

1CALIFORNIA GRASS

By

Sean Drake

©2017, All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER ONE

Marin County, California, December, 1971

Until Andrea met Cy she had no ambition or aspiration to become a drug dealer. But, she had and was.

Now, they waited for a call the marijuana was ready to be picked up. The smugglers needed bad weather to use Bodega harbor and it had been raining all day.

Through a seldom washed downhill window she gazed over a hazy scene. Mist hovered just above the valley floor she overlooked. Nearby towering redwoods were just visible in the fading light.

Two weeks of summer like weather, although Christmas was next week, had made this a long wait, especially since the September through May marijuana flow had, for no apparent reason, been interrupted. A severe 'drought' had ensued.

Once off the boat, it would take over an hour to transport the grass to Lagunitas, in San Geronimo Valley, about twenty miles north of Mill Valley.

$4,000 would buy ten kilos. Weight would be lost, maybe as much as 10%, when the keys were unwrapped, pulled apart and dried in large garbage bags. Even so, because of the recent 'drought', they'd make several thou.

Sometimes several lids were sold but rarely more than a gram of coke. Yet, their cocaine business was really taking off. The drug's increasing popularity was challenging because they hadn't yet found a reliable supplier.

A downpour made the window she was looking through into a mirror. It reflected the mellow room she'd first seen just before Halloween.

At the Trident, a hip Sausalito restaurant, with her roommate, Charlette and Charlette's boyfriend, Rick, she'd noticed an interesting looking guy at the bar watching the young, attractive waitress on her way to their table.

When eyes met, she looked away.

His sauntering toward their table made her uncomfortable. An attempted pick-up didn't seem appropriate at this celebration for Rick's first solo album.

"Hey, Rick," the man greeted.

"Hey, Cy. Join us."

Rick's friend took the remaining chair.

The good-looking, mid-twenties man was introduced as Marin's 'primo dealer'.

When the busty, see-through blouse clad waitress came back with their drinks, she was much friendlier and stood where the handsome new-comer had the best view.

Cy ordered champagne. By the time the bottle was empty, straights began arriving. The Trident was both a dealer hangout and a tourist attraction. Dealers favored lunch and tourists usually came for dinner but hours overlapped. Farmers from Iowa might be sitting next to a table of outrageously dressed hash dealers. But all was cool.

Since Cy joined, it had been extra nice. Andrea was instantly attracted to this confident, well-built man.

His questions about Rick's new affluence were sensitive and intelligent.

It was late afternoon when they left the Trident. Although rain had threatened earlier, it was now sunny.

While parking attendants retrieved their cars, Cy invited the celebrants to come to his house to try his new sauna.

Andrea rode with him. Rick and Charlette followed.

The two cars headed up Mt. Tamalpais and after a couple miles turned onto a street that wasn't paved for long. At several forks in the narrow, bumpy road, the uphill was always taken. Deep into the woods, under towering Douglas firs and redwoods, they pulled into a parking space created by an eight foot high timber retaining wall.

At the foot of a trail heading up the hill, Cy pulled a bush concealing a small wood box aside. "At night there's a flashlight here. That is, if I didn't get too stoned and forget", he said. His guests laughed. "Hate to tell you. It's a mother climb."

The single track meandered. Finally, they reached Cy's rustic cabin. Houses could be seen across the valley but on this side no other was visible. The road they had come on, had disappeared. Late afternoon sun cast a shadow across the deck but where they stood was still bright. Mt. Tamalpais' ridge, the silhouette of a long haired reclining woman, confirmed the indigenous peoples' appellation - Sleeping Lady.

Opening the door of a new, shingled shed, their host bid, "Have a look."

'Nifty', thought Andrea, peering in.

Cy threw a switch, "Takes a while to heat up. Let's get mellow."

They crossed the deck and, after Cy unlocked two deadbolts, entered a clean, charming kitchen. The old style refer had a round compressor on top. The four burner gas cook top invited real cooking. Two ice cream parlor chairs sat at a small round table beneath a paned corner window overlooking a wooded mountain vista.

The business room was next, used for storing, measuring and packaging. To Andrea, whose pot dealer had gone into another room to retrieve a lid from a secret stash, Cy's audacious operation was quite impressive.

