’t respond.
“Dalton?”
“Shh,” he said, concentrating.
Dalton was eavesdropping on a conversation in Mikey Colosky’s barbershop next door. I’d grown so accustomed to hearing people chatting in there that the conversations sounded like white noise.
I listened closer. There was no mistaking who was getting a haircut — Sheriff Buzz Berger.
I’d interviewed Buzz once over the phone, but we still hadn’t met in person, even though I’d seen him at the courthouse. He was a tall, gangly guy who still hadn’t shed his long, curly black mullet from his teenage days, and he seemed like a textbook case of a guy becoming a cop to exact his revenge for getting his ass beat in high school. I didn’t know where Buzz was from, but he had a southern accent. He couldn’t get out a sentence without swearing.
Dalton and I moved over to the wall and leaned in to listen. Dalton cupped his hand to his ear.
“I swear,” Buzz said, “we’re going to crack down on the fuckers bringing that grass into the villages. Stupid drug-dealing asshole bitch-ass dildo motherfuckers.”
Gulp.
Dalton dropped his hand and said, “You hear that, Eddie? There’s your front-page story. Go talk to Buzz.”
I stood there, frozen. Like, am I to blame for all the marijuana trouble?
“Is there a problem, Eddie?”
“Sorry, Dalton.” I smiled dumbly. “No problem.”
I walked through the door separating our office from the barbershop and saw Mikey, clippers in hand, standing behind Buzz with a “please rescue me” look on his face. Mikey was a heavy guy in his thirties, with scruffy black sideburns down his cheeks and fingers so fat he needed custom-made scissors. He wore a camouflage apron. He never said much — odd for a man in his profession.
In looking at Mikey’s bewildered expression, I surmised he’d never even asked Buzz one question. He was just letting Buzz talk, and talk, and talk out his ass some more.
“Sheriff Buzz,” I said.
“Hey, boy,” he replied.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Sounds like there have been lots of marijuana busts. Are you willing to go on the record?”
“Bet your sweet little ass I’ll talk on the record,” Buzz said, grinning at himself proudly in the big dusty mirror.
I walked back to my desk and grabbed a notebook. I glanced at Dalton sitting near my desk. He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. “Go get ’em,” he said.
Yay! I thought.
I made my way back into Mikey’s shop and sat down on the second barber chair next to him and Buzz. I swiveled the chair so that Buzz and I could see each other in the mirror.
“So, lots of marijuana out there, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah, lots of the shit,” Buzz said. “VPSOs have been calling in busts from villages every week since the start of summer. This marijuana bullshit is adding to my paperwork. I got enough going on with all the drunk fuckers everywhere and all the stupid shit they do.”
“Which villages?”
“Fuck, let me think here… there’ve been a few busts on the western Yukon, in St. Mary’s, Mountain Village, and Pilot Station. Been getting some closer to town too — Oscarville, Kewthluk, Napakiak. Then some others in the far north, in and around Kotlik.”
I didn’t know what to think. Was I personally responsible for any of this? It’s not like I sold bricks of weed that could be broken up and dispersed to lots of customers. Then again, with how precious of a commodity weed was in villages, it was possible that some of the people I’d sold to were divvying up my ounces and selling fat nugs for fifty or a hundred bucks a pop. That easily could have happened with Linetta in St. Mary’s and Betty in Mountain Village, then spilled over to nearby Pilot Station. Linetta and Betty were poor enough that they might have been forced to sell some of what I’d given them. And something similar could have happened with Casey in Unalakleet, which would explain the busts in Kotlik and in the far north. It all seemed plausible, anyway. Then again, maybe it was just a coincidence?
But what about the villages closer to Suckwater? I had no explanation for those. Finn had told me I wasn’t allowed to sell weed in any villages nearby. I agreed and didn’t ask why. I wanted to because transporting weed by boat would be easy. But I didn’t have a say in the matter, so I let it go.
Halfway through my interview with Buzz, I wasn’t even scared to talk to him anymore. Partly because I realized there was no way for him to know I might have a hand in the village busts, but more because his hard-ass front was so over-the-top it was downright comical.
“Any idea who’s smuggling the weed, or how they’re getting it to the villages?” I asked.
“Exactly how the fuck you think they’re smuggling it — bush planes,” Buzz said. “As for the who, I don’t know. It’s probably a couple dealers; no way one guy could be responsible for it all. And I got half a mind to think there are some crooked VPSOs out there turning a blind eye.”
I let Buzz go on until I had all the information I needed. I thanked him and walked back to my desk to transcribe our interview. Considering his filthy mouth, the story would need to be light on quotes.
