Point Dume Read online

  Me, I’ll never leave. This place is my home. And there’s plenty of business opportunities right here in these coastal hills, real career opportunities. In fact, business has really exploded since 9/11. The Mexican drug cartels started growing pot, on a large scale, in my mountains after the borders got tight. They’re growing all over the U.S., in national parks and on state land, billions of dollars’ worth of product. Check the papers. California is the epicenter but you can find them everywhere, especially the western states. Wonder how those Mormons over in Utah like their new neighbors. It’s a rough bunch, the cartel guys. They got a thing about cutting off people’s heads. It’s become like a trademark, company logo-type deal. Not good enough to just kill you, they’ve got to cut out your tongue then take off your head. Sometimes they chop you up into little pieces then float you in a tub of acid. Cartel Albondigas. Some people look at it as a real problem—and I can see their point. But it’s working out pretty well for me. I’m very careful. I simply tiptoe through the backcountry, collecting a modest tariff that will keep me in food and shelter for the rest of my life. Don’t let the camper and the ratty clothes fool you. I’ve got over a half a million stashed away, here and there. Yep, I’m sitting pretty these days. Stealing, you say? Hey, it’s a national recreation area, parkland. It belongs to all of us so I feel entitled. Plus, there’s a shit-load of product up there. I figure at least three different cartels are working within a twenty-mile area. Plenty to go around. And, most importantly, I was here first. This is my hometown. I’m entitled.

  How did I get started down this career path? Glad you asked. I was twelve years old. Ellis and I were surfing the outer reef, sitting inside and picking off the leftovers. We were way too young to sit in the line-up with the older guys and we had to be careful to stay out of their way or we’d get pummeled. That’s how it used to be with surfing, a defined pecking order. There was etiquette. You had to work your way up through the ranks. Groms on the inside or over on a lesser break. Kooks didn’t even surf our beach. But that system has completely collapsed now that surfing is the answer to everyone’s need for adventure and identity. Anyway, Ellis and I were pretty hot when we were kids and she was the only girl in the water so the guys tolerated us. It was a small day and there was a long lull so, as usual, we were eavesdropping. Rod Burkles started talking about Dean Graulich’s garden and how big his plants were. Dean Graulich was meanest motherfucker around. He was in his early twenties and spent most of his free time doing target practice with throwing stars, learning how to kill or beating people up. He carried a crossbow in the back of his truck, we’d seen it, and he studied karate seriously. He was something like a triple black belt and traveled around for competitions. Pretty much the original Rambo but meaner. The thing was Dean could surf better than anyone in the water and so even though he was a complete asshole to us, even though he scared us to death, we had great respect for him. But somehow the idea of him gardening didn’t sit right. What did he grow, flowers? Vegetables? Did he wear a floppy hat and drink lemonade like my mother? What do you think?

  Dean lived up one of the nearby canyons in a shack that looked like it had been built of Popsicle sticks and glue. There were a couple of crude windows flanking the front door that were covered by matching batik bedspreads and a chimney pipe sticking up through the roof that was often smoking even on the hottest days. Dean made a sort of fence in front yard from broken surf boards, stuck in the ground every three or four feet, linked together by a dense tangle of rusting barbwire. He kept three or four rottweilers on the property and it was rumored that he only fed them raw meat. Needless to say, he didn’t have a problem with trespassers. Ellis and I had ridden our bikes up by his house many times but never stopped because of those snarling dogs. There was always the fear that the fence wouldn’t hold and those dogs seemed hungry.

  We were just kids but we weren’t stupid and quickly got a pretty good idea of what Dean must growing in his “garden”. The pot leaf was a favorite junior high school decoration on notebook covers, the inside of school lockers, the rubber sides of sneakers, backs of hands, brims of baseball caps. Pretty much any surface that would accept ink had a pot leaf drawn on it when we were in seventh grade. We talked about getting high, knew people who got high, but in our little group nobody had actually seen real marijuana yet, let alone smoked it. We were determined to be the first.

