“You mean to the Dark Side? Aren’t you being a little hypocritical?” Sammy had teased.
And so Alice had thought about it for a while, but the more she thought about it, the more she didn’t like the idea. Mostly it had to do with making the three-hour trip back and forth to Lyston.
“I’m a good driver!” Sammy said. “I don’t even get parking tickets. Well at least not this year.”
“I don’t want you on that highway all the time.”
“I’ll be fine, Alice!’
“You get pulled over, you might not be fine.”
“I’m careful.”
“Maybe so.” Alice cleared her throat and then slowly shook her head. “Lot of misunderstandings these days on the side of a highway.”
Sammy shrugged.
“What if your car smells of it. And it just might if you’re working with weed all day.”
“I’ll take all the documents I need.”
“Nope.”
“Alice!”
“Nope. I’m not going to have it on my conscience. You’re young. You’re not white. Officer might not give you a chance to show him the papers. And after he — because it will in all probability be a he — after he’s slammed your head onto the car roof and thrown you in jail, or worse, he’ll claim it was all a misunderstanding and he’ll be fine. But you won’t be fine.”
Sammy looked at Alice. There was no winning this kind of argument with her. “I could still just manage things from the dispensary across town. Phones and internet, you know.”
Alice thought about that too for a while and it sat better with her. Sammy taking over would mean that getting the dispensaries running would be relatively seamless. Alice wouldn’t have to spend time filling anybody in on how she ran things.
After discussions with Luther it was decided Alice would do the traveling if there was a need for it. Sammy could run things from the city. But they would still have to hire technicians for the Lyston dispensary. So a few days later Alice and Sammy drove up to Lyston.
Lydia was waiting for them at the dispensary. She was thrilled to see Alice again and delighted to meet Sammy. When they entered the building, Alice was immediately struck by the serenity of the space. The walls were very pale and had a warm gray, almost mauve tint to them. The woodwork, used to divide the room and frame the ceiling into sections, was stained with deep umber that glowed with russet overtones. It was the color of black coffee loaded with cinnamon, as were the floors that looked to be finished cork. The wall leading into the storage and work area was actually a screen that would slide. The counters and display cases were arranged much like they were in the city dispensary, except the woodwork on them was dark to match the floors and trim and they were more square and unadorned looking.
“Has a kind of Japanese feel to it,” Alice said.
“Elegant,” Sammy said.
“You’ve hit the nail on the head. I’ll have to tell Hi,” Lydia said. “He told me when he found out what it was for, he wanted it to look like a place where someone might hold a tea ceremony. And he started telling me about the history of spiritual uses associated with marijuana. I thought that was such an interesting approach and charming.”
“What does Caldwell think?” Alice asked, not without some mischief.
“Oh, he hates it of course. But he’s vastly outnumbered on this one.” And Lydia smiled an equally mischievous smile.
“How is the cultivation coming, Lydia? When do you think we might see mature plants?” Alice asked.
“The cultivation is fine. They were harvesting again just yesterday.”
Alice looked a little confused. “We keep being told we don’t have a crop yet.”
“I guess Caldwell says that because we still haven’t met the . . . tests. You know how the health department sets numbers for things. And when test results come back . . .”
“You mean there’s been product all along? I only knew about the crop that blew the lid off the DOH specifications.”
“Specifications! That’s the word I was looking for. That’s right! We still do not meet the DOH specifications,” Lydia said and then added, “for yeast and mold, I hear.”
“So that’s why I’ve never seen any test results.”
“Well they come back with that big red stamp on them. Upsets Caldwell to no end. So I imagine he doesn’t allow Gus to send them on.”
“So, is it just the microbial limits? No metals? And surely no pesticides I would assume, with all this talk about ‘organic,’” Alice said.
“That’s right. I’ve heard Caldwell complain bitterly about microbial contamination. He says we’re out only by tiny numbers. That’s after the first moldy crop fiasco of course. He figures the facility sanitation is still a problem.”
“It’s possible. But there’s been no mention of mycotoxins or anything like that?” Alice asked.
Lydia shook her head. “Not from what I hear.”
“What happens with crops that don’t meet specifications?” Sammy, not at all familiar with any processes at the grow facility, was curious.
“Oh, they get buried.”
“What?” Alice was incredulous. “Lydia, if it’s just a microbial-count problem, why aren’t we sterilizing the product? The state is allowing irradiation. In fact it’s recommending it. Why aren’t we doing that?”
“Oh! Caldwell won’t hear of it! He gets positively beside himself if anyone mentions it.”
“But the literature says that’s still the best way to sterilize marijuana. They use it in Europe,” Alice said. “In fact in Holland I think medical cannabis has to be irradiated. And if the state’s allowing it I’m pretty sure all the other dispensaries are doing it.”
“I don’t think you can label something organic if you irradiate,” Sammy said.
“You can’t certify organic right now anyway because it’s under the USDA and that’s federal,” Alice said.
Lydia shrugged. “Caldwell says CannRose product will never ever be irradiated because the marijuana just won’t be the same.”
