Totally Buzzed

by Gale Borger

  Ian trotted up next to me He took in the scene of me gasping and leaning on the fence, a shoeless Mag on the opposite side on her ass, the flashlight, the bent fence, and he slid to the ground, laughing. “Holy Mackerel!”

  I looked at him and barked out a laugh. “Ian, you have no idea how apropos that is.”

  Mag slowly stood, rubbing her butt and looking martyred. She ignored us and scrounged for her shoe. Grumbling while she searched, she tripped over stalks. She winced as she stepped on rocks and field stubble. She finally located her shoe. She slid it on and stood, brushed off her pants. “Now what?”

  Still steaming, I glared at her. “Now you go back to the car and stay there.”

  “I’m not one of the dogs. Don’t tell me to sit and stay.”

  “Mag, I won’t argue the point. Go back to the car. You can help tomorrow with something. You can be the lookout. I don’t care what you do, but get out of my face and take you sore rear-end back to the car before I kick the shit out of it!”

  “No way man! I am not going anywhere. I am a part of this team. This operation takes three people who know the plan. I’m ‘Number Two’!”

  In more ways than one, I thought. “Not anymore. You’re fired. Go home.”

  “Just because I tried to take a short cut? That old gate is to hell and gone from here, and I didn’t want to be late so I decided to hop the fence instead.”

  “Nice hopping, moron. Too bad you didn’t look down the fence line a few feet more.”

  I walked about ten feet from where we stood and l leaned a hip on the old gate. It gave like an Irish Catholic on Easter Sunday (and with less of a complaint, I might add). Mag lowered her head and minced through the opening.

  I felt the storm gathering in me and was about to let fly on her when Ian touched my arm. “Come on, Buzz, no use arguing. She’s in and we’re wasting time. Let’s just go.”

  I knew, of course, he was right. I tried to relax and focus. Deep breath, slow exhale. It didn’t work.

  Deep breath, slow exhale. I looked at Mag and felt my blood pressure begin to skyrocket again. I thought, “One more time for the Gipper, Buzz.” Deep breath, slow– “Forget it.” I said. “Let’s go.”

  I gathered my pack and flashlight and led off. Mag jumped forward. Ian grabbed her shirt and hauled her back. “If you value your life, Maggie, stay the hell away from her for now.” Mag eyed me and stooped to pick up her flashlight. She followed in Ian’s wake.

  “Hmmph,” I thought, “Smart boy, and he learns fast, too.”

  We made our way through the back of the property, to the long buildings serving as greenhouses in the winter and propagation houses in the summer. We stayed as a group in case we ran into any trouble.

  I stopped at the first shed and looked down the side. Running about 60 feet long and 40 feet across, the buildings were substantial and very conducive to a garden operation.

  Ian moved past me and checked down the other side of the building. Mag was positioned at the door. After a nod from both Ian and me indicating the coast was clear, we listened for movement inside. Hearing none, Mag tried the latch. It gave and we were in.

  We had no need for the flashlights since the glow from the rows of grow-lights illuminated the inside like a football stadium. Running the length of the building were three rows of waist-high shelving. Hundred of flats with thousands of plants of every kind imaginable sat happily under the grow-lights, photosynthesizing to their little hearts’ content. The building had pipes crisscrossing throughout. From them rubber misters hung intermittently above the flats, periodically emitting a fine spray over their small charges.

  Ian stood for a second, taking in slow deep breaths of that moist, earthy, greenhouse smell. He wore a look of ecstasy and murmured, “Mmm. Hi, kids. Papa’s home.”

  I looked at him and then at Mag. “Oh, no. Mag, Plant Boy is getting high or getting off. Slap him or something.”

  Mag poked him in the ribs. “Yo, Ian. Back to reality here. How are we going to tell if what is here is really what is supposed to be here?”

  Ian and I must have looked equally perplexed, because Mag regrouped and tried again.

  “How are we going to be able to tell which plant is what specie?”

  Ian looked over the flats in front of us. “Look. They’re all marked. You and Buzz find where each new plant label begins. If there are any in that group that don’t look like the rest, call me. According to the tags, these should all be common varieties of zones four-to-five-safe perennials. I can identify them in seconds. It’s the odd ones we need to watch for. That’s where you and Buzz come in. Now let’s go!”

