“What’s up?” asked Toon.
“We got to meet at the tavern,” Shrimp said. “Right away.”
“What the fuck for?”
“There’s more weird shit happening. Sunbeam wants to see us, now.”
“What weird shit?”
“I guess that’s why she wants to see us, to tell us about it.”
“Shit,” said Toon. “I had plans, man. Important plans!”
“Me too. Damn important. But we got to go.”
“I guess we’re fucked.”
“Yeah we are.”
* * *
Fly tying enabled Case to forget his aches and pains and he often thought that more than anything else he did it kept him relatively sane. He sat at his tying table set against the biggest window in his living room. From his chair he could look through the clean glass across the sugar pine table westward at the half-acre plot where the vegetable garden used to be and behind the garden the orchard of apple and pear and cherry trees and then the wall of big trees that were mostly Douglas firs that stretched across a mile of nearly level ground to steep mountains that except for their clear-cuts were beautiful to see.
If he had been looking through the window today Case might have noticed the two figures dressed in camouflage fatigues making their slow and careful way out of the fir trees into the orchard. Crouching with shotguns carried at port arms they moved quickly from tree to tree through the orchard. They used the largest trees to conceal themselves and whenever they stopped behind the big trees they looked at the cabin before darting forward again. Every time they hid themselves they looked at one another and occasionally one would lift his hand from his weapon to give a signal. They knew Case was inside and had agreed beforehand that if he happened to see them and then confront them they would claim to be quail hunters chasing a running covey.
But Case didn’t see them because he had quit the view to tie up steelhead flies for the fall run. The fish had to travel hundreds of miles upstream from the sea to reach this country and the first ones should arrive in a week or two or three weeks at the latest. Case often thought of himself as he thought of the coastal rivers. They were dying but they weren’t dead yet. A good fall rain would raise the water and bring whatever fish were destined to come more quickly. Whenever they arrived Case would be ready. His reels were greased and his leaders were built and now he was tying Thors.
He used needle-nose pliers to crimp the barb down on a number 4 hook and then clamped the hook into the vise. With the thread bobbin gripped in his right hand he wrapped the shank from the upturned eye to the bend of the hook and then tied in a half-inch length of bright orange wool for the tail. Most tyers preferred a tuft of orange hackle fibers for Thor tails but Case knew wool showed up better underwater. Next he tied in a length of heavy red chenille and then he wrapped the shank of the hook with the chenille and tied it off. Next came the brown hackle and finally the flared white bucktail wing. He carefully trimmed the excess bucktail with a small sharp pair of scissors. He formed the slender head with tying thread and finally applied the clear head cement with a needle. Then he unclamped the finished fly and stuck it into the edge of the table to dry. The wood along the table edge was marked with thousands of tiny indentations left by Thors and Muddlers and Skunks and Golden Demons and Alaska Mary Anns.
Case didn’t hear the discharge of the shotgun. The window burst in his face and hot air along with shards and fragments of glass flew past him. Some of the glass hit him. Luckily he had been bent over a new hook in the vise so nothing caught his face. All he heard was the blast of air and the glass sailing past his ears and he felt the bits of glass that imbedded in his arms and chest and the top of his head and he felt shock rather than pain.
He lay on his back on the floor behind the fly-tying table and blinked his eyes and saw the ceiling overhead. He blinked and stared at the varnished knotty pine planks so he knew he could see and he felt the chair he had been sitting in with his feet and he looked at his bare forearms and saw a lot of blood but not enough to worry about.
He felt the warm blood running down his face and neck and he rolled onto his stomach and pushed to his feet. He stood bent at the waist until the room stopped wobbling and spinning. Then he straightened up and wiped his face and looked at his blood-smeared hands and then he looked at his fly-tying table. He looked for the Thor he had finished and saw the undamaged fly where he had stuck it to the table’s edge.
