The Price of Cash

by Ashley Bartlett

  “We talked about all of this. If you minimize the next few seasons, stop maintaining the east fields entirely, then you’ll be self-supporting in a year or two.” That had been the least painful of our conversations. And it hadn’t been fun.

  “And I’m willing if that’s what we need to do, of course. But I went over it with Shelby and she had some thoughts.”

  Shelby smiled at us. Shelby always had thoughts. “Take a look at this.” She handed me a stack of spreadsheets stapled together. “These projections are based on The Old Firehouse and Fifty-Three Cafeteria. Fifty-Three projections are very rough because we’ve only been in the restaurant two weeks.”

  I read the lines of numbers. They looked idealistic, even for Shelby. “I think you’re overestimating here. I don’t want to be a downer, but this doesn’t seem realistic.”

  “No, no.” Shelby came around my side of the table. “The first sheet is hard numbers. That’s last month at Firehouse. The next is Cafeteria Fifty-Three’s first two weeks.” She turned the page and pointed out the relevant numbers. “These will shift once they settle into what they need from us.”

  “Seriously?” I reread the numbers. We didn’t pay Shelby enough. “You’re not going to suggest we expand this though, right? We barely have enough produce to fill these orders.” I glanced through what I assumed were supply sheets.

  “Hear me out. You guys want to leave the east fields because the summer veggies are on their way out. So, in another month, we won’t lose any resources. Empty fields don’t lose money, but they don’t make money.” Shelby reached over me to turn the page again. “I’ve got two more restaurants interested. Here are my projections. Fifty-Three Cafeteria has a sister location down the hill.” Another page flip. “And Flight, the brewery on Main, is introducing a small plates menu. I hesitated to meet with them because they are requesting produce we don’t have. But the east fields will be available soon.”

  “And planting those fields requires bodies to maintain them. Your summer help is back in school. We can’t afford to hire new people,” I said.

  Clive shook his head and grinned. “That’s what I said.”

  “Okay, Shelby. Rock my world.” I waved a hand.

  “One of the teachers in 4-H runs a work experience program. She thinks Braddock Farm would be a good fit for their needs.” She pulled a stack of applications in front of us. “It means more work for us. Paperwork, monitoring, managing. If it were just that, I still probably wouldn’t do it. But there’s a fair amount of overlap of students in each program, which means some of the kids have already been working here for two or three years.” She handed me a smaller packet clipped together at the top of the stack. “These three students are seniors. They worked at the stand the last two summers. They know how the farm runs.”

  “That sounds great, but it doesn’t negate the paperwork,” I said.

  “True, but it increases the quality of the work we get from the students. Which means a few hours of my time equals five part-time employees who are paid by the school, not us. The more experienced ones can guide the younger ones,” Clive said.

  “Which means that next year the younger ones will be the older ones. It’s a self-sustaining cycle.” Shelby moved her hands in a circle. To demonstrate what a cycle was, I guess.

  “Impressive. I take it you’re both in agreement on this?” I asked.

  They nodded. “But your opinion matters. It’s your farm, not mine,” Shelby said.

  “I say go for it. And if you need a warm body, let me know. I can follow directions.”

  They seemed to find that amusing.

  “Hey, Shelby, you mind giving us a minute?” Clive asked.

  “Sure. I need to check the drip system in the greenhouse annex anyway.” Shelby danced off.

  Without discussing it, Clive and I stood to go outside. There was no need to be inside on a day like this.

  We sat on the patio. I stared into the seemingly infinite distance. I knew a few degrees and a hint of elevation would reveal civilization, but in that spot, that moment, there were only trees and rolling hills.

  “I want to give Shelby part ownership in Braddock Farm,” Clive said.

  I looked away from the view. He seemed nervous. “No,” I said. He took a deep breath before responding. I continued before he could start in. “Not for the reason you’re thinking. She absolutely deserves it. And, frankly, we can’t afford the raise we were planning. So we can do it, but not for a few months, at least. Ideally, a year.”

