Stone Junction (18 page)

‘So would sulfuric acid,’ Daniel mumbled, his lips numb. At the mention of acid he noticed the cabin walls seemed to be melting.

‘Eat up,’ Mott urged. ‘Lucille’s due in an hour and we still got ground to ride.’

‘I don’t want to insult your hospitality, but the chili’s a little hot for me. Makes my ears ache.’

‘Supposed to. Good bowl o’ mountain red should just kick the dog piss outa ya and make your dick grow an inch. But don’t worry, you’ll work up a taste for it. Only thing that’d be insulting is if you brought a sack lunch with a cheese-and-sprouts sandwich or some such stuff. Tuna. Shit like that.’

‘I’ll wash the bowls,’ Daniel volunteered.

Mott drained another beer. ‘I’ll twist us up a coupla joints for the trail.’

‘What should I do with the leftovers?’

‘Dump it back in the kettle for Pissgums. He deserves a treat. Hasn’t tried to kick me in the nuts since last Tuesday.’

Daniel watched with fascination as the mule slurped the chili from the pot, alternating each bite with a mouthful of damp moss from the trunk of his hitching tree. Daniel tried a handful. It helped.

‘You’re really pretty smart,’ he said appreciatively, patting the mule’s neck.

Pissgums snaked his head sideways and bit Daniel savagely just below the ribs.

Daniel’s yowl brought Mott rolling through the cabin door, his .45 in one hand and a large knife in the other.

‘No! No!’ Daniel yelled, waving his arms. ‘It’s just Pissgums. The son of a bitch bit me.’ Daniel hiked his shirt and showed Mott the egg-shaped bruise.

‘You fucking with him or did he get outa line?’

Daniel wasn’t sure if Mott was asking him or the mule, but he answered anyway. ‘I wasn’t doing a damn thing except feeding him and giving him a friendly pat on the neck.’

‘Shit.
Never
do that. Pissgums
hates
affection.’ Mott holstered his pistol and slipped the knife back in his boot.

‘You know,’ Daniel said, rubbing the bite, ‘I’ve spent a lot of time in the hills. I know the hills. I feel safe there. When I woke up this morning I was looking forward to a pleasant day gathering cattle, and here I am six hours later, reeling from drugs, my ears still humming from lunch, with some whiskey-drinking sadomasochist mule who almost ate my rib cage, on my way to see a mysterious woman for even more mysterious reasons that – you were right – I really
don’t
want to know, and I’m beginning to believe that things are seriously out of control.’

‘Always,’ Mott agreed. ‘But it’s like the Rock Island Line: You gotta ride it like you find it.’

‘Fine,’ Daniel said. ‘Fine with me.’

‘We’re gonna get on real good, Dan,’ Mott grinned, a wild twinkle in his faded blue eyes. ‘All aboard.’ He slapped Pissgums on the nose and swung into the saddle. ‘Let’s go meet Lucille.’

Daniel and Mott heard her coming. They’d stopped in the trees at the edge of the ridgetop and waited a few minutes when Daniel caught the sound. Startled, he glanced at Mott. ‘What’s that?’

Mott, holding in a lungful from the cigar-sized joint he was smoking, answered in a strangled wheeze, ‘Lucille.’

‘No,’ Daniel said, listening intently. ‘No, it’s a machine – hear it?’ He imitated the sound: ‘Chwop: chwop: chwop: chwop …’ When his drug-soaked brain finally realized the sound was familiar, he whirled on Mott: ‘Fuck! It’s a helicopter!’

‘Yuuuup,’ Mott exhaled. ‘That’s what we’re waiting for.’ Behind the dense cloud of smoke, Mott’s voice seemed disembodied.

Daniel felt relieved, then irked. ‘Jesus, you might have said something. I’ve had some bad experiences with helicopters – they make me jumpy.’

‘Like turpentine on a sanded asshole, I’d say,’ Mott said.

‘So why is Lucille coming in on a helicopter?’

‘She isn’t. Lucille is the helicopter.’

‘Right. That makes as much sense as anything. And I suppose she’s bringing in your daily drug supply.’

‘You’re close, Dan. But it’s the
weekly
drug delivery and pickup. Pilot’s name is Low-Riding Eddie. He’s pretty good people for a flatlander, but I wouldn’t bad-mouth Lucille or you might find yourself in a knife fight.’

The helicopter roared in above the treetops, banked sharply, circled once, then settled, its rotor-wash flattening the grass. It was an old Sikorsky, Korean War surplus, but it had been altered dramatically. The body was chopped and channeled, all visible metal chromed, and the fuselage gleamed with hand-rubbed coats of metal-flake Midnight Blue. Ornate gold script on the rear panel spelled out
Lucille
. A large pair of pink foam dice dangled from a roll-bar in the cockpit.