  Mag and I began slowly, painstakingly reading the tags and making sure all the plants looked alike. Row after row and flat after flat, we searched until our eyes crossed. I wondered how Ian was doing and stopped for a moment. Looking up, the sight that met my eyes took my breath away. Ian literally flew through the flats. I poked Mag and gestured to Ian. We stared as his index finger zipped along the flats. The snapping of his finger against the plastic trays sounding like the staccato pop of twisted bubble wrap.

  Murmurs of Calamagrostis, Pennisetum, and Miscanthus mingled with Echinacea, Hemerocallis, and Rudbeckia. On and on he went, those beautiful Latin names rolling off his tongue like a mystic chant. He rounded the corner and we stepped back out of his way lest we get run over. We followed in his wake until he reached the end of the third row. We were back at the front door when he looked up and blinked.

  “Wow. You really are Plant Boy,” Mag said in awe. She looked at him as if he wore a red cape. He looked at her like he was a starving man and she was lunch. She reached for Ian, and he leaned forward. They crashed together like waves against the rocks. I drew in a breath to yell at both of them and the watering system kicked on. They both jumped back like scalded cats. I hooted.

  “Come on, Romeo and Juliet, get hinky later. We have three more of these buildings to go through. We now have a new plan of action. Ian, you lead, we follow. Together, Mag and I can’t keep up with you. Mag, no playing patty-fingers with the genius here until we’re safe and clear. Got it? Okay? Now focus.” I put my hand on the door latch.

  “Ready?” Nods all around.

  “Okay–Go, go, go!” We piled out the door to the next building. Mag cracked open the door, looked in and nodded. We slipped through and Ian performed his magic. Mag and I started from the opposite end and worked our way toward Ian.

  We came to Papaver, and I pointed to Mag and whispered, “Now these I remember.” I gave my best ‘Wicked Witch’ impersonation of the word ‘Poppies’, drawing out the short ‘o’ sound and cackling at the end.

  Ian stopped in mid-stride, and with furrowed brow and squinted eyes said, “What?”

  At a loss for being caught doing something so stupid, I groped for something to say. “Uh, look at these poppies–who would buy poppies that look like Bull Thistle?”

  Ian still looked a little perplexed. “Poppies don’t look like thistle. Who would buy thistle?” Mag tried to help. She pointed to the prickly little plants.

  “Some crazy Scotsman, perhaps?”

  Ian walked over to where we were standing. “Some crazy Cheesehead, maybe?”

  “Hey–I resemble that remark. I’ll have you know…”

  Ian whirled on her and held up a hand. “Wait. Buzz, look at this! You might be on to something here. Not only do these not look like regular poppies, remember what I said about plants being different?”

  I looked, and the hundreds of little nondescript plants meant nothing to me. I couldn’t help but be a smart ass.

  “What, oh Mighty Doctorus o Plantus? What did you find among the Plantus In-a-flattus?”

  Ian picked up a prickly poppy plant. He looked down his nose and cleared his throat. “Argemone mexicana, or Mexican Poppy, to you lay people. I’d explain, but we have to keep moving. Mag, be careful and grab a couple of those. Also, get a sample from each of the other labeled poppy plants. I’ll finish th
e rest of the greenhouse.”

  I pulled and Mag bagged each labeled specimen in Ziplocs, stashing them in her backpack. Ian came around with a couple more plants, and we bagged them as well.

  Excited and on a roll, we exited the building and went on to the next one. Locked. Crap.

  Now, I have many skills; some were acquired from law enforcement, and some learned along life’s many roads. One of those latter types of skills is picking locks. Lock picking is another one of those television fantasy skills. In the time it takes them to commit a murder, gather evidence, try, convict, and sentence the bad guy on T.V., I’m still picking open a damn lock. Given enough time, however, I can pick even some of the more difficult locks. This particular specimen however, was an easy pick. I dug into my backpack for the perfect tools for the job. With all the finesse of the professional I am, I cut that sucker off in two seconds flat with the bolt cutters I’d brought along.

  The clank of the bolt cutters cut through the silent darkness like a cherry bomb in a cemetery. We all froze, looking for movement from the direction of the house. It remained quiet and dark.