SIP AND HITS
CANNABIS
T he established cannabis growers in these parts were old-time self-taught experts in a competitive and constantly evolving enterprise. There were principles that growers held to firmly and they felt the same kind of pride in successful crops that winemakers feel about good years in their vineyards. Crops should never be raised indoors with diesel-powered generators supplying artificial light but should grow under the sun as nature intended without the use of pesticides or anything but the purest organic fertilizers. These growers planted and cultivated and harvested and patrolled against invading rippers on foot, with little or no dependence on the four-wheelers and Rhinos utilized in many other places. Some of them had been on the cannabis scene since before the emergence of sinsemilla in the 1970s. They knew all the strains and all the possible crosses between Cannabis sativa and Cannabis indica and had devised the best possible methods for picking and trimming and drying. Over the years through painstaking experimentation they created their own unique strains that were now as potent as the famed Jack Flash and Bubble Gum and just as desirable on the open market. Thousands of wounded and maimed vets who came home depended on cannabis to reduce their physical and mental misery. Some used it to manage the terrible pains they experienced in phantom as well as existent limbs and many, including the wounded, joined in production and sales.
With two hours to go until the official opening time, the Bird of Prey smelled faintly and not unpleasantly of beer and tobacco and cannabis smoke and cleanser and floor polish. All the wooden shutters were closed tight so the only illumination came from neon signs mounted high on the wall behind the long bar. The signs advertised light beer that hardly anyone bought and a popular mass-produced beer that even fewer people bought because most of the tavern’s regular patrons knew that the man who founded the brewery had been an ignorant right-wing asshole. Bird of Prey regulars were loyal to the microbreweries that produced amber ales and pale ales and oatmeal stouts rich with flavor. The principal reason Sunbeam stocked a few cases of mass-produced beers was so she could keep a close eye on any customer who bought them.
This morning all the blood had been scrubbed away and the pinewood floor had been mopped and waxed and buffed. The bar had been wiped down and sanitized and the shelves and walk-in cooler were stocked and the grill where the late-night buffalo burgers were cooked had been scrubbed hard with a soapy wire brush.
Sitting at the same table in the same chair she had used last night Sunbeam had finished her usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and buttered whole-wheat toast and hash browns doused with Tabasco. Rainbow had cleared Sunbeam’s dirty dishes away and was working behind the bar across the room while Sunbeam thought about the outsiders who had Pearl-Harbored her establishment. The outsider scumbags had molested and abused her customers and employees.
The big table was bare except for the white mug of steaming black coffee and her antique golden Dunhill lighter and the freshly lit four-inch joint balanced on the green glass ashtray directly in front of her. The smooth black tabletop showed faint smears left by a wet sponge, and a length of mop string had stuck between the bottom of one of Sunbeam’s chair legs and the wooden floor. With her right hand she took an occasional sip of the coffee and always followed the coffee with a healthy left-handed hit from the joint. As she saw it the caffeine kept her sharp and the cannabis kept her mellow.
Pot helped keep Sunbeam calm and allowed her to think things through logically. What she had to figure out this morning was exactly the right way to keep her busines
s empire safe and thriving, and that meant she had to harshly repel whoever was moving in on her and she had to do it now.
Bad things were happening almost everywhere in remote pot country and had been happening for years now and more frequently all the time. Growers who had lived in the woods for decades and had never wanted anything more than a fair amount of money and a quiet and simple life in a tranquil setting were getting pressured by greed-freaks who only cared about making all the money they could. The greed-freaks didn’t want to live in cabins or simple homes or drive Toyotas or Subarus or spend a winter month or two in southern Baja. They wanted to drive BMWs or Lincoln Navigators and live in mansions with swimming pools and spend their vacations dining in Paris or sightseeing in Rome or touring Egypt or playing golf with other greed-freaks at Pebble Beach or on Maui.