  Ellis and I got up early one Saturday morning and rode our bikes up the canyon. We turboed it past Dean’s house, trying to ignore the barking dogs. Had he got a new one? Seemed like the pack had grown. We hid the bikes in some bushes then snuck down the driveway of Dean’s neighbor who had a huge property and never appeared to be home. There was a solid wooden fence on the property line that was well planted but we were able to climb up and look over. Dean Graulich really did have a garden. It looked like some kind of paradise and we were shocked. There were plum trees and apple trees, planter boxes with green things growing. Beautiful. No sign of the dogs in the back and the fence didn’t look that hard to get over. We threw a couple rocks and made a little noise just to see if the beasts would attack but nothing happened. It was perfectly quiet. So Ellis and I went in. The trees were laid out in rows, some of them flowering. There were drip-line hoses running throughout the planter boxes and a sprinkler working over on the other side of the yard. The place was as well organized and peaceful as any park we’d ever seen. Was Graulich really responsible for this green shady paradise? And where the fuck was he at this moment? If he caught us back there what would he do? The fear drove us on, or maybe it was Ellis. There was a path that led down into a gulley that we decided to follow but as we were passing underneath the trees, Ellis grabbed my hand and pulled me back. A huge black snake was dangling from one of the plum trees. We stopped and watched it but it didn’t move. Then we looked around and saw that all the fruit trees were full of black and brown snakes, thick things at least four feet long with heads the size of baby’s fists, coiled around branches and dangling down the trunks. I remember needing to pee, afraid that I was going to wet myself. It was some kind of biblical nightmare and I wanted out. We were backing towards the fence slowly, terrified that our short lives were about to be ended by a pair of fangs, when Ellis noticed that none of the snakes had moved. We stopped and watched. There must have been at least twenty of them. Nothing happened. They were fake. That Dean had a yard full of trees with rubber snakes somehow scared me more. What kind of sicko decorates his yard with rubber snakes? Of course now I know that he was trying to scare the birds but at the time, the whole thing seemed dark and evil and I was sure that human sacrifice was in our future if we were spotted. I was afraid that if we didn’t get over that fence immediately, I might start to cry, so I turned to run but Ellis stopped me. She didn’t find it frightening at all. In fact, she thought it was funny and wanted to see what else he had back there. She grabbed my arm and pulled me along, said she was going to steal one of the snakes. She was laughing, I remember that.

  The path through the trees went down a hillside that eventually ended in a gulley where a little stream ran during the rains. We passed through a gate and the trail got narrower then led into the dense shrubs. Again I was frightened but Ellis insisted we were completely safe now since technically we were out of Graulich’s yard. We crouched down and crawled through a narrow tunnel of manzanita for about fifty yards and then the whole world opened up. The underbrush had been cleared but the canopy was intact for shade and privacy, and planted here was the true garden. It was like a natural greenhouse filled with over 100 marijuana plants. And they were big, at least six feet tall, all green and skunky with thick, sticky dense buds coming off every branch. Those leaves looked exactly like the ones we’d been drawing on our notebooks and for some reason that delighted us. It seemed like some kind of proof. “Are you there god? Can you show me a sign?”

  We stole a couple of buds, dried them out and smoked them. It took a few tries to get high, it usually does, but once we’d figur
ed out how the whole thing worked, we were hooked—potheads for life.

  After that, I started snooping around the mountains and it turned out lots of people were growing marijuana, small, personal grow-sites that easily flew under the radar. Sometimes there’d be thirty plants, sometimes just two or three. I was careful, only took a little, maybe just a bud, from each garden. I was respectful and was never caught but I got enough weed to keep my friends and myself stoned all the way through high school. Plus I made a nice chunk of change. And during those formative years, I developed the finely honed skills that have allowed me to be such a success in my current occupation.

