weren’t adequately divided. She was supposed to harvest quadrant four, but most of quad three had slid into reproduction, which meant the plants needed darkness. Even a kid’s night-light could ruin them. She studied the gray speckles on the harvest buds. Mold? Even worse, gnats! It was too late. A cloud of them drifted in her direction. She gasped, inhaling the tiny bugs, fanning her Expos hat and backpedaling until she bumped into the concrete wall. Once they scattered, she rubbed her face, coughed and blew her nose. When she risked opening her eyes again she saw a dozen greenhouse whiteflies, then dozensmore. She fanned another gnat cloud while snipping and bagging buds as fast as she could.
Was this the double or nothing she’d been craving—this chance to rise above the oncoming rut of credit cards, mortgages and meaningless jobs? And do what? Travel! Yes, travel. Maybe she’d start in Indonesia—Bali!—and then crew on some exotic schooner headed even farther south. Sydney, then what? The exhilarating unknown. That’s what. But the only daydream she could sustain in this hot, buggy hole involved prison.
She’d received only two U.S. hundreds—real convenient—for her prior six visits. Today, Fisher promised, she’d be paid in full, including her cut of the successful run the night Brandon’s call rescued her from the foot freak.
Her intuition kept screaming at her to climb out. Now! But she was still furiously clipping and bagging buds, fending off real and imagined insects, when the ducks fired up again, first in random solos, then in riotous quacking unison. Shit! She turned up the baby monitor and panted until she heard Fisher’s familiar mumble into the microphone stashed behind the bicycles: “Jus’ me, Madness.”
He had a nickname for everyone, and apparently there was nothing you could do about it. But he was easy to like, and while he didn’t look like the sort you went into business with, he wasn’t the type you worried about either. When she climbed up, he appeared to be staggering from some joke. Lizard-thin in expensive jeans and green fleece, he had a smoked, wrung-out look, his skin as dry as jerky. What startled her was that he wasn’t alone.
She’d made it clear she didn’t want to meet anyone, which of course was another part of the deal that had already been broken, although he’d apologized so profusely about sending Monty to her nursery that she’d asked him to drop it.
“Who the hell’s this?” she said, not caring how it sounded, twitchy from her fingertips to her lips, heart hammering, jaw wiggling, ready to shout.
“Easy, Madeline. This is Toby. And this is …” He laughed awkwardly. “Well, this is his show.”
Toby bowed slightly with the confidence of a senator in his gray T-shirt, corduroy shorts and sockless slip-ons. He wasn’t all that large, but brawny, with neck muscles that angled up like rebar, and his bright, deep-set eyes looked as if they’d been screwed in too tight.
“If it is,” Madeline snapped, “your show sucks big-time.”
Fisher patted the air in front of him until Toby held up a palm as if testifying. “Thanks for all your work. Really. You are very good. And yes, this one has a ways to go.”
She ignored his calming, pilotlike tenor and unloaded on Fisher. “You got fucking gnats down there like I said you would. And you’ve got too many plants on too many schedules and the whole thing’s way too hot. And, if you haven’t noticed, you’ve already waited too long on replanting half of—”
Fisher shushed her. “That’s one of the reasons—”
“She’s right,” Toby said before Fisher could finish or she could reload, “on all counts.” He handed her a tiny tube of aloe vera. “It’s new. Keep it.”
She opened it, dabbed some on her face and slid it into her jeans without thanking him. “You’ve got whiteflies down there too.”
Fisher wondered aloud which pesticide would do the trick.
“Can’t use
Was this the double or nothing she’d been craving—this chance to rise above the oncoming rut of credit cards, mortgages and meaningless jobs? And do what? Travel! Yes, travel. Maybe she’d start in Indonesia—Bali!—and then crew on some exotic schooner headed even farther south. Sydney, then what? The exhilarating unknown. That’s what. But the only daydream she could sustain in this hot, buggy hole involved prison.
She’d received only two U.S. hundreds—real convenient—for her prior six visits. Today, Fisher promised, she’d be paid in full, including her cut of the successful run the night Brandon’s call rescued her from the foot freak.
Her intuition kept screaming at her to climb out. Now! But she was still furiously clipping and bagging buds, fending off real and imagined insects, when the ducks fired up again, first in random solos, then in riotous quacking unison. Shit! She turned up the baby monitor and panted until she heard Fisher’s familiar mumble into the microphone stashed behind the bicycles: “Jus’ me, Madness.”
He had a nickname for everyone, and apparently there was nothing you could do about it. But he was easy to like, and while he didn’t look like the sort you went into business with, he wasn’t the type you worried about either. When she climbed up, he appeared to be staggering from some joke. Lizard-thin in expensive jeans and green fleece, he had a smoked, wrung-out look, his skin as dry as jerky. What startled her was that he wasn’t alone.
She’d made it clear she didn’t want to meet anyone, which of course was another part of the deal that had already been broken, although he’d apologized so profusely about sending Monty to her nursery that she’d asked him to drop it.
“Who the hell’s this?” she said, not caring how it sounded, twitchy from her fingertips to her lips, heart hammering, jaw wiggling, ready to shout.
“Easy, Madeline. This is Toby. And this is …” He laughed awkwardly. “Well, this is his show.”
Toby bowed slightly with the confidence of a senator in his gray T-shirt, corduroy shorts and sockless slip-ons. He wasn’t all that large, but brawny, with neck muscles that angled up like rebar, and his bright, deep-set eyes looked as if they’d been screwed in too tight.
“If it is,” Madeline snapped, “your show sucks big-time.”
Fisher patted the air in front of him until Toby held up a palm as if testifying. “Thanks for all your work. Really. You are very good. And yes, this one has a ways to go.”
She ignored his calming, pilotlike tenor and unloaded on Fisher. “You got fucking gnats down there like I said you would. And you’ve got too many plants on too many schedules and the whole thing’s way too hot. And, if you haven’t noticed, you’ve already waited too long on replanting half of—”
Fisher shushed her. “That’s one of the reasons—”
“She’s right,” Toby said before Fisher could finish or she could reload, “on all counts.” He handed her a tiny tube of aloe vera. “It’s new. Keep it.”
She opened it, dabbed some on her face and slid it into her jeans without thanking him. “You’ve got whiteflies down there too.”
Fisher wondered aloud which pesticide would do the trick.
“Can’t use
Similar Books