  An eerie feeling crept over me when I touched the door to the building. I shook it off and Mag whispered, “Yo, Buzz, are you okay? Did you just have a sheeney?”

  I nodded. I reached for the handle again. Slight vertigo and a little nausea swept through me. “It’s bad, Mag. Whatever it is, it’s not going to go well, so you stay here. So far the sheeneys haven’t lied on this case–I just can’t get a handle on what’s behind Door Number One.”

  “You’re having a what?” Ian whispered back.

  “A shiver, a willie, what ever you call that creepy feeling that crawls up the back of your neck. Were you not listening to our mother? It’s a touch of the Irish magic. With Buzz, it usually means a premonition when she’s awake.”

  Ian looked wary. “I, uh, okay. Now what?”

  They both turned back and looked at me.

  I pulled back from the eerie feeling. “We be careful, and we keep Mag out of trouble. Let’s go. There’s something about this building–I don’t know. We’ll talk later. Ready everyone?” Silent nods. “Be careful. Let’s go.”

  We crept through the door and stopped, surveying the scene before us. It was definitely a grafting room, with what seemed like acres of plants under lights. The only ones I recognized were the cactus. The back half of the building was separated from the front by an opaque, heavy plastic curtain. It was dimly lit and only shadows could be seen from our side.

  Ian moved directly to a small little plant grafted onto a cactus and picked it up. It was dark with an upside-down pine cone cluster on top. It was topped with a cluster of lovely magenta flowers with white centers.

  “Beautiful,” I breathed.

  “Ditto,” said Mag.

  “Leuthyi,” a smug Ian announced.

  “What?”

  As Ian tucked a specimen into his backpack. “One thing puzzles me, though. Look at all these grafted plants. If Carole was trying to cultivate from seed, why spend all this time grafting? If the intent was not to cultivate from seed, why the big deal with the seeds in her pocket? We need to look for seed pots like these in the other sheds. Mag and I can do that. Buzz, how about if you look behind ‘Door Number Two’?” He gestured toward the plastic sheeting.

  I moved to the back of the building while Mag and Ian searched among the tables. I reached for the plastic sheeting and hesitated. I touched the plastic and shivered. It felt, I don’t know, evil or something. “You guys had better come back here.”

  Mag took one look at me and headed in my direction. “Oh, oh. Bad news, I’ll bet.” She grabbed Ian’s hand and trotted over to me. She touched my shoulder. We all took a deep breath and heaved the heavy curtain back.

  The smell hit us first, and we staggered as one. Until you’ve smelled one, the smell of a drug lab is indescribable in the rancid stench of the cooking and filtering of multiple chemicals. My own head spun as the smell smacked me in the face. Mag choked and leaned against the side of the barn. Ian stood frozen, staring over my shoulder into the room. In his outstretched hand was a big bad Glock 23, .40 caliber monster.

  I suppose had we been a little quieter or a little more alert, I would have noticed three burly Hispanics standing over the red blob of a human form. They were blocking the only exit on this side of the building. As it was, they were as startled as we were, which gave me a split second to shove Mag to the floor and join Ian with a drawn weapon.

  Beforehand, we had decided to let Ian do all the talking if we happened to run into bad guys because, he had the most official sounding title. Somehow ‘Biology teacher, put you weapons down!’ did not have quite the punch we were looking for.

  The bad guys just stared at us–or should I say at Ian.

  I realized the impression he must have made on them. He was wearing the only black shirt we could find at Mag’s house; a tight v-neck cashmere sweater with ostrich feathers around the cuffs…and I knew we were in deep trouble.

  15

  “FBI! Put your weapons on the floor, place your hands on top of your heads, and back away toward the wall!”

  All three moved not a muscle and continued to stare at us, or rather at Ian. Mag tried to stand, but I stood on her upper arm until I heard her whimper. Never wavering, Ian moved to the left, closer to the trio. I followed his lead, and held, my sights set on the one closest to the door. If I had to drop someone, I’d shoot him first and perhaps slow the exit of the others. Ian tried a different tactic.

  “FBI! ¡Pone su arma en el suelo!”

