right.” Chad smiled again.
“Can we talk about it?” I asked.
“Talk about what?”
“The money. Eichmann here, all he’s got is fifty-five hundred. We overestimated how much cash we had. And even getting that was tough.”
“Didn’t I say six thousand on the phone?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’m sure I did.”
“Yeah, I bet you did, but can’t you help us out?”
“I can’t do that. This is business.”
“Not even for me?”
“Not in this lifetime, Doojie. You want the pound or not?”
Two years had passed since I’d last seen Chad, nearly seven hundred and thirty days. God only knew what he’d been doing with his time. The lunarscape of his face made him seem careworn. When he moved his hands, they made me think of mosquitoes, the kind that give you malaria. Before Eichmann could give him any attitude, I said, “We’ll take it.”
Chad went to fetch the weed. He said it would take a few minutes; it could take forever. You never knew what to expect in the contemporary marijuana marketplace. He might be mixing the Kentucky sinsemilla with an inferior grade of pot; maybe he was calling the police on us. Eichmann was on a completely differentwavelength than me, spellbound by the opulent couch.
“What’s the problem, Doojie?” Eichmann said.
“I don’t know. I’m on edge.”
“Ah, don’t give me that. Take a break, enjoy yourself. We won’t be coming here again. You know, this is the kind of home Loretta was talking about … lavish. She’d love it.”
“But you don’t like it, I can tell.”
“It’s okay. But I wouldn’t want to own a house in the Mission.”
“Why’s that?”
“Would you want to live next door to Chad?”
“That bad, huh? What do you make of him?”
“My honest opinion? Where did you come up with the toad? He’s a fucking poseur. Watch him when he gets back in here.”
Forty minutes later Chad returned with a green plastic package covered with masking tape. The time he took, I could’ve been halfway to east Oakland already. He dropped the bundle on the couch with a thud and said, “Sorry, gentlemen, I was on the phone. People from New York were calling me up. I had to coordinate something with them. I didn’t think it would take so long, but hey, here’s the product.”
I picked up the pound and pulled apart the tape after giving the bundle an exploratory squeeze. The weed seemed decent, gray-green, not a lot of seeds and stems, but the buds were small. It wasn’t exciting or anything, nothing to write home about.
Eichmann kissed his teeth and stared pointedly at me. He’d been alerted to something, but he didn’t say what it was. Reaching into his pants, Chad asked, “You like it?”
“It’s okay. We’ll buy it.”
“Great … now give me your money.”
He made the request while pulling out a feminine .25-caliber matte black Beretta from his waistband. I was flummoxed; this was not what I’d expected. The tables had been reversed. Roy was getting his revenge: Chad was stealing from us.
“Chad, wait a second! What is this, man? What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m robbing you, Doojie. It’s my house … I can do what I want.”
“Why? We’re here in good faith!”
“You’re lying. You’ve been a liar since the day I met you.”
“No, no, this is all wrong! We only wanted to make a deal!”
“You keep lying, I’m going to shoot you and bury you in the backyard.”
I racked my brains to figure a way out of our bind. I catalogued my assets: I wasn’t too nervous, and my hands were dry. The situation was so bad, I derived a certain enjoyment out of it. A tangy light-headedness that could be described as insanity. The deficits? Chad had pulled a swift one on us.
Eichmann said to him, “Why don’t you give us the weed and we’ll leave the money with you.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“We can do business again.”
“Why should I do that when I can take your money and keep the pound? I get to
“Can we talk about it?” I asked.
“Talk about what?”
“The money. Eichmann here, all he’s got is fifty-five hundred. We overestimated how much cash we had. And even getting that was tough.”
“Didn’t I say six thousand on the phone?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’m sure I did.”
“Yeah, I bet you did, but can’t you help us out?”
“I can’t do that. This is business.”
“Not even for me?”
“Not in this lifetime, Doojie. You want the pound or not?”
Two years had passed since I’d last seen Chad, nearly seven hundred and thirty days. God only knew what he’d been doing with his time. The lunarscape of his face made him seem careworn. When he moved his hands, they made me think of mosquitoes, the kind that give you malaria. Before Eichmann could give him any attitude, I said, “We’ll take it.”
Chad went to fetch the weed. He said it would take a few minutes; it could take forever. You never knew what to expect in the contemporary marijuana marketplace. He might be mixing the Kentucky sinsemilla with an inferior grade of pot; maybe he was calling the police on us. Eichmann was on a completely differentwavelength than me, spellbound by the opulent couch.
“What’s the problem, Doojie?” Eichmann said.
“I don’t know. I’m on edge.”
“Ah, don’t give me that. Take a break, enjoy yourself. We won’t be coming here again. You know, this is the kind of home Loretta was talking about … lavish. She’d love it.”
“But you don’t like it, I can tell.”
“It’s okay. But I wouldn’t want to own a house in the Mission.”
“Why’s that?”
“Would you want to live next door to Chad?”
“That bad, huh? What do you make of him?”
“My honest opinion? Where did you come up with the toad? He’s a fucking poseur. Watch him when he gets back in here.”
Forty minutes later Chad returned with a green plastic package covered with masking tape. The time he took, I could’ve been halfway to east Oakland already. He dropped the bundle on the couch with a thud and said, “Sorry, gentlemen, I was on the phone. People from New York were calling me up. I had to coordinate something with them. I didn’t think it would take so long, but hey, here’s the product.”
I picked up the pound and pulled apart the tape after giving the bundle an exploratory squeeze. The weed seemed decent, gray-green, not a lot of seeds and stems, but the buds were small. It wasn’t exciting or anything, nothing to write home about.
Eichmann kissed his teeth and stared pointedly at me. He’d been alerted to something, but he didn’t say what it was. Reaching into his pants, Chad asked, “You like it?”
“It’s okay. We’ll buy it.”
“Great … now give me your money.”
He made the request while pulling out a feminine .25-caliber matte black Beretta from his waistband. I was flummoxed; this was not what I’d expected. The tables had been reversed. Roy was getting his revenge: Chad was stealing from us.
“Chad, wait a second! What is this, man? What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m robbing you, Doojie. It’s my house … I can do what I want.”
“Why? We’re here in good faith!”
“You’re lying. You’ve been a liar since the day I met you.”
“No, no, this is all wrong! We only wanted to make a deal!”
“You keep lying, I’m going to shoot you and bury you in the backyard.”
I racked my brains to figure a way out of our bind. I catalogued my assets: I wasn’t too nervous, and my hands were dry. The situation was so bad, I derived a certain enjoyment out of it. A tangy light-headedness that could be described as insanity. The deficits? Chad had pulled a swift one on us.
Eichmann said to him, “Why don’t you give us the weed and we’ll leave the money with you.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“We can do business again.”
“Why should I do that when I can take your money and keep the pound? I get to
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