  POOR FRANK

  FRANK STRAPPED HIS BOARD TO THE ROOF OF HIS BMW then opened the trunk, took out the beige shower mat and laid it on the dirt parking lot. Ellis always made fun of him for bringing the mat but he didn’t like getting his feet muddy. He sat on the bumper and carefully removed his booties, stripped off his wetsuit, then stepped onto the mat, careful to avoid the dirt. He wore a small pair of black Speedos, another thing that Ellis made fun of, but he couldn’t very well stand there naked. He grabbed the gallon jug of hot water and poured it over his head and body. He would drive home and take a proper shower but Frank didn’t like the feeling of salt on his skin, it made him itchy.

  Ellis was still out there, riding wave after wave, laughing with that pack of assholes. She surfed as well as anyone in the water, a fact that both thrilled and intimidated Frank. She was so damn independent, more like a guy really, except for the fact that she was absolutely beautiful and the most amazing lover Frank ever had. He felt himself stir as he thought about her body, the way she kissed him.

  He dried himself then pulled on a sweatshirt embroidered with the words The Oaks Country Club (one of several he’d won at various golf tournaments), wrapped the towel around his waist, pulled on his Ugg boots, shook out the mat, carefully rolled it and put it in a trash bag so it wouldn’t mess up his trunk, then climbed in the driver’s seat. He kept thinking, hoping, that Ellis would get out of the water. She’d totally ignored him when they were out there but she usually did. He watched her take another wave. She surfed with that same aggressiveness that guys had and he’d never seen a woman ride a wave so confidently. She kicked out and paddled back to the peak. It was obvious that Ellis wasn’t coming back.

  Frank started the engine and pulled out into traffic. It bothered him, when he let himself admit it, that Ellis wasn’t interested in his personal life. Hell, she wasn’t interested in anything he did. She never asked him a single question about the vineyard, never showed the least bit of curiosity about the wine he brought her. As far as he knew, Ellis didn’t even know what he did. Their conversations centered on her: her life, her past, her future. Frank would ply her with questions and sit, mesmerized, by her outrageous answers. Now, as he stopped at a red light, it occurred to him that Ellis’ answers were maybe just part of some elaborate show. Who the hell was she really anyway? Was she putting him on?

  His cell phone rang and he reached for it as the light turned red.

  “Honey, are you on your way back?” Janice’s voice was sweet, happy. He smiled. His wife was always in a good mood.

  “Just leaving.” Frank cleared his throat and hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold. A young guy in a black convertible Porsche pulled up next to him, probably some movie executive. The guy took a big pull on his cigar and blew the smoke in Frank’s direction. “Janice, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Hang on honey, Sage wants to talk. Here baby, talk to daddy.”

  “Daddy?” Sage was two and had just barely gotten the hang of talking on the phone. “Did you have a good surfing?”

  The Porsche guy revved his engine and smiled at Frank. Not a smile of friendliness, but one of smug superiority.

  “Yeah, good surfing.” Frank switched the car from automatic to manual and dropped it into low gear. He’d show that guy. “Bye, bye Sage.”

  “Wait Daddy. Bean wants to say hi.”

  “Doggies can’t talk honey.”

  Frank hung up just as the light turned green. The motherfucker in the Porsche popped the clutch and sped out in front. Frank gripped the steering wheel tightly and pushed his foot to the floor in a moment of surprising rage. His car shot forward like a rocket ship. He’d show that fuck-face bastard. Hairless punk. With each second, Frank gained momentum and he thought for sure he could catch that Porsche as long as they didn’t run into any traffic. But then reality hit. What the hell was he doing, racing some dickless asshole in a Porsche? What if there was a cop around? That’s all he’d need, a ticket for reckless driving. Or what if there was an accident? Frank backed off as the guy sped away. Good riddance, dickwad. May you stumble into a speed trap and die.

  Frank turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and wound his way up the hill towards the vineyard. Janice would have a nice coffee waiting for him. She’d have the kids up and dressed, the dogs fed and the household help all organized. It wasn’t even 8:30 but Janice was amazingly efficient, and cheerful, always so damn cheerful. She was the perfect wife and mother to his children.

  WHO IS JANICE?

