Felix shook his head. Pot had never interested him.
“Good answer. This kid Marcos had a background like yours, farming. Nice guy. Seemed like a natural. And the garden was doing so well.”
Ramon reached under his seat and grabbed a blue plastic hairbrush. He removed his hat and ran the brush through his thick black hair, took a couple of passes at his mustache, checked himself in the review mirror, then put his hat back on.
“Only three things you gotta worry about: poachers, other growers and law enforcement. Three things.” Ramon put the brush back under the seat and got busy with his toothpick again. “Your job is to bring these plants to harvest. No matter what. We’ll bring in extra guys to help with the cutting when the time comes but mostly you’ll be on your own. You understand?”
Felix nodded.
“Food drop every two weeks. You can make a list of the things you need, we’ll get them. Camp’s already set up. We’ve been using this site for a few years. Pretty simple.”
“I’m living there?”
“No, no. We’re going to get you a nice room at the Hilton Hotel.” Ramon’s laugh sounded like he was choking on his tongue. “Idiot. You gotta protect the plants. That’s a twenty-four-hour job.”
Felix nodded. He didn’t know he was going to be living by himself on a grow-site for a few months. Felix didn’t like to be alone.
“The consequences of not following through, they can be tough.” Ramon took a long sniff and swallowed hard. “That’s true in all of life, isn’t it?”
Felix nodded again but Ramon didn’t seem to notice.
“Marcos said he thought it was the sheriff that came. Some kind of law enforcement. He was wrong.” Ramon hawked up whatever he’d swallowed and spit it out the window. “We’re pretty sure it was those guys from the valley. Showed up couple hours before dawn and Marcos took off. They got our entire harvest. Cost us big time. And the bitch of it is, Marcos didn’t even try to fight back. Just ran away like a little fucking sissy. He’d been warned. We did warn him. You can’t leave. You gotta fight.”
Ramon turned the wheel and quickly cut across three lanes of traffic. Someone honked but he ignored it. “Always put up a good battle. Life depends on it.”
Ramon coughed, brought up something else, rolled down the window to spit again, then apparently changed his mind and swallowed. “Marcos had a little sister back in Sinaloa. Twelve, thirteen. I don’t know exactly. Poor thing. They took her, used her, wanted to make sure he knew exactly what happened. Then they killed him. I’m not sure what happened to the sister. You know how that kind of thing can go. Big market for little girls.”
Ramon got off the freeway and drove a few blocks into a residential area. He stopped in front of a small, box-like house with bars on the windows and door.
“You’ve got a family, bunch of brothers and sisters, doncha?” Ramon looked at Felix and showed his horrible yellow teeth with a fake smile. “Terrible if something happened to them.”
Felix looked straight ahead. He heard what he was being told but he didn’t know where to put it.
“Your cousin says you’ve got a green thumb. You’re gonna produce one of our biggest crops ever.”
Felix nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.
“Good. Very good.” Ramon opened his door. “Wait here.”
Ramon walked up to the front door and pounded on the security screen. Someone opened the door and he disappeared inside. The neighborhood appeared to be deserted. There were a few cars parked on the street, a truck was up on blocks in the driveway of the house next door but there were no people walking around, no sign of life. Then the front door burst open and Ramon came walking out with another man carrying a huge backpack. They hurried to the truck and Felix got out to meet him. He was a skinny wire of a man who was devouring a burrito. The smell of it made Felix swoon.
“Felix Duarte!” The man shook his hand with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm. “Hernando. I am Hernando. I know your cousin Julio!” He reached his bag and pulled out another foil-wrapped burrito. “Eat, my friend. You must be starving. Ramon, did you feed him?”
Ramon ignored the question and climbed into the driver’s seat. Felix pulled up the hood on his jacket, it was late afternoon and starting to get cold, then unwrapped the burrito and took a bite.
“I am the king of breakfast burritos.” Hernando leaned in as if to smell his breath. Felix nodded and chewed. “Cilantro and onions cooked in with the eggs. And the eggs cooked in the bacon grease. A delicacy, yes? And my special beans. I make the best burritos in the world. My wife. She helps. There are more, I made more. You keep eating. Breakfast burritos are good any time of day. Come on, eat.”
