about that.”
“C’mon, don’t futz around,” Eichmann said. He pushed his way past Roy, dragging Bobo and me in his wake. We crawled into the shell and found a couple of seats around a table bolted to the floor. It wasn’t bad in there considering how cramped it was. There were wood storage bins to keep things out of the way, a futon bed in the front, a window with lace curtains over it. Roy locked the door from the inside, then sat down with us at the table. He reached into a shirt pocket, pulling out a small bag of weed. “You guys want to sample the shit?”
“Yeah.”
While Roy built a spliff, I continued to look around the camper. He had a four-burner propane stove, a mini-refrigerator, and a toilet stall in the corner, all of it sparkling clean. The sweet-smelling cedarwood interior was like being inside a cabin in the forest. It had to be more fun than living in a garage off Mission Street, and I was impressed.
“A fine truck you got,” Eichmann said.
“Yeah, it’s all right. My dad gave it to me on my birthday. It’s been over at my mom’s ranch in Marin. Doojie, you want to have the pleasure of firing up the joint?”
I was handed the fattie and a book of matches. I ignited one end of the stick and inhaled with all of my might. The sinsemilla was aggressive—it exploded in my lungs as if someone had dropped a hand grenade into my mouth.
“Good shit.” I exhaled and saw mushroom clouds in front of my eyes. The end of the world. I saw my own death, a shadow inches from my face. I blinked once, then it was gone. “Yeah, it’s tasty.”
“This is that Canadian bud you’ve been hearing about. It’s grown in the Rockies up by Kelowna.”
The reefer made its way around the table. By the time Eichmann gave it to Roy, there was hardly anything left of it. My partner had consumed most of the doobie, leaving little for our host. Roy held the roach between two fingers, his bottom lip quivering with disapproval. “You selfish Jew, you hogged it.”
“What?”
Roy snarled at Eichmann, “You smoked the whole thing and I got none. Are you deaf?”
“No, I ain’t, and I don’t like what you just said, dipshit.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, because I’m Jewish. And so’s Doojie.”
“I was joking. Don’t get weird on me.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“So drop it, why don’t you. Okay?”
No one said a word. A dog barking across the street was getting on my nerves. Roy’s irritation had changed the atmosphere in the camper, making my hands clammy. He attempted to light the roach, unaware of the acrimony brewing on Eichmann’s face. He couldn’t get the joint going again, so he flung it into an ashtray. “Forget that. Let’s make the deal. Five thousand?”
Bobo replied, “That’s right.”
Eichmann hadn’t changed the hard look in his eyes. Roy reached under the table and produced a large clear plastic bag of red-haired emerald buds. Instantly I was transfixed by the indica. The weed smelled like a dead skunk by the side of the road, a sure sign of potency, what our customers wanted the most from their smoky-smoke. Roy said, “Here’s the product. It won’t get any better than this. The price goes up the next time.”
Eichmann asked, “You want your money?”
“Yeah, I do. I want to get back over the bridge into Marin before rush hour.”
“Well, let me ask you something … who were you calling a selfish Jew?”
“That again? Don’t be so thin-skinned. Everything’s racial these days, you know?”
Roy’s comeback was glib, and it needed an answer. Eichmann launched himself across the table, clobbering the dealer on the chin with a right hook, and doing it fast enough to befuddle Roy. I swiped the bag of weed off the table to keep it from getting damaged. I put the bag under my shirt and got up from the table. Bobo flung open the door and we poised ourselves on the threshold, getting scared. I bawled at Eichmann, “C’mon, let’s get out of here!”
For
“C’mon, don’t futz around,” Eichmann said. He pushed his way past Roy, dragging Bobo and me in his wake. We crawled into the shell and found a couple of seats around a table bolted to the floor. It wasn’t bad in there considering how cramped it was. There were wood storage bins to keep things out of the way, a futon bed in the front, a window with lace curtains over it. Roy locked the door from the inside, then sat down with us at the table. He reached into a shirt pocket, pulling out a small bag of weed. “You guys want to sample the shit?”
“Yeah.”
While Roy built a spliff, I continued to look around the camper. He had a four-burner propane stove, a mini-refrigerator, and a toilet stall in the corner, all of it sparkling clean. The sweet-smelling cedarwood interior was like being inside a cabin in the forest. It had to be more fun than living in a garage off Mission Street, and I was impressed.
“A fine truck you got,” Eichmann said.
“Yeah, it’s all right. My dad gave it to me on my birthday. It’s been over at my mom’s ranch in Marin. Doojie, you want to have the pleasure of firing up the joint?”
I was handed the fattie and a book of matches. I ignited one end of the stick and inhaled with all of my might. The sinsemilla was aggressive—it exploded in my lungs as if someone had dropped a hand grenade into my mouth.
“Good shit.” I exhaled and saw mushroom clouds in front of my eyes. The end of the world. I saw my own death, a shadow inches from my face. I blinked once, then it was gone. “Yeah, it’s tasty.”
“This is that Canadian bud you’ve been hearing about. It’s grown in the Rockies up by Kelowna.”
The reefer made its way around the table. By the time Eichmann gave it to Roy, there was hardly anything left of it. My partner had consumed most of the doobie, leaving little for our host. Roy held the roach between two fingers, his bottom lip quivering with disapproval. “You selfish Jew, you hogged it.”
“What?”
Roy snarled at Eichmann, “You smoked the whole thing and I got none. Are you deaf?”
“No, I ain’t, and I don’t like what you just said, dipshit.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, because I’m Jewish. And so’s Doojie.”
“I was joking. Don’t get weird on me.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“So drop it, why don’t you. Okay?”
No one said a word. A dog barking across the street was getting on my nerves. Roy’s irritation had changed the atmosphere in the camper, making my hands clammy. He attempted to light the roach, unaware of the acrimony brewing on Eichmann’s face. He couldn’t get the joint going again, so he flung it into an ashtray. “Forget that. Let’s make the deal. Five thousand?”
Bobo replied, “That’s right.”
Eichmann hadn’t changed the hard look in his eyes. Roy reached under the table and produced a large clear plastic bag of red-haired emerald buds. Instantly I was transfixed by the indica. The weed smelled like a dead skunk by the side of the road, a sure sign of potency, what our customers wanted the most from their smoky-smoke. Roy said, “Here’s the product. It won’t get any better than this. The price goes up the next time.”
Eichmann asked, “You want your money?”
“Yeah, I do. I want to get back over the bridge into Marin before rush hour.”
“Well, let me ask you something … who were you calling a selfish Jew?”
“That again? Don’t be so thin-skinned. Everything’s racial these days, you know?”
Roy’s comeback was glib, and it needed an answer. Eichmann launched himself across the table, clobbering the dealer on the chin with a right hook, and doing it fast enough to befuddle Roy. I swiped the bag of weed off the table to keep it from getting damaged. I put the bag under my shirt and got up from the table. Bobo flung open the door and we poised ourselves on the threshold, getting scared. I bawled at Eichmann, “C’mon, let’s get out of here!”
For
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