  JANICE STOOD IN THE CORNER OF THE LIVING ROOM AND looked out the arched window. Her buzz was wearing off and if she wanted to get high again, she’d better do it soon. She sighed and let her eyes wander over the property. They had fifteen acres. Pretty much all the land she could see in this direction belonged to her and Frank and beyond that it was state land and designated wilderness. Row upon row of staked vines covered the hillsides. On one side (the east?) grew Frank’s chardonnay grapes, the other pinot noir. Janice couldn’t tell you which was which and frankly she didn’t care. The vineyard was Frank’s deal, his dream. It all made him so damn happy, gave him a grand sense of importance. Frank finally had the identity he wanted, but it left Janice cold.

  Before this, they’d lived in a beautiful house in town, two blocks away from her parents. Georgian revival, very traditional, with a normal backyard, a swimming pool, tennis court, separate maid’s quarters, and a swing-set for the kids. That had been Janice’s dream house. It was walking distance from a park and the elementary school. They’d had neighbors whom she liked, kids to play with right down the street. There were great restaurants and shops in the area and she jogged with a group of women every morning; the gym was nearby. It had been a perfect life. But apparently it wasn’t what Frank had in mind. Life in the city was killing him, he announced one day. And so now her family sat perched on this mountain, at the top of a ? mile driveway, isolated from friends by a good hour drive. She was supposed to play the role of landed gentry, with only the staff for company, and be thankful for her good fortune. The kids had to commute almost an hour to an inferior school. Play-dates were a real pain in the ass because everyone lived so damn far away. Janice felt like she spent her life in the car driving them here and there. The kids were often tired and cranky. She was lonely. But Frank was happy. That’s all that mattered. Frank got what he wanted.

  Unbeknownst to Janice, Frank had always had this master plan. In fact, he’d befriended the former owner of this house a couple of years before the place went on the market. Frank had quietly studied the art of the grape and worked hard to learn everything there was to know about the different varietals and what grew best in the area. He’d been plotting for years and never bothered to let her in on the secret, never asked for her opinion.

  When Frank’s father died, he made his move with such swiftness it took her breath away. Janice suddenly realized that her husband had spent most of his adult life biding his time, running the family business, waiting for his father to go, so he could sell everything, grab up his inheritance and re-invent himself. She liked the old Frank Joseph Bane III. The good, obedient son, great husband, loving father. The one who was happy to live in the general neighborhood where they both grew up, socialize with the people they’d known all their lives, take three or four really good vacations a year, play golf and tennis at the club
. It was the life she’d been raised for, the place she felt comfortable and she assumed that her husband felt the same way. He never gave a hint that there was another man lurking in the shadows, waiting for his chance to grab the reins. She thought she was marrying someone like her father, she thought the direction of their lives was set, but one day she woke up in bed next to Robert Mondavi and her life was changed forever.

  Janice loaded her little glass pipe with a big hit of Pablo’s Blueberry Madness. Frank would be home any second from surfing and she needed to prepare herself. She stepped out onto the terrace, lit the bowl, and sucked in the skunky smoke. This was a mellow weed. She thought of it as her “daytime” pot and liked how it energized her, made her feel giggly even when there was nothing to laugh about.

  One of the gardeners was working down below, re-tying some of the vines. He looked up and she waved. Was that Juan? Aldo? God, she had to make an effort to learn these people’s names. What was happening to her? She’d always been so good with help. She took another pull on the pipe and felt the warm-water relaxation seep into her arms and legs. Way down at the bottom of the property the gate swung open and Frank’s car pulled in. Janice walked over to the potted gardenia bush and knocked the ash from the pipe. He didn’t like her to smoke, especially in the mornings. It wasn’t at all in keeping with the image he held of his loving wife. What Frank didn’t know was that Janice spent 90% of her waking life stoned. She’d enjoyed the occasional joint since high school but after moving into this new house, and experimenting with several drugs, she found that marijuana, around the clock, really controlled those sharp edges. Pot kept the beast in the cage. At this point, she couldn’t even remember what it was like to walk around without a buzz but she didn’t really care. Yeah, this was how she liked to start her day. If she could keep a low level of Blueberry Madness running through her brain, this life looked a whole lot better.