Hernando stood close and watched with pride as Felix ate. Unlike Ramon, Hernando was dressed modestly in brown work pants and a sweatshirt. He was missing a front tooth but that didn’t stop him smiling his big open-mouthed grin. Felix could work with a man like this. Everything was going to be fine.
Felix climbed into the truck and sat between the two men. The burrito was good, heavy with the bacon, eggs, cheese, beans, rice and chilies. As hungry as he’d been, he didn’t think he could eat the second one that Hernando kept pressing on him. He took it in his hands, promising to eat it in just a few minutes, and that seemed to satisfy the king of the breakfast burrito.
They got back on the freeway and drove to the coast. The white sand beaches were wide and dotted with trash-cans. Felix could see a few children playing in the surf and people relaxing on towels at the water’s edge as the sun started to set. He sat back in his seat and felt the food settle into his stomach. It felt good to be full, satisfied. Ramon drove fast so that the doors and windows rattled. Hernando looked out into the fading light and hummed a song that Felix thought he almost recognized.
After passing through a few seaside communities, Ramon made a right turn and they headed up into the mountains on a narrow winding road. There were fewer houses here, mostly giant haciendas up on mountaintops, many of them surrounded by what looked like vineyards. This was beautiful country.
As the moon came up, Ramon pulled off a dirt road and drove for another mile or so. He parked amongst some bushes and announced that they would sleep for a few hours then hike in just before dawn. Ramon got the cab, Hernando and Felix the truck bed. There were sleeping bags in the back and, although the truck bed could not have been more uncomfortable, Felix fell asleep instantly.
Ramon woke him with a slap on the shoulder. Time to go. Felix was exhausted but followed orders and packed the sleeping bag into a huge duffle, which he was to carry along with his personal bag. The load was heavy and awkward but he didn’t complain. Hernando carried his big backpack with all the food. Ramon carried nothing. They ducked under a locked gate and walked up the road for over a mile. The sun was just starting to come up and with it, a thick fog started blowing up the canyon from the ocean. Within minutes they were veiled in a dense cloud, rendering them practically invisible at 100 yards. Felix liked the moisture on his skin. They crouched down and turned off the road, fighting their way through the dense brush, snapping twigs and crawling under branches. The trail led them down a steep hillside into a ravine and then up the other side. After about ten minutes, the trail made what seemed like a u-turn and they headed back in the same general direction from which they’d come. Were they going back to the truck? They walked another couple of minutes then Hernando stopped and grabbed some branches and, with both hands, pulled a big tumble-weed sized plug out of the brush. There was a secret trail tunneled into the undergrowth. Felix followed Ramon into the tunnel. Hernando went last and pulled the plug back into place once he’d crawled inside. They had to crawl on hands and knees for about thirty yards then the trail opened up again so they could walk upright again.
Ramon’s boots had smooth soles and his feet kept going out from under him when they climbed the steep hillside. Even though it was cool with the moist air, there were wet spots under Ramon’s arms and across his
chest and his breathing was labored. Some of the embroidery on his shirt got snagged and torn by the branches. Ramon would be angry when he saw that his shirt was ruined and that made Felix feel better.
Finally they dropped down off a little ridge and Ramon announced they’d arrived. The main part of the garden spanned a large terraced hillside. The underbrush had been cleared but the canopy of native plants left intact so that the marijuana plants could grow beneath and not be spotted from a helicopter. It was early in the harvest and plants were still small, spaced every 18”, each one fed by a spaghetti drip line that was attached to the main irrigation hose.
Felix and Hernando followed Ramon as he ducked down and walked along a row of plants to the other side of the site where the camp was. The kitchen was set up in an area where the trees grew tall and a man could stand upright. Ramon sat on the one stool and motioned for Felix and Hernando to sit on the ground. Hernando sat in the dirt but Felix sat in amongst a green leafy vine where the ground was soft.
“Five thousand plants in this site.” Ramon spit in the dirt. “Another two thousand on the other side of this ridge. Hernando and another guy transplanted these from the nursery and most of the ones at the other site. In a few days, when the rest of the seedlings are ready, you’ll plant them. He’ll show you about the nursery and the water. It might sound like a lot but these things are literally weeds. All you gotta do is monitor the water and keep ‘em fed. You’ll be bored most of the time. Trust me.”
