Denis Johnson - Already Dead - A California Gothic

“I guess you know what kind of sinner I am.”

“Now, wait a minute, Clarence. I don’t know what kind of sinner you are. How could I know? It’s between you and your conscience. All I can say is — and I’m not supposed to, they told us in the semi-Already Dead / 359

nary not to act surprised — but I was surprised to see you coming up the walk. Well.” He smiled, lifted his hands. “It’s God’s world. Anything can happen.”

“You deal with sinners of my type.”

The Reverend nodded and shrugged, both smiling and attempting to smile.

Meadows added nothing.

“Did you say you’d like some tea?” the Reverend asked, and stood up.

Clarence shook his head. The Reverend sat back down.

“With all types,” the Reverend said, proceeding with a studious frown. “Nobody is so lost, so… lost —”

“With my particular type.”

“Well—” The Reverend stopped and thought about this. “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you don’t.”

Meadows added no more. The Reverend seemed to accept this silence as significant. He joined his fingertips together across his belly and then lifted them to probe gently at his double chins. He had delicate hands and a very white face and thick red lips and was, to Clarence’s eye, a man created very much in the image of his childhood, a good boy, a pudgy boy. “I don’t like that kind of rumor floating around.” Clarence leaned forward. He couldn’t read the whole inscription tooled into the Reverend’s belt, but he saw enough to understand that it said, THEY CAN HAVE MY GUN WHEN THEY PRY IT FROM MY COLD

DEAD FINGERS.

The Reverend said, “Is it floating around?”

“Not around here. But I know Herman Hayes in Long Beach.”

“Oh, shit.”

“And this guy, Tony, I can’t remember his last name, dude used to roadie for the Byrds. He seems to know you. Some of those guys down there.”

Connor drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and blew out a long breath. “Well, we have these mutual acquaintances. Maybe you’d better come right to the point.”

“It’s kind of a salvage opportunity.”

“That’s what we’re here for.” The Reverend laughed and immediately looked worried again. “This isn’t about a loan. Because I really—” 360 / Denis Johnson

“No sir.”

“I just can’t. That’s absolutely out.”

“I’ve got seven pounds of female tops picked too early. They’re going cheap.”

Connor raised his eyebrows and relaxed. “Well, cheap had better be damned cheap.”

“Ten even.”

“What are my people going to want with trash?”

“You dry it till it’s crisp and powder it up real fine in a blender. Bind it in little wafers, like two by three inches in size.”

“Bind it?”

“Bind it with a little varnish. Call it kief. Little green squares about a half inch thick.”

“And what is the return?”

“Retail? Seventy per unit, minimum. You’ll get four gross out of the plants. They’ll bring ninety apiece if you just don’t push. Exotic invent-ory. Just say, ‘Oh, incidentally,’ to your more sophisticated customers.”

“Varnish.”

“Or whatever works.”

“But varnish works, you’re saying.”

“If you want to move it, ask five grand per gross. It’s off your hands, and you double your outlay.”

“And if somebody comes back about, well…varnish.”

“If they do — tut tut. Those fucking Arabs. They actually do bind hash with varnish anyhow. Some of it.”

Connor hitched forward and half stood and looked out the living room window toward the church. “I’m wondering now about your vehicle.”

“Down by the Safeway. I came up the hill.”

“We’re unobserved.”

“I’m not a fuck-up. Check with Long Beach.”

“And why me?”

“Because you can move. You can talk to the bank if you have to. The thing is,” Clarence said, and he leaned forward now, aware that he was pushing, “it’s the fire. The plants are up, and I’ve got no home for them.

Now’s the time.”

“A victim of the drought?”

“I was in the wrong place. Let’s say this: You take the night to think Already Dead / 361

about it. Check with the folks in Long Beach. They’ll tell you I only make bargains to the benefit of both parties.”

“Have you actually ever cooked up this kief yourself?”

“I’ve seen it done. A buddy of mine in the service, in the navy, and this was light-years back. He got home from Lebanon totally empty after making some serious promises, so he came up with this inspiration, these wafer things. Everybody went away happy.”

“Surely. But. Clarence…” Connor waved a hand and shook his head.

He sat back in his easy chair and looked Meadows up and down, long and carefully, in a plain attempt to make him uneasy.

So close to the sea Meadows wore an open flannel shirt over his tank top. He raised the undergarment to his neck by its hem and bared his middle and also, evidently to the surprise of the Reverend, unzipped his fly. “No wires, no mikes. Nobody’s hot, I’m not up a tree. And we’re structured here so it would constitute entrapment anyhow.”

“I’m not interested in legal constructions. The first time somebody narks me even to the neighbors, there goes my program. No, no, no,” the Reverend said — and now, by a certain shift in the Reverend’s manner, Clarence felt his instincts in coming here exonerated—“this is really unorthodox. The way you’ve arranged this, I can’t help but feel intimidated. I think maybe it’s completely unacceptable.”

“I guess I’m giving you a jolt,” Clarence agreed as he rearranged his clothing, “but I’m forced to improvise.”

“I’d expect you to offer some adjustment in the price, considering the nuisance of it all.”

“I’ve adjusted the price already. It’s killer shit. The only problem is the bitter taste. So you change the packaging and make that a selling point.”

“At the very least, it’s a form of harassment.”

“No way. If you pass, I was never here.”

“I pass.”

“Why not have a look? You can always pass later.”

“I pass.”

“Eight-five.”

“Pass.”

Clarence stood up. “I can’t go lower. I’ll take the hill back down.

Don’t sweat it, I was never here.”

The minister didn’t rise. He waved a hand between them, whisking 362 / Denis Johnson

away any shreds of unpleasantness from this encounter. “In that case, I’ll take a look. Eight-five is good. I just wanted to know where you were coming from.”

“Good enough.”

“We’ll see,” Connor promised, “we’ll see if we can’t get you straightened out in some manner. I’d like to help.”

“Check with Long Beach.”

“I’ll make some calls. If Herman likes you, I like you.”

“He’ll put you at ease.”

“If it’s primo, we’re on. If not, no hard feelings?”

“Not a one. It’s your call.”

“Yes, Clarence, it is.”

“I’ll give you a few hours in the morning to get the lay of things and do what you need to do. I’ll turn up after lunch. You expect to be around?”

“Of course.” The Reverend Connor nodded. “Here is where we do our work.”

Late that afternoon Clarence made a crest on Shipwreck that opened onto the distant east and watched a modified DC-3 floating above the fire. As it banked away and vectored low over the hills of smoke, too far off for the sound of the engine to reach him, an orange spoor of chemical retardant exploded from its belly. In the next instant he was forced to run the Scout’s tin hide against the rocky road-bank as a pickup came at him too fast around a curve and they entered each other’s dust clouds. A black Silverado with a camper shell.