That was the thought he’d had when he had been talking to Margo about her legal problem with Bryant. And that was why he talked to Bryant about it.
Bryant said something about coke, but he wasn’t worried about that. He might have access to pot however. He’d been growing it for his personal use. He could just as easily expand to grow enough to sell.
“Not makin’ shit practicing law. I’m just practicing. Apparently not learning.”
After Stan got home that night he walked around his twenty-two acres looking for a place to plant some. He decided that he had decent enough land to grow the weed, but every decent piece he had could be seen from the road along the front of his house. Bummer, he thought.
“All anybody would have to do is look out their car or truck windows. They’d see the green stuff growing, and if they pick out the pot from the other weeds, they’d sic the drug people on me. And they’d be on me like stink on shit before I could turn around good,” he said to himself. “I’d be the one in jail. Dad would be telling the sheriff to keep me there.” He knew his dad didn’t like drug dealers or anybody doing drugs.
And I get damned tired of hearing him bitch about all the money he’s spending on me.
As he let those thoughts rumble around his head, he remembered that his dad had a hundred-acre field a fair distance from their house and well off the road. He hadn’t used the field in years. Not only that, there was a thick forest of trees and bushes between his parents’ house and the field; the road as well. That would block any view into the field from their house and from the road. And the trees would also block any sounds he might make working there.
“I’ve plowed the damn ground enough times,” he said, recalling his work there before he went off to Ole Miss. He and his dad regularly planted the field in vegetables when his dad was still doing truck farming. That was years before.
Stan drove over to make sure nobody was using it then and to see how it looked. A dirt road connected the field to the main road, an asphalt covered road. The road was ordinarily blocked by a gate but it was standing open when Stan drove up. So, he drove to the field and parked at the edge to walk it.
It had become overgrown over the years since his dad had quit farming. Many small trees and bushes had sprung up here and there. Lots of weeds as well. But there was plenty of sun for anything anybody planted there, especially marijuana.
“Easy to get rid of the weeds and bushes in an area big enough for what I need. Garcia could clear it in a day,” Stan said. He could even work around them if necessary. There was still plenty of open ground for a “weed” crop.
He recalled a study somebody made while working at the University. One acre would yield five or six hundred pounds of grass. Based on what he’d seen, he figured that he could grow all the weed he’d need in a one-acre plot.
Probably won’t need all of that to start with. I can plant it so it matures at different times. I’ll rotate the parcels so I’ll always have something to harvest.
And with Garcia and his wife doing the planting and harvesting … and curing, it’ll be a snap. Probably have to show ‘em how. And I know how, thanks to the school.
“Hell, I have enough seed left over from what I bought at school to get one crop. After that, I can order more seed from the money I make from the first crop.”
Damn glad I bought the seed while I could. Right now, I don’t have an extra dime. I have to hope the dirt is rich enough to support the stuff. I’ll need to order some special fertilizer but that’ll have to wait until I have some money coming in. Sure as hell can’t ask dad for money. He’d explode all over me.
He tried to recall when the seeds needed to be planted. “Late March or early April,” he said to himself, remembering. “Harvest the crop around September. Maybe earlier. I’ll start with the Dutch Passion seeds I have. If things pick up, I’ll plant … what the hell was it … something that’d relax people … something with an indica base. Maybe a hybrid. I’ll look it up. But for now, I’ll stay with what I have. After I start making money, I’ll decide what I want to plant going forward.”
That was one problem, but a bigger problem, much bigger. How was he was going to keep his name out of it. That one had to be solved. How in the hell can I do it?
He’d told Margo a friend had brought him the Dutch Passion joints.
What if “my friend” brought me some more and I asked Margo if she wanted to sell the stuff? She may even want to get old Bryant involved. I imagine by then he’d jump at the chance to make some money without having to sweat for it.
I could say my friend would be leaving bags of the weed in front of my barn. Margo could have somebody pick it up and leave a bag of money. Hell, that’d never work. Nobody in this world would ever believe I wasn’t behind it. But … what if I left the stuff by the gate where I’m growing it? That field is isolated as hell. Unless somebody was watching and saw me drop it off. And, it’s my dad’s land. Damnit. Problems, problems. Let me think.
He sat down and stared at his shoes, thinking. Finally he came up with a plan. “I can leave the stuff in front of Margo’s front door?” he said. “I’ll go by and check it out to make sure. Need to see if anybody can see me. She said something about living in a mobile home park. If it looks clear enough, I could wait until she’s gone and leave a box of weed at her door, maybe some rolled joints. She could bag it to suit her buyers. Probably have to get Bryant to help with that. That’s the kind of thing he’d know about.
“I’d pick up the money the next time she went out a couple of weeks later. When I pick up the money, I’ll leave another box of weed. I wouldn’t be involved. It’d be my unknown friend or one of his minions doing it all. That has to be the way to go. Not fool proof but better than the other ideas.”
He’d use his grandfather’s old tractor to get the site ready for planting. Garcia could haul it over in the back of his pickup. He’d sprout the seeds in his green house and transplant them to the site when they were ready.
