at least
six thousand dollars and thought he was in Mexico. He heard nothing until five days previously when the phone rang late at
night. It was his son's voice, from an outdoor pay phone with trucks passing in the background. His son talked fast in a frightened
voice, then hung up the receiver when he saw someone coming—or so his father figured. The boy admitted he had come to grow
marijuana, that the plants were in the ground, that his partners wouldn't let him go till after the fall harvest. They had
already killed one kid who had stood up to them. He told his father not to come personally for him—reasonable advice since
the guitarist was six foot three and his body weighed no more than his long, bushy hair and beard. His son said to find someone
tough who knew how to use a gun and to tell him that he was at Noddy's near Alderpoint. His son interrupted himself after
a few more words with “I gotta go” and hung up.
The guitarist gave Lance $25,000 and asked if he wanted more. Lance said no. He found Alderpoint on the map off Route 101,
less than two hundred miles north of San Francisco. He would have flown to San Francisco and hired a car there were it not
for this gun show in Bakersfield, where he knew they would have what he was looking for.
He was in a hurry, having a long way to drive, and so he did not go into the show itself. Three different guys in the parking
lot had secondhand MAC-10s for sale. Since they were not new, no government paperwork was involved. Anyway, presumably they
had been illegally converted from semi to full automatic; certainly the silencer that came with the one he bought was a homemade
job. He also bought a thousand rounds of .45 ACP for the gun and some spare thirty-round detachable box magazines. He was
on the road again in less than a half hour and drove north on Route 5 to Oakland, crossed the Bay Bridge to San Francisco,
and took the Golden Gate Bridge north again without stopping. It was dusk when he turned west off Route 101 toward Garberville,
which was the only sizable town fairly close to Alderpoint.He found himself a motel, ate a meal, and let a local cadge drinks off him in a tavern. He heard about how the federal government
had been financing raids on the local pot growers: For the past two summers cops in fatigues and bulletproof vests carrying
automatic weapons had been ferried by choppers into the hills to cut and burn the illegal crops.
“It's too early yet for you to see them,” the man at the bar said, “ ‘cause the plants ain't growed enough yet for them to
spot. But even this early in the year we have undercover types floating in and trying to find out what's going on.” He paused
and gave Lance a long look, as did a couple of other men in peaked caps along the bar.
“It's fine with me if you want to talk about baseball,” Lance said.
“We don't have much ball between Frisco and Seattle,” the man grumbled. “I wouldn't cross the road to see a game.” Lance said
nothing, and the man was soon back on his favorite topic. “You see any garden supply stores coming into town?”
“No. It was near dark when I got in.”
“When I first arrived here near twenty years ago, there was only one garden supply store. Now there are thirteen. Who do you
reckon is doing all this cultivating in' a place like this with nothing but mountains and pine trees? Dang right, it's them
that used to be hippies, came up here in rags without a dollar or an acre of land to their name, and now they're driving Cherokee
wagons and flying planes while they grow that stuff on public land. You stay away from them if you're planning on staying
on here for a spell. Some of them's flower children and wouldn't harm no one, but there's others that'd cut your throat as
soon as look at you. They got million-dollar businesses out there on those state and federal lands. They been a whole mess
of hikers disappearing in these hills in the
six thousand dollars and thought he was in Mexico. He heard nothing until five days previously when the phone rang late at
night. It was his son's voice, from an outdoor pay phone with trucks passing in the background. His son talked fast in a frightened
voice, then hung up the receiver when he saw someone coming—or so his father figured. The boy admitted he had come to grow
marijuana, that the plants were in the ground, that his partners wouldn't let him go till after the fall harvest. They had
already killed one kid who had stood up to them. He told his father not to come personally for him—reasonable advice since
the guitarist was six foot three and his body weighed no more than his long, bushy hair and beard. His son said to find someone
tough who knew how to use a gun and to tell him that he was at Noddy's near Alderpoint. His son interrupted himself after
a few more words with “I gotta go” and hung up.
The guitarist gave Lance $25,000 and asked if he wanted more. Lance said no. He found Alderpoint on the map off Route 101,
less than two hundred miles north of San Francisco. He would have flown to San Francisco and hired a car there were it not
for this gun show in Bakersfield, where he knew they would have what he was looking for.
He was in a hurry, having a long way to drive, and so he did not go into the show itself. Three different guys in the parking
lot had secondhand MAC-10s for sale. Since they were not new, no government paperwork was involved. Anyway, presumably they
had been illegally converted from semi to full automatic; certainly the silencer that came with the one he bought was a homemade
job. He also bought a thousand rounds of .45 ACP for the gun and some spare thirty-round detachable box magazines. He was
on the road again in less than a half hour and drove north on Route 5 to Oakland, crossed the Bay Bridge to San Francisco,
and took the Golden Gate Bridge north again without stopping. It was dusk when he turned west off Route 101 toward Garberville,
which was the only sizable town fairly close to Alderpoint.He found himself a motel, ate a meal, and let a local cadge drinks off him in a tavern. He heard about how the federal government
had been financing raids on the local pot growers: For the past two summers cops in fatigues and bulletproof vests carrying
automatic weapons had been ferried by choppers into the hills to cut and burn the illegal crops.
“It's too early yet for you to see them,” the man at the bar said, “ ‘cause the plants ain't growed enough yet for them to
spot. But even this early in the year we have undercover types floating in and trying to find out what's going on.” He paused
and gave Lance a long look, as did a couple of other men in peaked caps along the bar.
“It's fine with me if you want to talk about baseball,” Lance said.
“We don't have much ball between Frisco and Seattle,” the man grumbled. “I wouldn't cross the road to see a game.” Lance said
nothing, and the man was soon back on his favorite topic. “You see any garden supply stores coming into town?”
“No. It was near dark when I got in.”
“When I first arrived here near twenty years ago, there was only one garden supply store. Now there are thirteen. Who do you
reckon is doing all this cultivating in' a place like this with nothing but mountains and pine trees? Dang right, it's them
that used to be hippies, came up here in rags without a dollar or an acre of land to their name, and now they're driving Cherokee
wagons and flying planes while they grow that stuff on public land. You stay away from them if you're planning on staying
on here for a spell. Some of them's flower children and wouldn't harm no one, but there's others that'd cut your throat as
soon as look at you. They got million-dollar businesses out there on those state and federal lands. They been a whole mess
of hikers disappearing in these hills in the
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