  “Why?” he asked. Then he answered his own question. “You’re still afraid we’ll be shut down.”

  “That, and it just looks suspicious to add a partial owner this soon.”

  “I’ll give you that. But you need to stop blaming yourself for this mess,” he said.

  “Who else am I going to blame?”

  “No one. It just happened. Now we need to deal with the reality.”

  “You know, I know that intellectually. But I’m having trouble using logic to dismiss the emotional piece.”

  “So you’re still mad at Laurel?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. I know she was doing her job. I’m also pretty sure she and her partner have sacrificed a fair amount professionally to insulate me.”

  “Even though she—Even with what she did to you?”

  No one ever knew what to call it. I knew. She had made love to me. I was terrified to tell anyone, but that was the truth of it. It was so much better to tell the version that everyone else knew. That we had dated. And she lied. But I realized that she hadn’t lied. She had loved me. That part was honest.

  “What she did was fucked up. But it’s not that simple. All of the reasons I’m mad at her are just extensions of being mad at me.”

  “So then you’re not angry about all this?”

  “No, I’m still angry. At the system. The police, the Feds, the DA’s office. I’m pissed as fuck at Henry.”

  “Henry? How so?” Clive asked.

  “He’s just such a fucking asshole. I know the result would be the same if he hadn’t gone rogue, but he made that night so much worse than it needed to be. If not for him, Nate and I probably wouldn’t have spent the weekend in jail. He made all of us look like arrogant, misogynistic psychos by association.” I was pissed about the whole tying me up and punching me in the face thing, but that paled next to the whole trying to kill someone thing.

  “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  “Which part?”

  “Misogynistic psycho? Come on, Cash. You’ve known the guy since you were nine years old. He’s a good boy.”

  “No. There’s nothing debatable here. Henry has treated women as inferior his entire life. The only reason he had a modicum of respect for me was because my gender presentation isn’t feminine.”

  “Henry isn’t anti-gay,” Clive said.

  “I didn’t say anything about being gay.”

  “He’s not hateful. He’s not violent.” His protestations made me wonder what exactly his definition of violence was.

  “Not all violence is physical. Violent language is just a precursor to violent behavior.”

  “He’s not like that.”

  I didn’t want to hear his excuses. “He is exactly that. And until someone locks him up, I’m just waiting for him to come back and finish the job.”

  “That’s not fair. He wouldn’t hurt you,” Clive said.

  Except I had described Henry hurting me. I had described that exact instance on too many occasions. “Clive, I need you to hear me. Henry tried to kill someone because it was the easiest solution to his problems.”

  “But—”

  “No. There are no extenuating circumstances here. He shot someone. I don’t know who he was aiming for, but he pointed a gun at a person and pulled the trigger. He could have killed her or me.”

  “But he wasn’t trying to kill you.”

  “But he was trying to kill her,” I shouted.

  “Calm down
. I’m still trying to understand this.” He spread his hands against his thighs like he was suppressing something. Himself or me, I didn’t know. “I think you’re being too judgmental. Try to see where he was coming from.”

  “I know where he was coming from. He’s entitled. He thinks he deserves more than other people. He didn’t want to lose his lifestyle, his reputation. The price he was willing to pay was someone else’s life, my freedom, your farm. And clearly he way overshot the mark because despite all of that, you still think he is a good guy.”

  “Cash—”

  I stood. I couldn’t have this conversation again. “I need to go. Send me whatever paperwork and I’ll sign it.” I walked to my SUV. Every joint felt too loose, too hot. At the same time, I was stiff. Like my anger and frustration had seized every muscle. I climbed in my car. Shelby waved at me from the door of the greenhouse. She titled her head and mouthed a question. I rolled down my window and she jogged up.

  “Where are you going? I thought you were staying for lunch.”

  My phone vibrated. I glanced at the screen. It was Nate.

