Chapter 9

The place under the bridge was a jungle and unseen from the Basker Road. The drivable path turned into a dead end. A stony bank opened, bathed in slanted, golden afternoon light. We climbed out of the parked Mustang, leaned on its metal side and smoked a joint together, shifting the stick back and forth, sharing the drug. Between puffs, he pointed to the far right and said, “I have a patch of buds over there. They’re about three feet high.”

“You’re a natural businessman, aren’t you, Jim?”

“I like to call myself the Warehouse Man. I have warehouses all over the county. Small patches here and there. I have what people want.”