“I was just reading a study,” Sammy said. “Looks like irradiation doesn’t affect the cannabinoids, but there is some concentration loss for a few of the terpenes. They evaporate, if I recall correctly. State doesn’t require labeling or testing for terpenes. Maybe they don’t consider them active ingredients.”
“No and they’ll probably ignore them for some time,” Alice said. “There’s over a hundred of them in cannabis. Just like there’re dozens of cannabinoids they don’t require labeling for yet either. The complexity of interactions and the entourage effects are going to take years for researchers to figure out. If they ever do!” Alice shook her head. “And losses in a few terpene concentrations from irradiation are irrelevant. Especially if it’s from evaporation. They’re volatilizing all the time — that’s what you’re smelling! And the concentrations, including those of terpenes, are determined after irradiation. Just like you’d run the clinical trials — and the entourage studies if anybody ever gets around to them — after irradiation of the product. The important thing right now is labeling accurately so the customer knows what they’re getting. And sterilizing when necessary so they don’t get sick from mold, E. coli, pseudomonas or whatever!”
“Well,” Lydia said with a sigh, “Caldwell says people won’t buy irradiated marijuana. And he wouldn’t ever want the company name associated with it.”
“What people won’t buy it?” Alice was perplexed. “Lots of drugs on the market are irradiated. Half the food you eat is irradiated. You know sick people mostly have compromised immune systems. They’d probably have more confidence in the product knowing it was sterilized.”
“Well Damian says you shouldn’t ever do that to marijuana.”
“Oh lord!” Alice exhaled audibly. “What you’re really telling me is old stoners don’t like the idea of their weed being nuked!”
Sammy started to laugh but Alice was clearly irritated. “This is a problem, Lydia. We’re
trying to get medicine on the shelves, not provide weed connoisseurs with what they consider the perfect high. I think there’s a little confusion going on in the company. We need to get this clarified and soon. Otherwise the DOH really will pull the registration if we can’t meet quotas.”
“You’ll have to raise it with Caldwell. I just don’t want to be in the room when you do.” Lydia looked at Sammy and they both giggled.
“What does your new QA guy think of all this? He’s got a pharma background.”
“You can ask Percy yourself,” Lydia said. “I thought we could all go for lunch if you’ve got the time.”
Alice and Sammy held interviews all morning. When they went for lunch with Lydia and Percy, Alice found out the extent of the contamination issues. As Percy explained to her, while tempering his description in Lydia’s presence, “I believe there are a few practices at CannRose that are less effective than they might be. But according to my review of the pertinent literature, getting microbial counts down for plant-based medicine is a constant challenge.” And he had heard by a particular grapevine he was now privy to that CannRose was possibly the only state dispensary not considering irradiation. Later over the phone he would say, “It’s insane, Alice! Utter madness. They won’t even consider sterilizing the grow media and sometimes it’s positively hopping with bugs.”
#
When Alice brought up the subject of irradiation on the next conference call, Caldwell predictably hit the roof and started going on about brand integrity and customer trust, but Alice countered every one of his arguments with facts, numbers and relevant studies. Percy had sent her all the results from the DOH lab too, so Caldwell couldn’t do a runaround about those numbers either. He became so enraged he eventually stormed out of the meeting and slammed the door. Alice wished she’d been there to see it.
She also got to raise her favorite complaint of getting oils and derivatives on the shelf. “This should be prioritized. We need to hire somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing! And extracts are the best way to ensure dosage. Some of the processing might even help sterilize the product for you!” The others on the call all mumbled in agreement.
When she got off the phone she was smiling. One way or another she was finally going to get some CannRose product on those dispensary shelves.
Chapter 30
Petra walked into the spare office in the admin wing where Lazlo was standing beside the spectacular haul he’d dumped on the conference table. She surveyed the jumble of derelict instruments and saw the frustration of her future. She was a scientist, not a technician, for crying out loud!
Lazlo was nodding to himself, clearly pleased with the deal he got. “The guy at the EPA office said they were all real gems. Trusty workhorses he called ’em. He seemed real sad about havin’ to get rid of everything.”
Petra did not smile. The crippling of environmental oversight and renewed devastation of the planet were no longer her concern. She put her hand on the oven door of the gas chromatograph, felt around the side and pulled the latch. An old capillary column was still inside. It had the color and sheen of beeswax. For volatiles probably. She looked for an identification tag, but it was missing.
“That one’s for pesticides, the guy said. He said it was dedicated. I figure that sounds pretty good. Right?” Lazlo said. “Dedication is always good, right?”
Petra was still not acknowledging his presence.
“I thought that’s what we had to test. You were sayin’ you might need to test pesticides, and now you can. Right?”
“Maybe,” she said finally. “I’m more interested in terpenes, actually.” She put both hands on the mass spectrometer component and turned it around on the table. “This will do.” It was about the size of two stacked cement blocks and probably weighed about the same. She wondered if it had ever worked for more than a week without collapsing in some convulsion. That had been her experience with a mass spec. She’d need a headspace sampler to go with it, and she wondered if that was even possible, given the instrument’s age.
“There’s a box with the CDs and manuals and everything for that one. He thought you’d want the maintenance history, so that’s in there too.”