  Need to talk. U available?

  “Can’t. Nate needs me.” I held up the phone. It was a sorry lie.

  Shelby made a face. “Sad. Maybe later this week? I’d love for us to all go to Cafeteria Fifty-Three. See what they are doing with our lovely vegetables.”

  “I can’t. Sorry.”

  “Are you okay? You seem off.”

  I forced a grin. “I gotta go.”

  She backed away and nodded. She was looking at me with far too much kindness. I wanted to call her back. Ask if Clive casually defended good guys to her. Hey, Shelby, remember that guy who terrorized you in high school? Can’t you try to see things from his perspective? When he assaulted you, he probably just really liked you, right? His behavior was bad according to every standard of decency, but maybe you were too harsh on him.

  But I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to invoke her past to assuage my anger. It wasn’t fair to draw the connection my psyche insisted on compulsively tracing.

  “Bye, Cash.” She seemed to realize I wasn’t going to be back for a while.

  “Later, Shelby.”

  Chapter Eight

  Nate was on the porch when I got home. He stood and straightened his short-sleeved button up. He slid his hands into his pockets, which pulled the shorts tight across his thighs.

  “Rough day, buddy?” he asked when I was in earshot.

  “Can we not?”

  “Aww, but I like talking about your feelings.”

  I unlocked the door. He followed me inside and flopped on the couch. I leaned against the doorframe and waited.

  “Mateo checked the pills. You want good or bad?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Okay.” Nate drew the word out. I was glad he was having a super fun day. Really. I just wasn’t there with him. “The Oxy is Oxy.”

  “But?”

  “But the potency is inconsistent between pills. Mateo did a small sample and the results varied so widely he had to test a larger sample.”

  “That’s fucking great. How much did you pay for this shit?”

  Nate sat up. “Hey. I don’t know what made your day so shitty, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me so back the fuck off. Take a deep breath. Take up yoga. I don’t care. Just don’t treat me like your punching bag.”

  I nodded and went to the kitchen. I took a deep breath because I wanted to, not because he told me to. I grabbed a couple of Andy’s sparkling waters and went back out in the living room. Nate took the can I handed him. He drank half of it and waited.

  “Can we sell the pills? Is there any way to sort out the different dosages?” I asked.

  “No. Sorting would be impossible. He would need to test each pill, which would degrade each pill.” He shook his head.

  “So we’re out a couple hundred bucks?” It wasn’t the end of the world. It just felt like everything was an obstacle and I was tired. I needed something to go right.

  “Not necessarily. We have two options. One, sell it as a grab bag. Parties, raves, festivals we can get away with that sort of thing.”

  “And what? Just say, hey, this is Oxy, but we don’t know how strong?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “I don’t like that idea.” It seemed like asking for trouble.

  “Neither do I. But there’s an anonymity at raves that will protect us both from dissatisfied customers and any industrious police detectives.”

  “I’d rather not shield myself from the results of selling questionable product. I’d rather just not sell questionable product.”

  “I feel you. That’s why there’s an option two,” he said. I waved my hand for him to continue. “Mateo can blend the pills and press them into new pills with consistent dosage.”

  There was plenty that could go wrong with that idea. But it held more promise than the other. “We can do that?”

  “It’s relatively simple from what I understand. He can customize them however we want. You want orange pills in the shape of bunny rabbits? He can do it.”

  “We’re not selling Molly. I just want the Oxy to look like Oxy,” I said.

  “That’s doable. Should I tell him to go ahead?”

  I didn’t see that we had much of a choice. Our options all sucked. This option sucked less. “How much do you trust him?”

  “As much as you can. We’ve known each other for a few years. He’s got a similar world view to mine. He’s discreet.”

  “Would he rip us off? Would he put something other than Oxy in the pills for any reason?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t consider this if I thought he would,” Nate said.

  “That’s fair.”

  “There is…” He stopped. Hesitated. “There is the issue of Kallen.”

