by John Oakes
Good thing beer didn't go bad so easy. It was crisp and refreshing, which helped to ease the heat of the summer evening and the stuffiness of the house. It had to be 85 degrees or higher inside, actually warmer than the outside.
Ricky walked back out of the kitchen and down the long hall that sat at a right angle to the entrance hall. He found the thermostat and turned on the AC. He continued down the hall and turned left into the bathroom. He set his beer down on the back of the toilet and relieved his bladder from what it had accumulated during the long drive.
After that, he continued down the hall, the same color of desert pink it had been since it was first painted, back when Grampa Bruce built this place after Irene divorced him. At the end of the hall, Ricky peered into the master bedroom and saw the covers turned and bunched the way Bruce had last left them. Everything else in the room was also sitting in precisely the place where Grampa Bruce had last left it.
Ricky backtracked a ways down the hallway, stopping at his old room. The room was now void of most of his possessions, but not of his many fond memories. The sheets were clean and the bed made perfectly. Ricky swept a finger over the covers and picked up a pinch of dust.
Nine months worth of dust coated all the furniture in Ricky's old room and elsewhere in the house. Ricky had expected an eerie feeling to spread over him whenever he finally took possession of this mausoleum to Bruce's life. But maybe with a good dusting and a stocked fridge, it would seem just as if Bruce had left for a day mending fences or chatting up checkout girls at the grocery store.
Wherever Bruce was, Ricky hoped there were cute checkout girls there for him to charm.
Ricky took a sip of his beer and continued his inspection of the house, ending up back in the kitchen. He looked out the wide, sliding glass door. The moon cast its grey blue light over slightly rolling scrubland, now void of cattle and sheep. Ricky had given them out to the ranchers around the area, folks who would appreciate them, folks who could use a little more fat from the land. Ricky would be quite the popular figure around town for that. Ricky liked to imagine himself living out here, taking advantage of that community goodwill, but he wasn't sure if that would fly. He had a thriving business to run in San Antonio, after all.
This place would definitely be a fun laboratory for experimentation. Maybe he could even start growing blue agave out here, which was supposed to be low-maintenance. There was a worldwide shortage, due to the increasing demand for tequila around the world. Its juicy leaves were the only source for the liquor. It would be a fine cover for the production of other agave byproducts that more interested Ricky and his customers. That was probably a pipe dream though. It would take a dozen years at least to get a good harvest, and the ranch might not be at high enough altitude to begin with.
But peyote could grow here. Peyote had a number of active alkaloids that could cross the blood-brain barrier. Natives had used it for centuries in their ceremonial hallucinogens. Ricky had to go to Mexico twice a year to get a supply for his own creations. It would be nice to avoid that. The Mexican drug cartels fought over methamphetamine, heroine, cocaine, and to a lesser extent these days, marijuana. He dealt in unlicensed pharmacy, as did they, true, but the world of hallucinogens was not their concern. Still, any reason to avoid Mexico was a good reason. If Ricky could make one last trip and find a way to retrieve live transplants or seeds and get them across the border, then he might just be able to get at least one variety to take root here.
Ricky's plotting was broken by a pungent smell hitting his nostrils. The unmistakable scent of marijuana was wafting about him.
Ricky turned from the sliding glass door.
In the shadows of the living room, Ricky saw a small flame spark from a lighter. He heard the distinct crackle of burning bud in a pipe. He took a sip from his beer and passed through the kitchen and small dining space into the living room. The lighter snapped to life again, and as flame was set upon the pipe, it ever so slightly illuminated the mouth of the smoker. A well-kempt dark beard and mustache surrounded pursed lips on the pipe end. The light went out and there was a long silence before Ricky heard a slow exhalation of smoke.
A hand reached out into a ribbon of light.
Ricky saw the pipe being offered to him. He took it. The hand appeared again in the light, holding out a red Bic lighter. Ricky took them and ripped off a long hit. He handed the pipe and lighter back down.
He seated himself on the tawny couch opposite the man in the shadows.
"Where is this stuff from?" Ricky asked.
"Pakistan," the man answered.
Ricky did not insult the man by asking how he had gotten it to Texas.
"You sure you should be here?" Ricky asked. "Not the protocol we discussed."
"I took a cab from the airport. No one knows. No one saw me."
Ricky looked down at the small blue duffel bag by the man's feet edging out into the moonlight.
"Where were you last?"
"Brazil."
"How was it?"
"It was goddam magical. You got them hunnies at the beach in those tiny string bikinis. I'm talking tooth floss. And then they get to playing volleyball..."
Ricky chuckled along at the thought.
"Then I went up to a place called Manaus. I tried this stuff called Caçasa. It's like moonshine. Rough stuff, but they mix it up nice with mango and pineapple. I went on a Amazon cruise. I killed a monkey with a blowgun and I saw a bat the size of a damn Volkswagen."
"Sample any of the flavor?"
"Let's just say that the Amazon rainforest would be a playground for you. You gotta go sometime. They have some primo shit out there. Big pharma is out there as we speak trying to patent every nut and berry and root fungus they can get their hands on."
"Talk about living a life a crime," Ricky snorted. "Fucking pharma."
"Anyway, you'll have to go see it for yourself, but I did bring you back a little something that you'll have fun with. It's a moss that grows in the brackish estuaries of the amazon. You'll see God...and maybe Mick Jagger too."
"Mick Jagger ain't dead."
"Really? What about Steven Tyler?"
"Still alive as far as I know."
"Huh, well shit, I musta gotten my news stories mixed up."
A silence descended.
"So he did it?"
"Yep." Ricky said over the rim of the beer bottle.
"My God."
Ricky nodded in the dark.
"So it worked?"
"Yep."
"I told you. I told you, and I was right."
"You were right. But it weren't no easy thing."