Hernando nodded enthusiastically and dug in his backpack for something to eat.
“You don’t leave. You hear me? Seven thousand plants, every one of them healthy. We got the fertilizers, pesticides, there are some traps, a gun. You keep the critters away ‘cause everything likes to eat this plant.”
Felix nodded. It wasn’t any different from growing corn. He could handle pests.
“Your future depends on this garden. Understand?”
Felix thought about how good it would feel to kick Ramon in the stomach and watch him fall backwards off the stool. He’d probably hit his head on that empty can of beans behind him. Maybe cut himself.
“There’s a tent. Stove. You’ve got your sleeping bag. We’ll drop food for you every two weeks. You’ll let us know if you need supplies. No fires or any kind of lights after dark. That house on the hill looks right down into this valley. You gotta stay invisible. Trust me, those rich people are very easily spooked. They think someone’s living down here, they’ll call out the National Guard. Plus the guys that work the vineyard could be a problem if they figure out what we’ve got going here. We’ve tapped into their water line, been doing it for years and they never caught on, just be smart. No contact. We don’t want any trouble.” Ramon shifted himself on the stool trying to get comfortable. He signaled. Hernando jumped up and led Felix off into the garden for the grand tour.
PABLO’S BUSINESS PLAN
EVERY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON I PARK MY VAN IN A DIFFERENT lot somewhere on the beach, arrange my wares on the table inside my camper, set up my lounge chair for optimal tanning, grab a book and wait for the customers to arrive. My location is broadcast by word of mouth. I have a bunch of regulars who always want the same thing—an ounce of this, two ounces of that. They find me and I’m always ready. In the old days, I used to make the rounds and deliver. Time and gas money right out the window. It was actually Ellis’ idea. “Make them come to you,” she said. That girl is a genius. I’ve been running things this way for the last couple of years and it works out really well. I’ve got more clients and I’m moving more product than ever. In fact, if I keep going at this rate I’m going to run out of product before the next harvest. I’ll definitely have to go bigger next season.
I only sell pot, local homegrown pot to the local population. No drugs. What started all those years ago with a little poaching in Dean Graulich’s backyard, when Ellis and I were twelve, has blossomed into a fulfilling career. It’s my life’s work.
“Cartel” is just an umbrella term; you understand that, right? People call it the “Mexican drug cartel” but it isn’t just Mexicans. We got all of Central and some of South America involved up here. It’s a regular United Nations. There’s a bunch of different organizations working these hills alone. They’re real clandestine, you gotta know what you’re looking for if you even want to get close to one of the sites. Here’s a tip: if you see a beat-up old truck, a small one like a Nissan or a ratty Toyota, driven by a couple of Hispanic guys, maybe the tires are a little bald or the tailgate is missing, and the bed of the truck is filled with normal gardening supplies but there’s no lawn mower—bingo. You’ve probably located yourself some low level operatives. There’s never a mower. See, ‘cause they don’t need one. Cracks me up. Maybe I should put out an APB.
I’ve spent my life wandering these hills—my entire life—and so it’s been easy for me detect new activity out in the backcountry. Why aren’t the cops more involved? Dude, to get to these camps you have to walk miles through nasty brush, tunnel through poison oak, deal with ticks and rattlesnakes and all kinds of unpleasant pests and chances are you’re still not going to find anything. The pot farmer is a master of stealth. Most of the entrances to the trails I’ve found are well concealed. They’ll tunnel through some really dense undergrowth, then cut a bunch of brush and form a sort of plug so that if you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’d never guess that the pathway was there. The trails usually zigzag you on a wild goose chase and as often as not lead to a dead end. They are real careful. They only come and go at night so you’re not going to just run into them on your morning jog. And these mountains are huge, lot of opportunity, lot of places to hide. Occasionally there’s a bust because someone got stupid. Like one time this Sheriff happened to pull off the road into a rest area up one of the canyons and interrupt a couple of guys loading bags of pot into the back of a delivery van. It was something like two in the morning. Oops. That made the news. But for the most part there just isn’t enough money or law enforcement agents around here to deal with a problem like this so unless someone gets killed or it’s shoved down their throat, no one really bothers about it. Except me. I’m on it. 24/7.