  The bad guys just stared at him. Ian and I looked at each other. I shrugged my shoulders. “So much for Spanish 101.”

  Mag said from the floor, “Maybe they’re Portuguese.” I kicked her.

  Suddenly all hell broke loose. The gorilla by the door swung his gun up. I dropped him with a shot to the chest. Ian ducked as the second thug fired a round over his head. I feinted right and tripped over Mag, who was still lying on the floor. As I went down, I felt the air whoosh by my ear as a round missed me by a fraction of an inch. Lying on top of Mag, I grabbed her face and kissed her forehead before I reloaded.

  “Thanks. Don’t move!”

  I heard Ian still firing on my left, so I crawled under the tables to the right to get a better angle. I saw stout legs with toes and knees still pointed in Ian’s direction. I popped my head up to make sure Ian and I didn’t create crossfire. Man Number Three moved and now stood less than three feet away from me, still firing in Ian’s direction. I calmly leaned forward and very gently nudged my Smith against his head. His eyes grew wide and he held his arms away from his body. He held an automatic in his right hand. I sure hoped he understood English.

  “Now stand there like a good boy and I won’t have to blow your ass clear back to Mexico, pal. Now, DROP THE GUN!” He did without argument.

  I heard a scream cut off and held my breath. A second later Ian’s voice yelled, “I’m okay, Buzz. Number Two is down.” Ian popped back up and trained his weapon on the guy I had. He changed out his clip and I heard the step-and-drag of his feet across the pea gravel on the floor.

  My bad guy’s eyes grew even larger as he looked for the others and realized he was now quite alone. I hummed softly, ‘One is the loneliest number…’ I stepped back out of striking range and gestured with my weapon. “Hands on your head and kneel, amigo.”

  He kept his beady eyes on mine, his hands slowly rose to the top of his head. I was just beginning to get that satisfied feeling in my gut that things were looking up when the asshole lunged for me.

  In retrospect, I suppose he eyed up my grey hairs and my fluffy stature. Combine that with his macho arrogance, and it gave him the confidence he needed to get stupid. He lunged. I brought my other hand up. I barely had time to register the sound of a cantaloupe dropping on a hot sidewalk before I saw him pitch forward onto his stomach like he had been run over by a Mack truck.

  I looked dumbly at my fee
t, which were now covered by a profusely bleeding head. I looked up and saw Mag holding a shovel, grinning like she just broke Barry Bond’s home run record. I glanced to my left and saw Ian, both hands still on his weapon. It was pointed like mine was at the space where the big man on the floor had been standing. Ian and I both stared open mouthed at Mag. We both began yelling at once.

  “I could have shot you, you stupid idiot!”

  “You could have been killed!”

  “I could have shot you and then Mom would have killed me anyway! Mag, you’re fired. Again! For Good this time!” I stomped off a few feet, adrenalin pumping and breathing hard.

  I barely heard Ian speaking quietly to Mag. When I turned back I heard him say, “And I agree with Buzz Mag, You’re fired…but it was a really great shot.”

  Mag stood with her arms crossed, staring at the ceiling. She looked around the room. Dropping the shovel she was still holding, Mag turned and left the drug room. She sauntered past the plastic curtain into the greenhouse area. Ian and I were flummoxed. We looked at each other and looked back at the plastic curtain. We looked at each other again. Old ‘Slugger’ walked back into the room carrying baling twine in one hand and pruners in the other. She stopped in front of us, held up the twine, and snipped the pruners into the empty air. “Anyone care to tie him up? Since he’s the only one you guys left alive, I think we should probably save him for J.J.”

  That galvanized us into action. Ian and I each grabbed a hand. Ian pulled out cuffs from somewhere and secured his hands. I shackled his legs with the baling twine rodeo style–three wraps and a knot. Mag calmly called J.J. on her cell phone. Only then did we turn toward whoever it was they had been torturing.

  Ian rolled the body over. We all said, “Rob,” as we recognized him under all the gore. Fighting the urge to gag, Mag once again pulled out her trusty cell phone and called 911 for an ambulance. I checked for a pulse and made sure he was breathing. Ian untied him and laid him flat. I checked for mortal wounds. Ian tried several times to get Rob to speak, but he drifted in and out of consciousness and did not say a word.