“Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot of chili.”
“Eat it or wear it,” she said, and sailed like a spinnaker back to the kitchen.
I ate it. I had no doubt she would make good on the threat.
CHAPTER 18
Back at the house, John D invited me to join him on the porch while he “rested his bones.” After a few minutes of rocking, his chin slumped down on his chest. Soon he was snoring like a walrus.
I decided to do some exploring. I took a good long stroll around his property. As I weaved a path through the acres of dying almond trees, I came upon two groupings of young living ones planted side by side across the road and separated from each other by a low wire fence. The trees on one side were marked with neon-yellow plastic ties. Other than that, I couldn’t see any difference between the two groves.
On my way back, I checked out a small patch of marijuana, maybe half a dozen healthy-looking plants, tucked in the corner of John D’s backyard between the tomatoes and nasturtiums.
John D was still asleep. I tiptoed inside for a drink of water. I paused at the photograph on the mantel he’d showed me the other day. The blossoming branches and smiling faces made me a little melancholy.
I walked back outside and got my own rocking chair going, enjoying the shady coolness. I closed my eyes. Embracing the motto “Whatever works,” I used the rhythmic snort and snuffle of John D’s snoring to settle into a meditation.
Sometime later, his snores tapered off. I opened my eyes just as John D woke up. He looked around, confused for a moment before comprehension clicked in. He gave himself a back-cracking stretch and lumbered to his feet.
“Coffee?” he asked. I told him coffee was an excellent idea. I followed him inside to observe. He dumped several scoops of dark, oily beans into a cast-iron hand-grinder clamped to the counter. He cranked the beans into the consistency of cornmeal and loaded them into an old-fashioned percolator.
“Now, here’s the secret to a good cup of coffee,” he said. He broke off an inch-square piece of eggshell from a bucket by the sink and dropped it into the ground coffee. “Don’t ask me why, but it mellows out the taste.”
The coffee was strong and rich but without any acid bite or bitter aftertaste.
“Delicious.”
“Toldja,” John D said. “Now bring your brew and come sit with me while I take my medicine.”
He opened a cupboard and removed a corncob pipe and a mason jar containing dried marijuana, the buds frosted white with THC, the active chemical component of the plant. He followed me outside and sat again, wincing with pain. He packed the stubby pipe, fired it up, and took a prodigious hit of smoke into his lungs. He held the pipe out to me. “Want some?” His voice had the strangled tone of an experienced stoner.
If there’s a “Private Investigator’s Rule Book” somewhere, I’m sure it says something about not partaking of cannabis on the job, but the opportunity to get high with a guy like John D didn’t come along very often. Anyway, what was I going to do? Fire myself? I took the corncob and sucked in a mighty puff.
“I saw your backyard supply,” I said, holding the smoke in.
“Yup. Been growing it for years. Legally, like I said. It’s the only thing that helps with the pain, especially now that I got the cancer. I tried that stuff the doctors pass out like candy-Vicodin, Oxycontin, whatever-but it just makes me feel like I got a head full of mud. Pot’s better.”
He took another long inhale, trapped it tight, and then let the smoke stream from his nose. “Norman thinks I’m turning into a dope fiend. I say bring it on. What do you say, Ten?”
I told him I had long ago forfeited my right to disapprove of anyone seeking relief from this world’s pain. I told him about coming of age not far from the Kulu Valley in India, where the locals have been growing world-class pot for thousands of years. I confessed that as a teenager in the monastery, I would on occasion sneak out myself, late at night, for a little “herbal entertainment.”
“No kidding.” John D said. “Well, okay, then. I guess I don’t have to worry about you warning me about the evils of smoking weed.”
“How about this for a warning? John D, if you keep smoking that pot, eventually you are going to die!”
“What are you,” he said. “Some kind of prophet?”
We got a pretty good snicker going over that, so good that we didn’t hear the crunch of gravel on the driveway until it was too late. A white SUV rolled to a stop.
“Oh, shit!” John D gasped, and he shoved the mason jar and pipe under his rocking chair, looking so much like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar I let loose another round of laughter.
“Stop, stop!” John D gasped, waving his hands around. “He’ll see!”
“Who’ll see?”
“My son, the fun-buster.”
I turned to look. The vehicle was marked with an L.A. County Department of Public Works insignia. A chunky middle-aged man in a white shirt and dark tie clambered out and huffed across the yard to the front steps.
“Hey, there, Norman,” John D said.
“Hello, Dad.” Norman looked back and forth between us.
I decided to introduce myself. I was afraid hearing John D’s intoxicated butchering of my name would set me off again. I stood up and offered my hand.
“Tenzing Norbu. Most people call me Ten.”
His handshake was unenthusiastic. “Norman Murphy.”
John D giggled. “Most people call him Norman Murphy.”
Norman looked at his father sharply. He was still standing at the bottom of the steps. I noticed John D hadn’t asked him to sit and join us. I reclaimed my chair until further notice.
“What’s his business here?” Norman asked his father. His tight little mouth barely moved when he spoke; I had the thought that he’d been weaned too early and was still pissed about it 50 years later. I stifled a snigger. Man. Marijuana was stronger than I’d remembered.
Then John D said, “What’s your business what his business is with my business?” and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to quell the rising hysteria. My eyes watered from the effort.
Norman gave up on John D and turned to me. “I’m sorry, why are you here?”
I took a deep, steadying breath and prayed for self-control.
“I just met your father the other day,” I said. “I had some business with the people next door and struck up a conversation with him. He invited me to his home. I’ve been hearing all about the almond business.”
Norman’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth as if to delve deeper, then seemed to think better of it.
“Right. The good old days,” he said, his voice laced with bitterness. He turned back to his father. “So Dad, are you going to invite me to sit down?”
“Ain’t nobody stopping you,” John D answered.
I started to rise, but Norman parked his ample butt on the top step. Unfortunately, this put him directly opposite John D’s rocking chair. It took Norman about two seconds to spot the pipe and jar of weed underneath.
Busted.
Norman’s face reddened. “I knew it. Have you already been smoking that stuff today?”
“Yep,” John D said, “and I plan to smoke plenty more before the day’s done. Want a hit?”
Norman glared at me. “What about you? Are you doing drugs with this old man? Are you that pitiful?”
Heat suffused the muscles of my upper back and neck. Some people have a smarmy self-righteousness that begs for retaliation. Norman was one of those people.
“Maybe I should go,” I said. “Let you both talk in private.”
John D reached over and patted his son’s knee. “Norman here hasn’t been out to say hello to me for close to two months, so I’m pretty sure he don’t have anything I want to hear now.”
Norman stood and dusted off his pants. He directed his parting words at me. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but I want you to leave my father alone.”