Stone Junction

Daniel felt relieved, then irked. ‘Jesus, you might have said something. I’ve had some bad experiences with helicopters – they make me jumpy.’

‘Like turpentine on a sanded asshole, I’d say,’ Mott said.

‘So why is Lucille coming in on a helicopter?’

‘She isn’t. Lucille is the helicopter.’

‘Right. That makes as much sense as anything. And I suppose she’s bringing in your daily drug supply.’

‘You’re close, Dan. But it’s the weekly drug delivery and pickup. Pilot’s name is Low- Riding Eddie. He’s pretty good people for a flatlander, but I wouldn’t bad-mouth Lucille or you might find yourself in a knife fight.’

The helicopter roared in above the treetops, banked sharply, circled once, then settled, its rotor-wash flattening the grass. It was an old Sikorsky, Korean War surplus, but it had been altered dramatically. The body was chopped and channeled, all visible metal chromed, and the fuselage gleamed with hand-rubbed coats of metal-flake Midnight Blue. Ornate gold script on the rear panel spelled out Lucille. A large pair of pink foam dice dangled from a roll-bar in the cockpit.

‘That’s the Low-Rider,’ Mott said, lifting off a saddlebag. ‘Leave our beasts here and we’ll go give him a howdy.’

As they walked toward the chopper, Low-Riding Eddie clambered out of the cockpit with a battered suitcase in one hand, the other covering his head as he ran, crouched, from under the rotor.

On that high, Oregon mountain prairie, Daniel witnessed a sight few mortals can claim to share: A half-naked mountain man buying thirty pounds of Afghani hash from a thin, sallow-faced youth dressed in the highest late- fifties fashion cool: scuffed white bucks, black chinos held up by a skinny belt so pink it probably glowed in the dark, and a scarlet silk shirt, the back of the collar rolled up to the well-pomaded point of Eddie’s DA ’do.

Mott and Daniel met him at the tree line.

‘New cat in the band?’ Eddie asked Mott, indicating Daniel with an almost imperceptible shift of his sullen brown eyes.

‘This here’s Daniel the Nooky Spaniel, gets more ass than a toilet seat in a sorority house. Sent him here to learn a useful trade and eat some o’my chili to grow back what he’s wore off his pecker.’

Eddie nodded, regarding Daniel under hooded eyes.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Daniel said. ‘And it’s a real joy to behold that beautiful machine you’re flying. She’s a work of art.’

‘I busted a knuckle or two,’ Eddie replied with a studied indifference. ‘She’ll turn two and a half in calm air. Blow the fucking doors off any chop the sky fuzz can put up, that’s for sure.’

‘That must be comforting,’ Daniel said.

‘Fuckin’ A,’ Eddie mumbled. ‘Peace of mind’s almost as good as a piece of tail.’

‘Low-Rider, goddammit, don’t remind me,’ Mott said. ‘I’m so horny I could fuck the crack o’ dawn.’

Eddie said, ‘Just so you don’t go fucking with Lucille.’

‘Naw,’ Mott assured him, ‘the only machines I like are guns.’

‘Man, you got to cut back on the drug abuse – your eyes look like … what do you call them fuckers anyway?’

‘Pinwheels?’ Daniel offered.

Eddie snapped his fingers. ‘That’s the one. Can’t tell if they’re whirling in or whirling out.’

‘I know,’ Mott sighed. ‘But unless I can get Dan here to pull some weight, I’m stuck with all the product evaluation. It’s a tremendous responsibility, but I’m built for the load, if you get my drift. If you’re interested, just happen to have a joint in my pocket off ’n a plant I grew myself and high-graded into stash. Cross between some Trinity Trainwreck and Humboldt Polio. Get ya so high your nose’ll bleed.’

‘Thanks anyway, man, but I can’t fly two planes at the same time, and I don’t have the time to start with. They added a drop in Cave Junction. Let’s jump on business. I gotta split soon.’

‘So whatta we got?’

Eddie lifted the suitcase. ‘Black ’Ghani, gold-stamped bars from the heart of the Hindu Kush. Last big load out before the Russians. Twenty pounds.’

‘Tell me in money.’ Mott reached into his shirt. Daniel, recalling the knife he’d produced from his boot, tensed.

‘Sixteen of the big ones.’

Daniel relaxed when Mott produced a large elkskin pouch.

‘Sixteen?’ Mott repeated with a touch of doubt. ‘That seems awful cheap.’

‘Don’t rumble it with me, man; I’m on salary.’

Mott took a huge roll of hundred-dollar-bills from the pouch and started counting. ‘I could turn it for twelve a pound and have ’em lined up at my door.’

‘We got a good buy, and you know the rule: Can’t tack on more than a hundred a pound if the Alliance fronts it.’

Mott grunted and kept counting.

‘Why that rule?’ Daniel said to Low-Riding Eddie.