Sunbeam couldn’t remember exactly how many years ago they had started showing up in the backcountry with earthmovers and chainsaws and pesticides and fertilizers. Twelve years? Fifteen? From the very beginning they poisoned and desecrated the earth. They sucked water from clean cold trout streams for their irrigation and they guarded their grows with pit bulls and assault weapons. From everything she’d heard things were getting worse nearly everywhere. The worst kinds of violence had become commonplace. Two weeks back, or it might have been three, a bearded biker traveling south on a Harley had stopped at the tavern and casually mentioned to Sunbeam that he had heard up north that one of the big new greed-freak growers had firm plans to import men from Mexican drug cartels to help guard his grows.
“You’re really out in the sticks, foxy ol’ momma!” the biker had said. “This here’s sure as shit God’s country here! But sooner or later them bad-ass businessmen’ll get to you too! The bad-asses’re coming! You can mark my words on that !”
Now Sunbeam sipped her coffee and took another hit and held it in. The badasses were here but she wasn’t sure just how bad they were. If she tried to drive them off she had to keep it quiet. Even as she contemplated protecting her space she knew she might not be capable of doing enough to stop what appeared to be coming. For two or three months now fat-assed Deputy Winter had seemed more nervous and more evasive than ever. Exactly how bad were the badasses? That was the question and thinking hard about it her puckered mouth resembled a cloth pouch with its string drawn tight.
Another sip of coffee along with another hit and her mind floated along. There were fleeting memories of both people and events from the past. Her life had really begun in San Francisco. She briefly considered the husband she had lived with for so many years. She rarely thought of him and she didn’t miss him because he was gone and wasn’t coming back and missing him made no sense. Sometimes she wondered whether her marriage had failed her or she had failed it. She couldn’t decide and now it didn’t matter anyway.
Now she wanted Case. His wife was dead and her husband was dead and she and Case were alive and she wanted them to get together and live together. Case was a good-looking older man and a smart and mature man and a fit man, and Sunbeam was certain that with her help he would still be able to perform. But perform wasn’t the word because sex wasn’t a play on a stage. Get it up. Yes. Get it up and use it well. Fuck. She too was considered old but Sunbeam knew she was fit and she had been attractive since puberty and she still wanted to fuck. Yes she still needed it and yes she hoped she always would.
Another sip and another hit.
If she could get Case she might just retire and let the greed-freaks have their way and choke on their money. She and Case could go somewhere. But she didn’t think she could get Case. She knew she couldn’t. She’d made it clear in the various ways women let men know such things that she was anxious to have him. She was anxious to get it on. But the harder she tried the less often he came around.
The last time Case had been in for an after-fishing beer had been within two or three days of the Harley rider who issued the warning. Sunbeam had walked up to the bar with her coffee mug in one hand and welcomed Case with her other hand pressed against his thigh and a quick kiss on his cleanly shaved cheek.
“Long time no see, dude,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
She knew Case had spent hours wading the river and casting his flies and he still smelled like aftershave. He looked toward her but not quite at her and smiled and looked away. “Hello,” was all he said.
The only other customers that afternoon had been a log-truck driver drinking coffee at the far end of the bar and four old hippies drinking beer and smoking pot at a table behind them. The log truck was parked out front pointed south under the sign and “The Devil to Pay” by Johnny Cash was playing on the jukebox.
“How come you’re unfriendly?” Sunbeam asked Case.
“I’m not unfriendly,” he said without looking at her after a sip of beer. “Good beer,” he said. “Delicious.”
“How come you don’t like me?” Sunbeam asked him.
“I like you,” Case said.
“I think you’re lonely. I figure that’s what’s wrong. That’s my humble opinion. You know you don’t have to be lonely.”
“My opinion is your opinion’s wrong.”
“Listen to me, Case. We’re too old to bullshit each other. I want you to come down here to have dinner with me some night. You live, what, twenty miles away?”
“I think it’s closer to eighteen.”
“See there? Even less than I thought. Come by Thursday night, day after tomorrow. We’re never very busy on Thursdays. We can have some dinner and talk. I have some good fresh salmon in the walk-in, just got it yesterday. You like salmon?”
“I like salmon fine.”
“Moon Mac brought it in. It’s Chinook. You know old Moon.”