‘That’s the Low-Rider,’ Mott said, lifting off a saddlebag. ‘Leave our beasts here and we’ll go give him a howdy.’

As they walked toward the chopper, Low-Riding Eddie clambered out of the cockpit with a battered suitcase in one hand, the other covering his head as he ran, crouched, from under the rotor.

On that high, Oregon mountain prairie, Daniel witnessed a sight few mortals can claim to share: A half-naked mountain man buying thirty pounds of Afghani hash from a thin, sallow-faced youth dressed in the highest late-fifties fashion cool: scuffed white bucks, black chinos held up by a skinny belt so pink it probably glowed in the dark, and a scarlet silk shirt, the back of the collar rolled up to the well-pomaded point of Eddie’s DA ’do.

Mott and Daniel met him at the tree line.

‘New cat in the band?’ Eddie asked Mott, indicating Daniel with an almost imperceptible shift of his sullen brown eyes.

‘This here’s Daniel the Nooky Spaniel, gets more ass than a toilet seat in a sorority house. Sent him here to learn a useful trade and eat some o’my chili to grow back what he’s wore off his pecker.’

Eddie nodded, regarding Daniel under hooded eyes.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Daniel said. ‘And it’s a real joy to behold that beautiful machine you’re flying. She’s a work of art.’

‘I busted a knuckle or two,’ Eddie replied with a studied indifference. ‘She’ll turn two and a half in calm air. Blow the fucking doors off any chop the sky fuzz can put up, that’s for sure.’

‘That must be comforting,’ Daniel said.

‘Fuckin’ A,’ Eddie mumbled. ‘Peace of mind’s almost as good as a piece of tail.’

‘Low-Rider, goddammit, don’t remind me,’ Mott said. ‘I’m so horny I could fuck the crack o’ dawn.’

Eddie said, ‘Just so you don’t go fucking with Lucille.’

‘Naw,’ Mott assured him, ‘the only machines I like are guns.’

‘Man, you
got
to cut back on the drug abuse – your eyes look like … what do you call them fuckers anyway?’

‘Pinwheels?’ Daniel offered.

Eddie snapped his fingers. ‘That’s the one. Can’t tell if they’re whirling in or whirling out.’

‘I know,’ Mott sighed. ‘But unless I can get Dan here to pull some weight, I’m stuck with all the product evaluation. It’s a tremendous responsibility, but I’m built for the
load
, if you get my drift. If you’re interested, just happen to have a joint in my pocket off ’n a plant I grew myself and high-graded into stash. Cross between some Trinity Trainwreck and Humboldt Polio. Get ya so high your nose’ll bleed.’

‘Thanks anyway, man, but I can’t fly two planes at the same time, and I don’t have the time to start with. They added a drop in Cave Junction. Let’s jump on business. I gotta split soon.’

‘So whatta we got?’

Eddie lifted the suitcase. ‘Black ’Ghani, gold-stamped bars from the heart of the Hindu Kush. Last big load out before the Russians. Twenty pounds.’

‘Tell me in money.’ Mott reached into his shirt. Daniel, recalling the knife he’d produced from his boot, tensed.

‘Sixteen of the big ones.’

Daniel relaxed when Mott produced a large elkskin pouch.

‘Sixteen?’ Mott repeated with a touch of doubt. ‘That seems
awful
cheap.’

‘Don’t rumble it with me, man; I’m on salary.’

Mott took a huge roll of hundred-dollar-bills from the pouch and started counting. ‘I could turn it for twelve a pound and have ’em lined up at my door.’

‘We got a good buy, and you know the rule: Can’t tack on more than a hundred a pound if the Alliance fronts it.’

Mott grunted and kept counting.

‘Why that rule?’ Daniel said to Low-Riding Eddie.

‘Cools the greed.’

Mott finished flicking through the bills and handed a wad to Eddie. ‘That’s four grand. Squares us on last week’s peyote buttons.’

Eddie peeled off a single bill and stuffed the rest in his back pocket. ‘You make your nut?’

‘No problem.’

‘How’s the biz?’

‘Smooth and quiet. Any rattles down your way?’

‘Nothing shaking.’ Eddie took out his Zippo and held it under the hundred dollar bill. ‘Ready?’

‘Always,’ Mott said. ‘Fire away.’

Shielding it in front of himself against the light breeze, Eddie lit a corner of the bill.

Daniel, peaking on acid, was too stunned to say anything. He watched enthralled as the flames spread along the bill, leaving a flutter of ashes in their wake. When they reached the oval face of Ben Franklin engraved on the bill, Mott chortled, ‘Fuck-oh-dear, but I do like to see old Benny Franklin burn. Hated that motherfucker ever since they tried to convince me what a great thinker and citizen he was when I was back in first grade, back before I took warping my brain into my own hands. I’ll bet you a mink coat against a cornflake that the only time Benny Franklin ever got off was when that lightining zapped his kite.’