A few minutes later, as Buzz left the barbershop, I heard him pound on the exit door like a spaz. “Fuckin’ thing’s stuck!” he hollered in frustration. His door-pounding reminded me of the first time I’d encountered Bronco. I dashed toward the exit, hoping to catch Buzz before he drove off. I caught up to him outside as he slid inside his cruiser, parked next to the FJ.
“You forget to ask me something?” Buzz asked, clearly annoyed.
“You know anything about a guy named Bronco?”
Buzz’s face got mean. “Little asshole bootlegger from St. Mary’s who feeds guys to bears? Nah, never heard of him.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“I can tell you that the next time he gets busted for something, that little fucker’s going down, and going down hard. Why do you ask? You got something on him?”
“Oh, I don’t. I just… I’ve heard people talk about him. I thought maybe he’s responsible for some of the problems out there in the villages.”
“Well I wouldn’t be too shittin’ surprised,” Buzz said, buckl
ing up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some motherfuckin’ crime fighting to goddamn take care of.”
* * *
Later that day, I worked off supper by picking up shit in the dog yards. Three days’ worth of turds had piled up because I’d forgotten to clean it the day before. I wore jeans, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, and a bug net over my head. The mosquitoes were vicious, attacking the top of my ass crack every time I bent over to scoop a poop.
Five minutes after I started on the side dog yard, Taylor pulled up in her parents’ rusty silver Chevy truck. Waving through the window, she parked next to the FJ and hopped out. “Hey, Eddie!” she said, circling around the front of the vehicle. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, too, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Even in plain clothes she looked to me like a movie star.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“Just driving around,” she replied. “Thought I’d stop by and say hi.”
She was about to sit on the flat roof of Lenny’s doghouse, but I stopped her. “I just cleaned shit from there,” I said. She thanked me for the heads-up, waving mosquitoes away from her face.
“Sucks about Bristy and Hope,” I said. “Are you guys fighting, then?”
“No, but they keep avoiding the topic.”
I picked up the two wooden pallets near Kuba’s house, one by one, and set them aside to clean the shit underneath. Taylor grabbed the black plastic bag on the ground and opened it up for me while I shoveled shit into it. I loved that dog poop didn’t bother her.
“Speaking of weed,” Taylor said, “what happened the second time you smoked it? What got you so paranoid?”
I dropped the first wooden pallet back into place and said, “The sound of my buddy’s air conditioner fan outside — it just freaked me out. I thought it was cops in helicopters circling the house.”
Taylor laughed. “And?”
“And I hid in his closet and ate an entire tin of cashews. The next day, my poop came out like pea gravel. It felt like I’d torn something.”
Taylor doubled over in laughter, swatting at more mosquitoes. I laughed along with her as I repositioned the second pallet.
“K then,” Taylor said. “I gotta run. These mosquitoes are too much.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Text me this week. Let’s set something up. Maybe I can take you dry-land mushing.”
“Deal,” she said.
CHAPTER 16
MEET THE BOSS
Crumbs littered Finn’s kitchen table like sand in a sandbox. I wiped them away and sat down. I used his digital scale to weigh two ounces of weed, taking from a mound of the stuff he had been drawing from, indiscriminately, for his own personal use.
Finn stretched sideways on his black couch, comatose, his blank face aiming toward the image on TV or the lava lamp next to it. He wore blue basketball shorts and no shirt. White drool stains dotted the cushion by his head. I gathered he’d been playing Madden football — and getting crushed by the computer — when he dozed off. The glowing screen showed Finn’s Seahawks (he always chose the Seahawks) were down 35-0 to the Steelers.
Finn had been off work the past two days, smoking away his downtime. He’d started each day with a wake-and-bake, then kept the bowls packed at all hours. I’d never seen him on such a bender. His clothes were scattered all over the floor, and the sink overflowed with dirty dishes. On his stove rested two pots filled with crusty, dried-up macaroni and cheese he’d forgotten to eat. Wow, Finn really sucks at the munchies, I thought.
I finished weighing the green and licked the stickiness off my fingers. The following morning would be my next delivery, in the village of Russian Mission. The stakes were high with this delivery. Get busted with two ounces, and I could see jail time. Succeed, and I’d have just one more delivery to go.
“Finn.”
He didn’t respond.
“Finn!”
Still nothing.
“Finn!”
“Wha?” he groaned, staring ahead blankly.
I stood up from the table, stomped over, and got in his face. “Get your shit together! I need your help!”
“K,” he said without passion, rubbing his eyes.
I grabbed Finn’s hand and pulled him to his feet, like a lineman helping up a sacked quarterback. He could walk, but barely. He stumbled to the kitchen table and sat to my left. He began marveling at the fingers on his right hand, wiggling them around. “Electronic signals,” he said.
“Yeah, electronic signals,” I said, placating him. “The electronic signals from your brain to your hand. It’s like the electricity is, like, coursing through your veins and shit.”
