then sat like an overinflated balloon, poised to burst.
“You’re right,” Ray agreed, lifting the joint like a glass of champagne. “Best in the West. Now … we really have to be …”
“Not yet,” Headcase said, still holding his breath. His left eye began to bulge, his right eye spasming demonically. When he finally exhaled, it came out in a low moan of contentment, the sound of a man consumed by pleasure. “Take another toke.”
“Really, we have to be going,” Ray said. He reached to extinguish his complimentary sample of La Grange produce.
“Not so fast,” Headcase said, catching his arm. “If I were you, I’d make that smoke nice ‘n long. I’d savor that thang fer all it’s worth.”
“Uh-huh,” Ray grunted. A warning alarm was sounding inside his head. “And why’s that?”
“‘Cause it’ll be yer last,” Headcase said nonchalantly.
“Our
last
…?” Ray tried not to panic. Maybe Headcase meant they wouldn’t have the privilege of smoking this particular crop again. Maybe he wouldn’t be growing Thai next season. Or maybe he was going out of business. Or maybe …
“Soon as yer done …” He paused to take another long toke, then whispered breathlessly, “I gotta shoot cha.”
Billy Bob’s jaw dropped. “But… But you cain’t … you cain’t just …”
“Sure I can. Didya think I’d let cha see my operation, then let cha waltz on out?”
The cowboy was sweating, partially from the toxin he was being forced to ingest, partially from this shocking pronouncement, Ray decided. Feeling warm himself, he scrutinized the room again—gun, oven, console, ladder exit—hoping to discover a means of escape that he had previously overlooked. But there didn’t seem to be one.
“Nothing personal, mind ya,” Headcase assured. “I kinda like ya’ll. Least, you,” he said, looking at Billy Bob. “Being a fella Texan and all.”
“What about me?” Ray asked. If they were about to die, why not be forthright?
“Well …” Headcase made a face. “Ain’t much for klooches, pardon ma French. Never have been. Like ‘em ‘bout as much as wetbacks and in-juns. Cain’t never trust ‘em.” He studied Ray intently. “Yer one heck of a big Ez-kee-mo.”
“Inupiat,” Ray specified.
“Make a good ditch digger,” Headcase offered. “Now, finish them smokes.”
Ray took another tentative puff. Billy Bob sighed dramatically before doing the same. Seconds later he exploded in another bout of coughing.
A thought occurred to Ray. “Did you kill this guy?” He gestured to the backpack.
“That head yer carryin’ around?” Headcase pursed his lips, as if it were a difficult question. “Naw. Least, I didn’t recognize him as one a mine.”
Ray could feel the poison working its magic in his body, clouding his brain, making the surroundings slightly gauzy and unreal. “One of yours?”
“I do what I gotta do. It’s jest business. That’s all. As fer killin’ … Ain’t shot at nobody fer … ah … half a dozen months now. Shoulda nailed some a them college kids, but I ain’t … yet.” He cursed them heartily.
“College kids?”
“Upriver. Doin’ some kinda research er sum-thin’.” He swore at them again. “Used to be I was out here all by my lonesome, which is just how I liked it. Got Kanayut ‘bout twenty miles downstream. I use it as my base for shippin’ out product. But othern that, used ta be nobody ever come through here. Couple three er four seasons back, them miners showed up. Now they’s got them a per-men-ant camp. And this summer, buncha coeds and per-fesser types been shuttling crap up and down the river in noisy rafts …” More profanity. He checked his watch. “Go on and finish them joints.”
Ray puffed on his, watching as the end glowed orange, the smoldering flame working its way up the stubby cigarette. “What sort of mine is it?”
“Red Wolf?” He denounced the mining crew as well as their mothers. “They seemed like an
“You’re right,” Ray agreed, lifting the joint like a glass of champagne. “Best in the West. Now … we really have to be …”
“Not yet,” Headcase said, still holding his breath. His left eye began to bulge, his right eye spasming demonically. When he finally exhaled, it came out in a low moan of contentment, the sound of a man consumed by pleasure. “Take another toke.”
“Really, we have to be going,” Ray said. He reached to extinguish his complimentary sample of La Grange produce.
“Not so fast,” Headcase said, catching his arm. “If I were you, I’d make that smoke nice ‘n long. I’d savor that thang fer all it’s worth.”
“Uh-huh,” Ray grunted. A warning alarm was sounding inside his head. “And why’s that?”
“‘Cause it’ll be yer last,” Headcase said nonchalantly.
“Our
last
…?” Ray tried not to panic. Maybe Headcase meant they wouldn’t have the privilege of smoking this particular crop again. Maybe he wouldn’t be growing Thai next season. Or maybe he was going out of business. Or maybe …
“Soon as yer done …” He paused to take another long toke, then whispered breathlessly, “I gotta shoot cha.”
Billy Bob’s jaw dropped. “But… But you cain’t … you cain’t just …”
“Sure I can. Didya think I’d let cha see my operation, then let cha waltz on out?”
The cowboy was sweating, partially from the toxin he was being forced to ingest, partially from this shocking pronouncement, Ray decided. Feeling warm himself, he scrutinized the room again—gun, oven, console, ladder exit—hoping to discover a means of escape that he had previously overlooked. But there didn’t seem to be one.
“Nothing personal, mind ya,” Headcase assured. “I kinda like ya’ll. Least, you,” he said, looking at Billy Bob. “Being a fella Texan and all.”
“What about me?” Ray asked. If they were about to die, why not be forthright?
“Well …” Headcase made a face. “Ain’t much for klooches, pardon ma French. Never have been. Like ‘em ‘bout as much as wetbacks and in-juns. Cain’t never trust ‘em.” He studied Ray intently. “Yer one heck of a big Ez-kee-mo.”
“Inupiat,” Ray specified.
“Make a good ditch digger,” Headcase offered. “Now, finish them smokes.”
Ray took another tentative puff. Billy Bob sighed dramatically before doing the same. Seconds later he exploded in another bout of coughing.
A thought occurred to Ray. “Did you kill this guy?” He gestured to the backpack.
“That head yer carryin’ around?” Headcase pursed his lips, as if it were a difficult question. “Naw. Least, I didn’t recognize him as one a mine.”
Ray could feel the poison working its magic in his body, clouding his brain, making the surroundings slightly gauzy and unreal. “One of yours?”
“I do what I gotta do. It’s jest business. That’s all. As fer killin’ … Ain’t shot at nobody fer … ah … half a dozen months now. Shoulda nailed some a them college kids, but I ain’t … yet.” He cursed them heartily.
“College kids?”
“Upriver. Doin’ some kinda research er sum-thin’.” He swore at them again. “Used to be I was out here all by my lonesome, which is just how I liked it. Got Kanayut ‘bout twenty miles downstream. I use it as my base for shippin’ out product. But othern that, used ta be nobody ever come through here. Couple three er four seasons back, them miners showed up. Now they’s got them a per-men-ant camp. And this summer, buncha coeds and per-fesser types been shuttling crap up and down the river in noisy rafts …” More profanity. He checked his watch. “Go on and finish them joints.”
Ray puffed on his, watching as the end glowed orange, the smoldering flame working its way up the stubby cigarette. “What sort of mine is it?”
“Red Wolf?” He denounced the mining crew as well as their mothers. “They seemed like an
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