Daniel watched raptly as the flames burned closer to Eddie’s fingers.

Eddie didn’t let go. Instead, he dropped the bill in the palm of his left hand, slapped it almost simultaneously with his right, then brushed the ashes on the ground.

Pale eyes glittering, Mott enthusiastically suggested, ‘Let’s burn another one.’

‘Ain’t happening,’ Eddie mumbled. ‘They’re already pissed off about one. Wanna know why we can’t use a twenty.’

Mott erupted, ‘We can’t use a fucking
twenty
because Ben Franklin’s on the
hundred!
’ He took a breath. ‘And you see
right there
how that Puritan killjoy tight-ass Ben Franklin has infected the American mind.’ He minced in a searing falsetto, ‘“A penny saved is a penny earned,”’ then boomed, ‘Well,
fuck
that shit. A penny blown is a penny
enjoyed
.’

‘They’re squares, man, what can I tell ya?’ Eddie said. ‘Volta’s pretty cool, though; he digs it. He was the only vote in favor of burning more. Told me he’d ride up sometime and we could burn a grand of his personal income.’

‘Aw, piss on ’em,’ Mott said with sudden resignation. He picked up the suitcase and stuffed it in the saddlebag. ‘Let’s move.’

‘Later,’ Eddie waved.

As they walked back into the trees, Daniel said, ‘Shouldn’t you check the suitcase to see if it actually does contain hashish?’

‘Shouldn’t Eddie have counted the money?’

‘So you’re saying you trust him, right?’

‘We trust each other. It’s the backbone of the trade and the heart of the Alliance.’

‘What was burning that bill all about?’

‘For the hell of it.’

‘I can understand how you enjoy it, hating Benjamin Franklin, but what about Eddie?’

‘I have the feeling it just gets the Low-Rider off. A little kink in the wiring. I mean, look how he dresses. And every time I mention being horny he gets nervous about Lucille. I know I can get a tad rambunctious, but hey, I ain’t gonna fuck no helicopter.’

Daniel said, ‘It felt like a ceremonial purification.’

‘Better safe than sorry,’ Mott replied. He stopped in his tracks, groaning ‘Did Benny Franklin say that?’

‘I think so,’ Daniel said gravely. He didn’t know, actually, but he’d never seen Mott look scared before.

Mott had the knife in his hand before Daniel saw him move. He tossed the knife up, caught it by the back of the blade, and extended it to Daniel, handle first. As Daniel took it, pearls of sunlight shattered on its edge.

Mott dropped to his knees in front of Daniel. ‘Cut out my tongue.’ Mott closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. His abject vulnerability suddenly frightened Daniel. ‘Cud da fugger od!’ Mott demanded, sticking his tongue out farther.

Daniel realized then that Mott was as stoned as he was. He shifted logic. ‘You won’t ever be able to taste your chili again,’ he reminded him.

Mott opened one eye thoughtfully, then the other. ‘Couldn’t eat pussy either, could I? Kinda the clincher, huh?’ He got to his feet. ‘Well, even assholes like Ben Franklin get it right once in a while, I guess.’

Daniel handed the knife back to Mott.

‘You’re a clear thinker, Dan. I like that. We’ll make good pardners. I’ll keep you loaded, you keep me sane.’

They arrived back at the barn shortly after dark, taking a different route: cocaine, vodka, demerol, and, the last miles, a few Dexamyl spansules.

Daily life at the Rocking On was remarkably like that at the Four Deuces and the Wyatt Ranch, except the work involved the production and transfer of drugs. Mott assigned Daniel seven marijuana patches to plant and tend – each with thirty holes – and it took a long day’s ride to complete the circuit. Later he only had to check twice a week through the summer to make sure the drip-irrigation systems hadn’t clogged and the fences hadn’t been breached. Low-Riding Eddie usually delivered some illegal substance for sale once a week, and there were always general chores. Mott worked the same basic schedule, so he and Daniel seldom rode together except to meet Lucille. Mott claimed a seven-day work week on the grounds that drug use constituted research and testing, not recreation. After that first obliterating trip with Mott, Daniel kept his drug intake down. He declined so often that Mott finally told him, ‘Tell me when you want something,’ and quit offering.

The ranch house and numerous outbuildings occupied a thirty-acre alluvial plain above Dooley Creek. Many of the outbuildings had been built by Mott when he was taken by the notion that American carpentry as an art form had never gone through a period of surrealism. Mott had set out, with gargantuan energy, to rectify this. Daniel’s ‘cabin,’ for instance, looked like a head-on collision between a Maidu sweat lodge and a Swiss chalet, while the guest cottage might have been the bastard offspring of a Mongol yurt and a Texarkana motel. The only structures spared the influence of Mott’s surrealist period were the original ranch house and barn, and the forty-foot-square cinder-block bunker with a single iron door, which served as Aunt Charmaine’s laboratory.