"What about the girl?"
"Nope."
"Damn. That's too bad. I was certain she fit the bill, though."
"He liked her well enough," Ricky said. "And she liked him too."
"What the hell went wrong then? That boy has an amazing ability to put his foot in it."
"Nah. Forgot to consider one thing."
"What was that?" the man in the shadows asked.
"She had to keep a professional distance. Could lose her job."
"Oh pishhh. Professional distance my ass. The boy's got 84, no 85 million dollars. There ain't a distance that can compete with that."
"It ain't all about money."
"You don't gotta tell me that. I'm just sayin' that he can figure it out. Now more than ever."
"That pipe got any gas left in it?"
The man reached out from the shadows. His lean, strong hands offered out the pipe and lighter. Ricky got off the couch and reached out, semi-crouched. He grabbed the pipe and lighter and slunk back to his seat on the couch.
He took another long hit.
"Maybe we can figure out a way for her to lose her job," the man in the shadows said. "Then she'd have to work at a different firm anyways."
Ricky exhaled slowly. "Even if that made any sense, and it doesn't, you really wanna stoop that low?" Ricky asked.
"How much lower can I stoop? I'
m fully stooped, Ricardo."
"We don't meddle. That was the rule – the only way I let you go forward with this fool scheme. Deus ex machina, man. We set it in motion. The rest had to be up to him."
"That was the deal for the inheritance. This is about the girl."
"Deus ex machina, man. That's the deal. Why you so hung up on this gal anyway?"
"I spent three months choosing her. That's why."
Ricky shook his head. "Don't get greedy."
"Alright. Alright. But what's the fun in playing God if you can't get into the damn machina once in a while."
"Why don't you go find something to occupy yourself. Could always go and check off more items on that list I gave you."
"Aww, hell Rick. I'm tired of traveling. I just want to put my feet up and take her easy a bit."
"Well, you can't do it here. You can't do it in Texas. You know he saw you, more than once."
"I couldn't miss my own funeral," the man said in a playful tone.
"I'm not just talking about the homeless guy stunt. He saw you at least one other time. I had to convince him he was delusional in grief. And we almost got caught red-fuckin'-handed when he brought the lawyer out to the lake cabin."
"Well, shit. You're no fun, sometimes. You know that?"
"I'll take you to an airport in the morning. Go wherever you want. But you leave here and you leave Texas. And you never, ever come back."
"You know I'm beginning to think I paid too high a price for all this. Arlen Green is getting awfully sick of himself."
"Where's thinking like that gonna get you? You're dead. So go enjoy life."
"What if I want to enjoy my creation? At least Dr. Frankenstein got to play with the monster he created."
Ricky sat up and set the pipe down on the coffee table in front of him. "You are kidding right? Cause, you can't be goddam serious."
"Aww, come on, son." The man leaned way forward. His face emerged from darkness. The weak light illuminated blue eyes. They weren't just blue. They burned blue, like the hottest part of a flame.
"This wasn't the deal," Ricky said gravely.
"It's been nine months, Ricky. I miss my house. I miss my face. I miss him."
"He's finally got a wind in his sails, and you'd wanna risk it?"
"Well hell, what if Bruce Latour wants to come out and play just a bit?"
"I will break your hip, old man. That's what."
"Old man! I can still take a scrawny, piss ant like you."
"You can never tell him." Ricky sat forward further and leveled a bony finger. "Never. It would destroy him. Stop thinking that way you selfish bastard."
Bruce Latour made a face and leaned back slowly into the shadows. After a long silence, he said,
"Go on then. Pass me back that pipe."
Author's Note
Cody Latour will ride again in White Giant Ping Pong (working title). And trust me, his trials have only just begun. If you would like updates on this release and for the other books I'll write, and maybe even some free stuff. I'm not the spammy type. I hate that shit as much as you do.
Follow me on Facebook if you'd like more regular updates on my journey of writing books. I also joke around on twitter and complain about bad refereeing while I'm watching sports. I love interacting with people there too.
I would like to thank all the folks who helped this novel be the best it could. To my writing group, Stephanie, Annie and Fran, back in the Northwest: thank you for helping me discover not only how to find the right tone and style for this book, but in my writing in general. Thank you for all your insights and for not making me take out all the dick jokes.
Thanks to Thomas who took the time to help copy edit this while he was home on paternity leave. He definitely had better things to do.
Thanks most of all to my wife, Kate. This book couldn't exist without her support and encouragement. I'm sorry all the twists and turns were ruined for her by the time she got to beta read it. I would thank my daughter, but let's face it, she made this way harder than it needed to be. She's 14 mo old now. Her pastimes are kicking me in the balls, chewing on my power cord and stomping on my laptop. It's not her fault, but I'm still not gonna thank her. I'll write many more books, though, giving her plenty of opportunities for improvement, opportunities to earn the acknowledgment.
To you, dear reader, I give thanks as well. If you made it through the book, hell, look at you, you're deep into the author's note, then you must have had an ok time. This book probably made you feel like your life is super normal in comparison, at times. But at other, far more disturbing times, you probably found yourself nodding your head, thanking me that I had taken you so deep into the weird. I like the weirdos. I like you. Cody would like you too. Lets all hug. I hope you enjoyed Cody and his world. Please leave a review of this book on Amazon. It really helps other readers find it. For the modern author, every review counts in Amazon's mysterious algorithms and helps get exposure for the book. Plus, if you loved the book, it's one easy way to let me know. *Please, no spoilers*
You probably know people who would like this book. Tell them about it. But don't lend it to them. Make those chumps buy their own copy. Don't they still owe you money for that thing? Yeah. Don't do them any favors.
Thanks again. I look forward to writing more books for you. Catch me on the interwebs.
Authorially Yours,
John