“May not need the tractor for one acre, come to think of it. Garcia and some of his friends, assuming he has some, could do the necessary work by hand. Keep down the noise.” He’d already decided to use Garcia for the planting and harvesting of the marijuana.
“I’ll show ‘em how to cure the stuff after it’s harvested.” They’d hang it from the barn rafters and let it dry.
And that was how Stan reached a decision to get into the “weed” business.
*****
He went back to his house, picked up Garcia, and drove him back to the site he planned to use for the marijuana. Once there, using English, Spanish, and some sign language, he explained what he wanted to do.
After a few minutes, Garcia nodded his head to indicate that he understood what Stan was saying. “I understand. I … grow … stuff … pot … in my country. Send here to sell. I can grow here.” He waved over the field. “I can grow. Have friends here … friends can help.”
“I guess you can use your truck to get back and forth.” Stan said.
Garcia agreed with a nod of his head. He let Stan know that he knew how to keep his truck running.
“Good.”
Stan promised to pay him for his work with some of what he got when he sold the crop. He also explained how he wanted him to roll some joints for the lazier buyers. Joints would cost more but some users didn’t mind paying more to have something to smoke right away; get high sooner.
Garcia said, “Wife, Silvia, can do rolling ... joints. She work … joint… machine before.”
That was the deal then. Garcia would do the planting, harvesting, and curing, and his wife would do the rolling.
He told Garcia he could start the next day. He told him where the marijuana seeds were stored in the barn and how he wanted to plant the sprouts from his greenhouse two weeks apart and re-plant them after each crop was sold.
Stan would still use the green house for his personal plantings.
“Can’t mix business with pleasure,
” he told himself with a chuckle.
*****
Stan called Margo with his proposal when he got home.
“Margo,” he said when she answered, “My ole buddy with the weed just left. He said if I wanted some of that smooth pot he’d given me the last time he was here, I could have it. Rolled or not. I told him I only used the stuff now and then, but I remembered that you’d said something about selling the stuff. I told him I wanted to talk to you to see if you wanted some to sell some of what I gave you in the office the other day. Would you be interested in that?”
“I sure would, Mr. Thomas. I know I could sell it. I may even make friends with old Bryant again, if he promises to behave hisself. He has customers. I imagine he’d be more than happy to have some to sell. He hasn’t worked since he got into it with Mr. Arnold ‘bout his wife sleeping around.”
“Well,” Stan said, “Let me talk to my buddy. He’ll be coming back through in a couple of months give or take. Assuming he doesn’t get picked up.” He laughed.
“Hold tight until I talk to him,” Stan said. “I’ll let you know how much I can get and when.”
She agreed.
He figured she’d like it. That made two of them. Some risk, he thought, but the money should be good. Hell of a lot more than I’m making lawyering.
And that was the actual day Stan went into the business of selling pot. Four months or so later, boxes of pot and rolled joints magically showed up in front of Margo’s door off her carport when she was out. Within two weeks afterwards, a box with money in it was put outside the carport door to be picked up by Stan.
She called Stan to see if his friend had more pot. He said he’d check. If he did, he’d leave it where he’d left the first load. That’s the routine they followed.
Stan didn’t ask if Bryant was helping her sell the stuff or not, but assumed he was. He knew Bryant had a list of customers, but she had the marijuana; a natural partnership if there ever was one.
It worked out that every two weeks thereafter, Margo gave the box of buds and joints to Bryant, as Stan had assumed. He’d sell the stuff and bring her the money, less the amount she’d agreed to give him for selling it. And just like she didn’t know who left the box of marijuana at her door, she also likewise didn’t know who picked up the box of money.
What Stan didn’t know was that Garcia had been around the block a few times and knew what would happen if the stuff hit the fan as in, the drug authorities closing in. The “white” man would blame him and he’d have nothing to bargain with.
So, he had Silvia follow Stan from a safe distance when he went to deliver the box of marijuana to a trailer. She parked and watched Stan carefully check to see if anybody was watching. When he saw no one, he left the box at someone’s front door.
Silvia sat beside a tree out of sight and waited to see who picked it up. It was a woman who picked it up. And one day after the woman left in her car, she talked to the neighbor about doing some housework.
“That one, I hear, might need help,” Silvia told the neighbor. “I don’t know name.”
The neighbor told her Margo’s name, which was what she wanted.
Silvia also followed Stan one day when he went to pick up the box with the money in it and bring it back to his house.
That gave Garcia the information he felt he could use if he was arrested for being involved. He could tell them what Stan had been doing and with whom.
Nevertheless, Garcia drove by Margo’s trailer that weekend with Silvia to see for himself. They parked some distance away and walked close enough to watch. Margo’s car was parked in front of the trailer. While they were watching, Bryant drove up in his truck and got out.
He stayed inside for about an hour and when he left, he had a box in his hand. It was the box Silvia had seen Stan leave at Margo’s front door. Margo told Bryant goodbye at the door.