  “Yeah, we’re not supposed to deal.” I really wasn’t concerned about that. “But I wasn’t planning on telling her.”

  “Right. I’m sure that’s what they had in mind. It’s fine to deal as long as you don’t tell any cops about it.”

  “Shut up. They know we’re going to keep dealing. Hell, I think they want us to. How else are we supposed to maintain the contacts they need?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I get it. But I think pressing pills—in light of the whole counterfeit, adulterated pills thing—might be pushing their willingness to look the other way.”

  “Well, hopefully, they never find out.”

  “Solid plan,” he said.

  “So if we do this, how long will the whole process take?”

  Nate grimaced. “Not long, but right now we can’t afford a couple days.”

  “Same. How bad is it with your customers?”

  “I’ve promised drugs I don’t have in the next two days.”

  “Wait here.” I went back to my bedroom and grabbed the duffel bag Robin had dropped off the other day. Nate and I had shoved every bit of paraphernalia in my house in there, but I had no clue what that encompassed. Packing was a blurred memory.

  Nate watched me dig around for a couple minutes before he grabbed the bag and upended it on the coffee table. He started plucking bags of pills out from the pile. I sorted out the various plastic baggies of money.

  “Hey, Cash?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I thought we were broke.” Nate stared pointedly at the growing pile of cash.

  “Can you pay rent with cash?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” I dumped the load on one of the couch cushions. Our mound of crap was getting smaller. “Do you have an operational system to launder money through?”

  “No.” He dragged it out. Apparently, he was tired of my shit.

  “We are effectively broke.”

  “Can I pay Mateo with this though?”

  “Yes.” I opened a bag and counted out a stack of cash for him. “Buy some Visa gift cards too. I’m low so you must be.” He double-checked it before folding it and shoving the wad into his pocket.
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br />   We sorted pills into colors. Nate counted out conservative amounts. I noted them in my register. It was just like old times.

  “This should hold me over.”

  “Do you know who you’re losing customers to?”

  Nate shook his head. “Not sure in Davis. Sac, especially around the college, it’s Jerome and his boys.”

  I sighed. “I’m not even mad, really. He’s filling a void.”

  “Same here. We’re going to need to be creative to get our customers back though,” he said. I nodded. I wasn’t ready to think that far ahead. “I’ll keep you updated about the whole Mateo thing.”

  “Thanks.” I walked him to the door.

  “Hey, you know if you actually want to talk about whatever you’re so pissed about, I’m here,” he said.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  He hesitated to see if I would pour out my heart. When I didn’t, he shook my hand, tapped my shoulder with a closed fist, and let himself out.

  I appreciated the gesture. But I didn’t want to talk. People were too disappointing when you talked to them.

  Nickels was in the living room when I returned. She was staring at the strange lump of plastic and cash on the couch. I scooped up the pills from the coffee table before she could investigate it. I stashed the drugs and cash in fun, new places. Nickels watched me open drawers and cabinets. She harshly judged the amount of noise I was making. By the time I was finished, she had fallen into a disapproving sleep.

  I drove to Kyra’s. The afternoon heat made everything shimmer. Nothing felt real. Kyra opened the door and stood there watching me. I didn’t speak or explain myself. I didn’t know how. She linked her fingers through mine and led me inside. She opened a beer, pressed the cold bottle into my hand, and sat me on the edge of the bed.

  “Five minutes,” she said. I nodded.

  Kyra moved around the painting in the center of the loft. She wrapped oil-soaked brushes in plastic. Covered her palette. Stowed away tubes of paint. I took a long pull from my beer. Kyra poured soap and olive oil into her palms and scrubbed at the bright drops of purple on her fingertips. She was only partially successful. She roughly dried her hands and tossed the towel at the counter. I drank more beer and tried not to think or feel. Hot breeze from the open window battled with the AC running full blast. The air movement helped diminish the smell of solvents, but it was still pervasive.