“Yeah, dude. Wow.”
He kept gawking at his fingers in wonderment. I rubbed my feet back and forth vigorously on the shaggy red rug underneath the table. Slowly, I raised my left index finger and touched his cheek. The shock popped like a fork stuck in a wall outlet.
Finn jumped in his chair and nearly hit the ceiling. “DUDE!”
“How’s that for some electricity?” I said. “Now pull your head out of your ass, dummy. We have work to do.”
I fired up the vacuum sealer and sealed two packages of weed that I’d pounded flat as pancakes. For this delivery, I’d need to strap flat packages to each butt cheek. I was positive two ounces wouldn’t fit in my crack — one barely did.
“Here,” I said, handing Finn the packages. I stood up, pulled down my overalls and skivvies, and bent over. Once Finn saw my bare butt, he tried slapping it like he did before my very first delivery. He missed and toppled onto the floor, laughing. I laughed with him and, reaching for the duct tape on the table, said, “See this tape, Finn? Think you can stick it over my ass?”
Finn slapped his own face a few times, trying to suck it up. “Yes I can, Eddie. Yes. I. Can.”
Finn held a package to my right cheek. Just as he began placing a strand of tape, the front door opened. I froze. I couldn’t see who was there because my back was to the door. Finn couldn’t see either because he was facing the same direction as me, on his knees, working on my butt. I sensed he was freaking too. Freaking not only because he had more marijuana in his house than normal, but because from behind us, it must have looked like he was doing something awfully naughty to me.
Hope’s gruff voice filled the room. “What’s this, Finn? Are you giving Eddie the old Jamaican salt lick?”
Wild laughter from Bristy. “You are the funniest bitch EV-AR!”
Finn and I still hadn’t turned around. He asked from behind me, “What’s a Jamaican salt lick?”
“Long story, Finn.”
We turned around and saw Bristy falling apart on the floor in hysterics. Hope stood tall next to her, smirking, proud of her remark.
“First off,” Finn began, “you two are stoned, so this looks weirder than it actually is.”
“We are not stoned,” Hope insisted.
“Yes you are,” Finn countered. “Gay people have gaydar. I have stone-ar.”
“Fine,” Hope conceded. “We’re baked. That’s not the issue. The bigger issue is, what were you doing to Eddie?”
Suddenly, the implications of the situation hit me. Bristy and Hope were about to discover I sold weed. I liked their friend, Taylor. Taylor couldn’t know I sold weed. This was not good.
I inserted myself into the controversy.
“No, Hope,” I began, “the bigger issue is that you and Bristy are here to buy weed knowing your best friend doesn’t approve of you smoking weed because she doesn’t need, as you once put it, ‘any extra bullshit.’”
Hope said it was none of my business, but I said it was, because I cared about Taylor.
She replied, “You care about Taylor so much that you let Finn give you rim jobs?”
We all laughed. As comical as Hope’s comment was, I understood her tactics.
She was forcing our hand to explain what we were doing. She knew that most guys who get accused of engaging in rim jobs with other guys tend to want to set the record straight quickly.
Finn knew the explanation wasn’t his to give, so I dove right in. “Come on in,” I told Bristy and Hope. “Do I ever have a story for you.”
The girls sat down on opposite ends of the couch. Finn sat between them and started weighing out their eighth.
It took me ten minutes to lay everything out. The whole time, Bristy and Hope stared at me, flabbergasted, like they were finding out Santa Claus flies his sled drunk.
“But you’re a reporter,” Hope said. “You selling weed doesn’t make any sense.”
None of my life in Sucktown makes sense, I thought.
“It’s not like I’m proud of this,” I said. “It’s not like I’m some burnout selling weed to make money just for the sake of making money.”
When I said that, I pointed at Finn conspicuously.
“Suck it, nerd,” he said.
“In all seriousness,” I continued, “the reality is that I hate Kusko. If things were to work out with Taylor, I might stay. But those odds are slim. So, desperate times, desperate measures.”
I asked the girls if they were on bad terms with Taylor because of the weed thing.
“She’s not happy,” Hope said. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if Bristy wasn’t such a dumbass.”
Bristy looked ashamed. She pulled her cell phone from her front pocket, pressed the screen a few times, and tossed the phone to me. “Check it out,” she said.
I read the text thread.
Bristy: “OMG Hope! I’m so stoned! I just peed down my leg cuz I forgot how to work the doorknob in my room! I can’t get to the bathroom! I’m trapped! I’m peeing again now! HELP!”
Taylor: “This is Taylor.”
Bristy: “OMG Hope! I just sent Taylor a text meant for you. I said I was stoned! What do I do now? I’m too baked to think!”