Silva and Garcia followed Bryant to his house and did as Silva had in order to find Margo’s name, asked a neighbor for the name of a man, whom they described by how he looked, who needed help. That’s how they ended up with Bryant’s name.
That told Garcia the name of who was selling the stuff and where he lived. He already knew from Silvia that Stan was leaving it with the Margo woman.
I know everybody but the buyers, he thought. And there was no way he could know those. But he knew enough, he figured, to stay out of jail if the law clamped down. The law always looks the other way at anybody who can tell them what’s what.
Garcia and Silvia drove back to their barn apartment. He had some work to do on the marijuana patch they had growing, and she had housework waiting.
He had an idea, but it’d keep unless something happened to the “boss man.” That’d be Stan.
*****
Around four, Bishop received a call from Kathy. “Freddie and I are working out at the Club with the tennis pro and a high school girl he’s been tutoring. Why don’t you come watch?”
Bishop’s first reaction was to say no. Why in hell would I want to see Kathy working out with a stud I’d probably want to knock on his ass. Hell, he might knock me on mine.
But he figured she must think it important, so he told her yes. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” Probably wants me there to make sure ole Freddie keeps it in his togs.
She told him the court they’d be on. “We’ll hit with them, maybe play a game or two just to see how we do against top competition.”
“Good idea,” he said without enthusiasm.
When he walked up, Kathy was hitting a crisp backhand down the line. The girl playing with the pro got to it but couldn’t put enough on it to get it over the net.
Freddie said something Bishop couldn’t make out and walked over to give her a congratulatory pat on the back side. Bishop didn’t like that degree of familiarity. He and Kathy had it but they had a relationship that was very consistent with familiarity.
Kathy was serving. Her serve was in the backhand corner that the club pro
returned down the line but Freddie caught it and hit a sharp angle across court. The high school girl got to it and hit it high and deep to Kathy. She hit it hard down the middle for another winner and the game.
For that one, she got a congratulatory hug.
Shit, Bishop thought. The guy was already pissing him off. He was good looking, tall and, he had to admit, had all the muscles a good tennis player needed.
Will be a tough fight if it comes to that, Bishop thought, as he did when facing somebody who, he figured, might end up trying to beat the shit of him. Got long arms too. He could dance around and jab me till my face was all blood. Shit. How in the hell can I handle that? He didn’t have an answer but would be thinking about it.
The high school girl served the next game and looked good. Hit a great hard slice into the corners. They won that game. The tennis pro shouted, “Last game.”
It was Freddie’s serve. He had a hard, flat, first serve that seem to explode when it came off the surface. It didn’t bother the pro or the girl much. But they did have a little problem with his second, slice serve. It hit and bounced high with good spin.
When the game was tied at deuce, the pro looked at his watch and said he had to wrap it up.
“Got a dinner to make with my wife,” the pro said.
Freddie hugged Kathy, Mississippi style, close body contact, and held it longer than Bishop thought was necessary.
Kathy pushed back and pointed at Bishop. She’d seen him come up.
Freddie followed her over to where he was standing for an introduction.
“Good to meet you, Bishop,” he said. “Heard a lot about you over the years. I’ve seen you and Kathy play. She’s great, and you’re not bad either.”
Bishop thanked him and congratulated them for their play in the just concluded practice session. They talked a bit about the tournament coming up the next week. Freddie said he expected them to win. Bishop made an agreeing reply.
He noted how Freddie looked him in the eyes durin
g their exchanges, all steely, hard and challenging.
Yep, the son of a bitch is telling me he intends making Kathy one of his conquests. Well, if he does, one of us will end up paying for that mistake. I guess he is Cary Grant handsome. No wonder the women love him. I don’t.
He and Kathy had just seen one of Grant’s old films, North by Northwest, and both enjoyed it. But just then he wished they hadn’t seen it.
As they said their goodbyes to Freddie, Kathy put on her jacket to avoid getting chilled and then followed Bishop to a local restaurant for dinner.
He didn’t confront her or say anything that would show his building anger toward Freddie and she didn’t bring it up. He didn’t figure it was the right time.
He did say, “Ole Freddie is a friendly guy.”
She laughed. “Yes. Too friendly, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”
He knew she was probing so he replied with a laugh of his own. “I guess he is. Maybe that’s part of his winning personality.”
She gave him a long look.
“They say he has jurors eating out if his hand,” Bishop said.
“I’m not one of his jurors.”
“Good.” But, you’re on his list to get there, he thought. Gonna be a problem. Damnit.
Chapter 5
As the demand for his home grown weed picked up, Stan ordered more seed from the sources he’d developed while at Ole Miss. About half of the weed grown from the seed was the kind that’d give smokers a high, and the other half would relax them. To accommodate the increased business that he figured would come from growing more marijuana, he had Garcia add another quarter-acre of planting.
If anybody around town suspected he was behind the drug trafficking, he never got wind of it. Margo and, he assumed, Bryant, were happy to have the weed to sell and make money. She’d call when she had the money and when she needed more weed. He told her he’d pass the word on and she never asked questions.
Death of the Weed Merchant Page 5