I sell three different kinds of pot because there are three different cartels cultivating this area and they’ve all got very different shit. In the old days it was all pretty much the same stuff. Nice tall Sativas much like what we found in Graulich’s yard all those years ago. Not anymore. We got the Indicas mixed in with the Sativas, it’s hybrid city out there.
I’ve found the ladies like the different brands to have names. Guys just want to know what’s going to get them the most fucked up but the women appreciate the subtlety of specifics. I call this one Pablo’s Blueberry Madness. Blueberry Madness certainly does have a hint of blueberry, especially if you think about blueberries after you smoke it, and there is a slight blue tinge to the bud. My power of suggestion is strong. All my clients swear they taste blueberry when they’re getting high because I told them they would. It’s a mellow pot. More of a daytime, go-to-work-on-it type pot. It comes from this section of gardens about ten miles north of here where they grow this crazy hybrid. It’s a little stumpy plant, maximum of thirty-six inches high and it only has three leaves. Yeah, only three. Thing is, this little plant matures in just ninety days, sometimes less, so they can get two harvests in one season. And it’s an excellent smoke. These guys only grow in that one area because it’s a little hotter up there, little farther inland so they don’t get quite as much fog. Plus they’re separated from the other growers. The cartel guys seem to want to give each other plenty of space. Good thing or there could be a full-blown war going on like down in Mexico. We don’t need that. Anyway I like the Blueberry Madness but I’ve come to hate the guys producing it more than any of the other growers. All the big scale growers use poisons but these people have this rodenticide from Mexico. The box has a picture of a huge dead rat. They leave the empties lying all over camp. It’s all in Spanish. I’ve nev
er seen that shit before but you can bet it’s toxic as hell, lot of dead things in that area. Not just rats, it gets bunnies, squirrels, raccoons, and coyotes. I even saw a dead deer. That poison must really taste good because everything seems to eat it, and everything dies. And you know what happens when an animal eats that tasty poison? They get thirsty so they go find a little stream and drink. Then the poison kicks in ‘cause it’s water activated, and then the animal dies and then the body decomposes and where do you think the poison goes? Yep, right in the water. And where does the water go? Ocean. Yep. Makes me sick actually. Those guys don’t have to do it that way. You don’t have to kill everything. But because they are such assholes, I take a bigger piece of their pie. In fact I make a point of flat-out robbing those guys. Fuckheads.
How do I know so much about the camps and the layouts? I spend the winters doing recon. Once the sites are harvested, the growers take off until spring. I wait until early December, just to be sure that everyone is gone, then hike into all the different areas and assess the situation. I know exactly where they’ve dug their latrines, stored their food, sleep, bath. I figure out where they plan to have the nursery the next year and what they’re going to use as entries and exits. Everyone has emergency escape routes. I’ve seen trails that lead to little burrows where they can hide until trouble passes. It’s a good idea. While I’m out there figuring out their plans, I also work on some of my own secret trails to the outer parts of the gardens for trouble-free poaching. I’ve got my own set of emergency exits. By the time they’re back in the spring, I’ve got my strategies in place and I’m ready to roll.
This pot here is called Pepe Le Pew. Yes, you got it. It’s very skunky and strong. For some reason this weed really fires the appetite and it’s for that reason that I generally steer the ladies away. It’s a nice giggly high, great for sex. It’s actually my favorite but I love to eat. The fancy ladies, who buy from me, tend to hate food, or at least they hate to eat the food. But for everyone else it’s great. It comes from that area off Bulldog Ridge. Different group of growers, I can tell because those guys use this strange kind of stoves that they don’t sell anywhere around here. I’m sure they brought a bunch up from Mexico and they’re fueled by these weird butane gas bottles—it’s all in Spanish. Also, they hand water. The other guys use drip lines but these guys just have a bunch of hose hook-ups and a few rain-birds. There’s a much more laid back atmosphere in their camps, almost sloppy, probably because they’re smoking their own shit. Whole lotta napping going on over there. It’s a breeze to poach from those guys. And because they make it so easy, I’m very conservative in what I take. Good karma and all that.
Point Dume Page 9