“Sure I do.”
“Is it a date then?”
Case drank more beer. Sunbeam clearly saw that he felt uncomfortable. After swallowing the beer he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then began making designs of wet circles on the wooden bar with the bottom of his pint glass. “I’ll come by if I can,” he finally said. “But don’t make any special preparations. I don’t think I can make it, but I’ll come if things work out.”
Now the Johnny Cash song about Folsom Prison was playing.
“Make it seven o’clock,” Sunbeam said. She put her hand back on Case’s thigh and leaned close to kiss his cheek again. “I like you a hell of a lot,” she said in his ear.
When Case made no response Sunbeam got up with her coffee and walked across the room and into her office and closed the door without looking back. She was angry and also smart enough to recognize her own shallow female vanity. She fully understood how stupid it was for old folks to descend into illogical forms of self-absorption yet despite all that she knew and understood she wanted Case. She needed him.
But he hadn’t come for dinner Thursday night and she hadn’t seen him since.
She knew Deputy Winter thought Case might be involved at some level in growing or selling weed but Sunbeam didn’t believe it could be true and she wanted to talk to Case about Winter. Case might come into the place again sometime soon but she couldn’t be certain of that. She might not see him for weeks. He liked to keep to himself and that was his problem.
Now Sunbeam carried her empty coffee mug across the room and slid it down the bar to where Rainbow was using a sharp narrow-bladed knife to slice green limes to serve with tequila. For some reason Sunbeam couldn’t understand, tequila seemed to be getting more popular all the time. It was getting more expensive too and she could remember early times in Mexico when tequila cost little more than gasoline.
The clock over the jukebox read 10:55. Rainbow placed the knife on the bar and refilled Sunbeam’s mug and carried it back. “Somebody’s here for your meeting,” she said. “They pulled into the lot just now.”
“Who?” Sunbeam asked.
“I heard, I didn’t see.”
“Last night was pretty bad. Damn bad. Gunfire in the Bird of Prey. I don’t like trouble but
we might be having some serious shit around here. How’s Uncle Sam doing?”
“This morning he’s about as good as it gets. Shrimp talked to him last night. Shrimp’s back again, up there right now, got here half an hour ago. He’s a good man.”
“Shrimp? Yeah he is.” Sunbeam took a seat at the bar. “Tell me something, Rainbow.”
“What?”
“That nurse who helped you out with Uncle Sam. Case’s wife. Heather. Did you like her?”
“I liked her a lot. She was wonderful.”
“I never got to know her. What was it made her wonderful?”
Rainbow continued slicing the limes as she spoke.
“Well for one thing she was wonderful with Uncle Sam. She got him to blink his eyes more than anybody else ever did. I don’t know how she did it but she did. One thing was, she had a sense of humor. She could make a joke about anything. She always seemed happy. She liked what she did. I’d like to be a nurse myself someday. I plan on it. She’s the one who gave me the idea.”
“You nurse Uncle Sam every day.”
“Oh, sure, I do. He’s my husband. I love him. The truth is I don’t know how long he’ll live. Even if he lives a long time I’d like to nurse other people too. Heather said it was hard sometimes but it always made her happy. She was great. I like Case too. It hit him hard when she died.”
“I know it did.”
“Heather had a hard time. But she never complained and she never even lost her sense of humor. I still miss her. She really was great.”
Sunbeam stood up from the bar. “I guess she must have been. You’re pretty great yourself, Rainbow. Don’t you forget it.”
Sunbeam carried the coffee back to her table and sat down. The roach had died in the ashtray so she fired up a fresh joint with the Dunhill and sat there waiting while alternating sips and hits.
A WILDERNESS TRAIL
Shakespeare had swerved off the road and slammed on his brakes and come to a skidding stop at the edge of the lot close beside one of the tall metal stanchions that held up the Bird of Prey sign. The only other vehicle there was Shrimp’s Toyota and he figured Shrimp to be upstairs visiting Uncle Sam.
Grower's Market Page 8
