Criminal
is a relative term. The rapist does more harm than the mugger; the kidnapper is more deplorable than the shoplifter. Embezzlement swipes a nugget from the many; petty theft, a pittance from the few. Some criminals harm only themselves; some, through acts of civil disobedience, arguably do less harm than good. But you are no John Brown, and this isn’t Harper’s Ferry. It’s Mendocino, California and you are a drug dealer.
Capitalism and prohibition have combined forces to make a common weed more valuable than gold. Music, media, and the allure of taboo have made it more popular than Coca-Cola. Kesey, Hoffman, and the generation that joined them created a nationwide counter-culture so turned on to the stuff that they use it as currency. The climate is perfect. You don’t even need a Capone-style cartel to protect your interests: just some loyal friends, an honest face, and a budget for bribes. Though you are technically a criminal, you’re really just a shrewd businessman who’s not afraid of risk. At least that’s what you keep telling yourself as you negotiate forested hairpins, climbing into the coastal range on your way to the meeting.
For decades, ever since DEA helicopters forced operations indoors, the major producers of northern California have worked together in a loosely confederated alliance. Territories and claims have been negotiated, blacklisted middlemen and undercover watch-lists shared. The game has been kept peaceful despite the high stakes. These people are more like your family than competitors. Your rare meetings are usually jovial but there are a few rules. Three to be exact: don’t snitch, don’t rip another heavy’s crop, and never, ever deal with the mafia. Simple, right? Apparently not.
You wind it out in second to top the last hill. Through the cloak of close-knit trees and morning fog, the ivied walls are almost invisible. The gate is plain; there’s no fancy electronic security lock, it simply opens as you approach, as if by intuition. You trundle in and through a typical vineyard, past trellised grapes and the long veranda of the manor, around back to where several other expensive cars are parked in a wide gravel cul-de-sac. Behind them are a cluster of prefab warehouses connected by wires and CO
2 lines to a central hub. It’s all very high-tech compared to the rest of the place. The hum of the transformer is an eerie drone behind birdsong. The front door of the nearest warehouse stands open. After parking, you stroll in.
There’s no crop, just empty hydro trays in rows like library shelves. The entryway is clear and large enough to comfortably contain a boardroom-sized table. Around it, in the long shadows of the open bay, sit several of your peers. A few more are at the sidebar, helping themselves to coffee and bagels. Despite the tension, you chuckle. Greetings are exchanged. Pleasant, if guarded, conversations begin. Slowly the stragglers shuffle in and, once most of the eighteen seats are accounted for, the host pushes a button to close the bay door. Its mechanical groan silences the crowd as its descent shuts out the sun. When it finally crashes down on the pavement, its baritone thud echoes in the hollow chamber like a funeral knell. Florescent lamps flicker above your heads.
“I think we all know why we’re here,” one of you says.
“Yeah, Berkley man,” another adds. “Who the hell takes five?”
“Exactly. Nobody takes five.”
Piecemeal around bites of bagel and the morning toke, the story comes out. It started with the bust. Two days ago, the California Highway Patrol stopped and searched a U-Haul truck containing three-hundred kilos of domestic crop southbound on I-5. No local smuggler in his right mind would choose that route. There’s no market south of the Grand Canyon, and the safest route to the lucrative Midwest is to the north. Unless he was driving through a handful of zero-tolerance border states for the thrill of it, the runner and his cargo were bound for the Mexican market. Lucrative calls were made across the blue-line: the leads also suggested mafia involvement. Two trusted and capable men, Jimmy and Willow, were sent to follow up. Last night, Willow phoned in a report: mafia confirmed, Mexican this time. He was frantic and panting, raving about Jimmy being shot. Then, before his pursuer was identified, he was interrupted by a burst of gunfire. Which is why you’re all sipping coffee at the vineyard this morning instead of tending to your harvests.
At least one of you has been doing business with the Mexican mafia. Judging by the size of the bust, it’s more than one. Now, already, the feds have a potential snitch in their hands. Now, already, some of your best friends are dead. It was the same way with the Sicilians in ’84 and it’s only going to get worse. The time has come to end this war before it begins: figure out who’s gone rogue and get rid of them for good.
“No use rehashing a story we all heard,” one of you says once the facts are clear. “Let’s get this over with…”