“We need to test the cannabinoids. The THC, CBD and whatnot.” She was talking more to the air than to Lazlo. “And for that we need HPLC” — She glanced up at him — “High-performance liquid chromatography, or some exotic variation . . . Ah! And here she is.”
“I forget what he said that one was used for, but he said it’s top of the line. You couldn’t get better, the guy said.”
Petra looked at the manufacturer’s seal on the crate. Lazlo was right: You really couldn’t get better. She peered into the crate. The instrument looked new enough. She wondered if it was still under any kind of warranty.
“Pile of paperwork came with it, binders and everything. Here in this box. This goes with that.” Lazlo pointed to the HPLC.
Her hand still on the box, Petra looked around until she found the autosampler that went with it. She peered into that box too. It was a sleek thing with an elegant sampling arm that likely made impressive beeps and pings as it went about its business. The image gave Petra a fleeting sense of hope. She looked up and took in the extent of the haul: computers; a small centrifuge; three balances (one was a five-decimal-place — just breathe on it wrong and you’d send it reeling); a muffle furnace; a microwave; a dozen autopipettes; what looked like a brand-new rotovap; boxes and boxes of beakers; Erlenmeyers and volumetrics of all sizes.
What the hell? Was the EPA getting rid of everything these days? She felt like a vulture at the aftermath of a slaughter. It was disgusting and exhilarating at the same time.
But for crying out loud, how was she going to get all of it up and running? She didn’t have the energy, let alone the patience or skill set. She needed staff. Somebody very technically inclined. There didn’t seem to be anybody at the facility capable of repairing fans, never mind futzing with finicky analytical instruments. She had heard the guy doing purchasing had a mechanical background, but he was busy already and she doubted whatever background he had included equipment like this.
She clearly hadn’t asked enough questions at the interview. She couldn’t remember if she’d been hung over. She still kept a case of vodka in the garden shed for emergencies. And at this very moment, she could think of nothing more comforting than achieving her own private oblivion.
She walked out of the office, away from Lazlo and the EPA carnage. Maybe she should just take the rest of the day and claim nausea. She’d pretty well perfected nausea in all its iterations, existential and otherwise. As she passed by Lydia’s office, a voice called out, “Oh, Petra! I was just thinking of you.”
Petra turned and retraced her steps. She’d spoken to Lydia only once, on her third or fourth visit to CannRose. She was not put off by the general consensus regarding Lydia, that she was eccentric and spare on gray matter. People often made the very rich into whatever demons suited them. Petra was dimly conscious that some part of her almost respected money more than pretense to achievement or intelligence. Money was a necessity and claimed no particular greatness for itself. She popped her head in the door of Lydia’s office.
“Do you have some time?” said Lydia.
Petra nodded.
“Good. Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”
Petra wondered how far she could stretch propriety at ten in the morning. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“You sure? I have a very fine Sumatran gourmet blend. And that little cappuccino machine in the corner there doesn’t get enough action. It was a present from Caldwell. You know he can be very extravagant.”
Petra thought about it. Caffeine was mood altering. “Okay, that sounds . . . extravagant. I’ll have mine really strong, thanks.”
“Wonderful.” Lydia picked up the desk phone and punched in several numbers. “Tim, would you have a minute or two to come make a couple of cappuccinos? . . . Oh, you’re a dear! You do
absolutely make the best.” Lydia put the phone down. “He even does the little petals, you know, the design in the foam on top. Caldwell has him making a marijuana leaf now. He thinks there’s a big possibility for gourmet coffee and gourmet buds in the same shop if it all goes recreational. Just like in Holland, he says.”
“That’s an idea. Beans and buds, I guess.”
“Caldwell is just full of ideas. It’s hard to keep up.”
“So I hear.” Petra was thinking of Gus, the young, heavy-set production manager who had obviously resisted keeping up. He was the methodical and plodding type. Just the type to drive someone like Caldwell bonkers. Apparently it had all came to a head a few days before. Insults were hurled very loudly and very publicly. Then Gus simply walked out. He left a sign on the production office door that said, “I QUIT. Go fuck yourself, Caldwell.” Greg had rushed to take it down, but the crowd around the door had already gathered and the snickering was well under way by the time Petra had walked by.
“So how are you getting on?” Lydia asked. “It’s a few months since you started with us, isn’t it?”
“Six.”
“Oh my gracious! I do lose track of time. This job just keeps me so busy.”
Tim stuck his head in the door and Lydia introduced him to Petra. He was a student of policy studies, home in Hullbrooke for the semester. “This job’s kind of like research for me,” he told Petra. “It’s all . . . fascinating.” She thought she noticed a hint of irony in his voice.
He started the cappuccino maker and opened the little bar fridge. “Everyone good with lactose free?”
“Fine,” Lydia said and Petra nodded. “Oh, and Tim, Petra wants hers very strong.”
In silence, they watched Tim in action. They couldn’t talk over the steamer anyway. As he handed them each their cappuccinos, a marijuana leaf drawn in the foam, Tim pantomimed a proud chef puckering his lips and kissing the air.
The Buds Are Calling Page 15
