He waded on upstream, going farther than he’d ever been. He caught more speckleds, and soon ten dollars’ worth bulged in his creel. Enough money for gas, maybe even a couple of bootleg beers, he told himself, and though it wasn’t near the money he’d been making at the Pay-Lo bagging groceries, at least he could do this alone and not have to deal with some old bitch of a store manager with nothing better to do than watch his every move, then fire him just because he was late a few times.
He came to where the creek forked and that was where he saw a sudden high greening a few yards above him on the left. He left the water and climbed the bank to make sure it was what he thought it was. The plants were staked like tomatoes and set in rows the same way as tobacco or corn. He knew they were worth money, a lot of money, because Lanny knew how much his friend Shank paid for an ounce of pot and this wasn’t just ounces but maybe pounds.
He heard something behind him and turned, ready to drop the rod and reel and make a run for it. On the other side of the creek, a gray squirrel scrambled up a blackjack oak. Lanny told himself that there was no reason to get all jumpy, that nobody would have seen him coming up the creek.
He let his eyes scan what lay beyond the plants. He didn’t see anything moving, not even a cow or chicken. Nothing but some open ground and then a stand of trees. He rubbed a pot leaf between his finger and thumb, and it felt like money to him, more money than he’d make at the Pay-Lo. He looked around one more time before he took the knife from its sheath and cut down five plants. The stalks had a twiny toughness like rope.
That was the easy part. Dragging the stalks a mile down the creek was a lot harder, especially while trying to keep the leaves and buds from being stripped off. When he got to the river he hid the plants in the underbrush and walked the trail to make sure no one was fishing. Then he carried the plants to the road edge, stashed them in the ditch, and got the truck. He emptied the creel into the ditch, the trout stiff and glaze-eyed. He wouldn’t be delivering Old Man Jenkins any speckleds this evening.
Lanny drove back home with the plants hidden under willow branches and potato sacks. He planned to stay only long enough to get a shower and put on some clean clothes, but as he walked through the front room his father looked up from the TV.
“We ain’t ate yet.”
“I’ll get something in town,” Lanny said.
“No, your momma’s fixing supper right now, and she’s set the table for three.”
“I ain’t got time. Shank is expecting me.”
“You can make time, boy. Or I might take a notion to go somewhere in that truck myself this evening.”
It was seven-thirty before Lanny drove into the Hardee’s parking lot and parked beside Shank’s battered Camaro. He got out of the truck and walked over to Shank’s window.
“You ain’t going to believe what I got in back of the truck.”
Shank grinned.
“It ain’t that old prune-faced bitch that fired you, is it?”
“No, this is worth something.”
Shank got out of the Camaro and walked around to the truck bed with Lanny. Lanny looked to see if anyone was watching, then lifted a sack so Shank could see one of the stalks.
“I got five of ’em.”
“Shit fire, boy. Where’d that come from?”
“Found it when I was fishing.”
Shank pulled the sack back farther.
“I need to start doing my fishing with you. It’s clear I been going to the wrong places.”
A car drove up to the drive-through and Shank pulled the sack back over the plants.
“What you planning to do with it?”
“Make some money, if I can figure out who’ll buy it.”
“Leonard will, I bet.”
“He don’t know me, though. I ain’t one of his potheads.”
“Well, I am,” Shank said. “Let me lock my car and we’ll go pay him a visit.”
“How about we go over to Dink’s first and get some beer.”
“Leonard’s got beer. His is cheaper and it ain’t piss-warm like what we got at Dink’s last time.”
They drove out of Marshall, following 221 toward Mars Hill. The carburetor knocked and popped as the pickup struggled up Jenkins Mountain. Soon enough Lanny figured he’d have money for a kit, maybe even enough to buy a whole new carburetor.
“You in for a treat, meeting Leonard,” Shank said. “They ain’t another like him, leastways in this county.”
“I heard tell he was a lawyer once.”
“Naw, he just went to law school a few months. They kicked his ass out because he was stoned all the time.”
After a mile they turned off the blacktop and onto a dirt road. On both sides what had once been pasture was now thick with blackjack oak and briars. They passed a deserted farmhouse and turned onto another road no better than a logging trail.
The woods opened into a small meadow, at the center a battered green and white trailer, its windows painted black. On one side of the trailer a satellite dish sprouted like an enormous mushroom, on the other side a Jeep Cherokee, its back fender crumpled. Two Dobermans scrambled out from under the trailer, barking as they raced toward the truck. They leaped at Lanny’s window, their claws raking the door as he quickly rolled up the window.
The trailer door opened and a man with a gray ponytail and wearing only a pair of khaki shorts stepped onto the cinder-block steps. He yelled at the dogs and when that did no good he came out to the truck and kicked at them until they slunk back from where they had emerged.
Lanny looked at a man who wasn’t any taller than himself and looked to outweigh him only because of a stomach that sagged over the front of his shorts like a half-deflated balloon.
“That’s Leonard?”
“Yeah. The one and only.”
Leonard walked over to Shank’s window.
“I got nothing but beer and a few nickel bags. Supplies are going to be low until people start to harvest.”
“Well, we likely come at a good time then.” Shank turned to Lanny. “Let’s show Leonard what you brought him.”
Lanny got out and pulled back the branches and potato sacks.
“Where’d you get that from?” Leonard asked.
“Found it,” Lanny said.
“Found it, did you. And you figured finders keepers.”
“Yeah,” said Lanny.
Leonard let his fingers brush some of the leaves.
“Looks like you dragged it through every briar patch and laurel slick between here and the county line.”
“There’s plenty of buds left on it,” Shank said.
“What you give me for it?” Lanny asked.
Leonard lifted each stalk, looking at it the same way Lanny had seen buyers look at tobacco.
“Fifty dollars.”
“You trying to cheat me,” Lanny said. “I’ll find somebody else to buy it.”
As soon as he spoke Lanny wished he hadn’t, because he’d heard from more than one person that Leonard Hamby was a man you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. He was about to say that he reckoned fifty dollars would be fine but Leonard spoke first.
“You may have an exalted view of your entrepreneurial abilities,” Leonard said.
Lanny didn’t understand all the words but he understood the tone. It was smart-ass but it wasn’t angry.
“I’ll give you sixty dollars, and I’ll double that if you bring me some that doesn’t look like it’s been run through a hay baler. Plus I got some cold beers inside. My treat.”
“Okay,” Lanny said, surprised at Leonard but more surprised at himself, how tough he’d sounded. He tried not to smile as he thought how when he got back to Marshall he’d be able to tell his friends he’d called Leonard Hamby a cheater to his face and Leonard hadn’t done a damn thing about it but offer more money and free beer.