His living room/bedroom, a couple steps down, was modern, a recent addition. A rustic stone fireplace dominated the far wall. To the right, four tall, floor-to-ceiling windows formed a wide 'W'. The view of Mount Tam, lushly forested with a few large rock outcroppings, was spectacular. The ceiling was high at the windows and sloped down. A queen sized waterbed, framed by 2x8's, and a half dozen large pillows, were the only furnishing. All sat on orange shag carpeting.

Cy went into his business room and returned with a small tray of manicured grass. While Andrea rolled, he made a fire, using tightly wadded newspaper as kindling.

The joint Andrea had created was lit with a twig ignited by the rising flames.

After pulling a couple hits, the host went back into his drug room and returned with a mound of white powder on a black marble square. Chopping and sifting created glistening lines. Offered to Andrea first, she mustered the coordination to push her longhair aside, close a nostril with a finger and exhale before bending over to snort.

Little was said. It was experiential – four very stoned people.

The sauna only held two. Rick and Charlette went first.

Being passed a long roach broke Andrea's reverie with the fire.

In a while, the sound of the door opening was followed by their friends, wrapped in towels, glowing and babbling how great it had been.

Another joint was lit. As it circulated, Cy straightened the remaining lines. After all but Cy had snorted, she held the slab for him.

Walking into the kitchen, knowing they, who had only just met a few hours ago, were going to get naked caused a flutter but she reminded herself things were different here, in Marin County, California and unbuttoned her long dress.

Undressing was easy. As bras had previously been abandoned, panties had recently been forsook. So, gown off, she stood nude.

Cy, wearing many garments, took longer.

Carrying towels, they darted across the deck.

Inside the hot cedar sauna, on a wide shelf, reclining against a side, she appreciated his touches, a dim amber light and great speakers. Preceding a hot blast, rocks hissed when sprinkled. Dry heat enveloped. Bodies glistened.

This man and his scene were more and more appealing.

After they had thoroughly baked, Cy asked, "Enough?"

"Guess so. Far out, putting this in."

"I'd just made a big pop, drove by this sauna place, by Gate 6," remembering her recent arrival, "by the houseboats in Sausalito, went in and bought one. The guys who delivered it really moaned about bringing it down the hill from the house above. I rent from them. But, after giving them each a couple $20's they mellowed considerably."

She was still smiling at his impetuousness when they rejoined their friends.

Cy furnished more treats. Everyone spaced on the fire and the music.

Hearing 'ding dongs', she wondered if a lady had come to see Cy but the chiming stopped when he answered his red Princess phone.

After listening, he hung up, "Sorry guys, have to pick something up."

Andrea had never asked, but that call was surely like the one they awaited.

Cy's approach with the same marble slab, while she stood at the window, co-incidentally, and pleasantly, ended reminiscing. More experienced now, it wasn't neces-

sary to hold a nostril closed. After doing two lines, she said, "Let's get ready."

Jackets were laid on the kitchen counter and the cash envelope put on top.

"We're carrying four grand, then ten keys, I'm packing." He took his snub-nosed .38 revolver from a kitchen cabinet, spun the cylinder so an empty chamber was at top and stuck it in his waistband.

The phone chimed. Andrea charged from the kitchen to the living room and picked up. A male voice said, "Yes." Her watch now read 7:09.

They made it down the trail to the road quickly, using an innovation suggested by Andrea, individual flashlights.

Rain had abated but leaves and needles covered their car.

It wouldn't start. After a short wait, a second try also failed.

"Don't touch the gas," she exhorted.

On the third attempt, cranking was noticeably slower.

Opening the door, Cy said, "I'll dry the plugs." She got out to hold her light. He lifted the hood, dried the plugs with his bandana and sniffed the carburetor.

"Definitely not flooded," he reported.

Trying again, the engine turned over slowly and then there was only clicking.

"Car rental closed at 6. Cab won't work. What are we going to do?", Cy asked.

Before she answered, uphill lights approached. She waved her flashlight. A Volvo station wagon stopped and a thirtyish, longhaired man rolled down his window.

"Have a problem?"

"Our battery's dead. Do you have jumpers?" she asked.

"At my house, up the road a bit. Won't take long."

"That would be great!" Andrea exclaimed.

The station wagon splashed down the pot holed, road. It was now 7:16.

Headlights soon appeared, but not the Volvo's.

A few minutes later a second car came down the hill. They held their breath, really wanting this deal. For sure, they'd make big bucks.

Assistance had arrived. Cables were attached. Their car started. It was now 7:24.

From a silver cigarette case, Andrea gave their helpful neighbor a joint.

To save time, Cy drove to the freeway, a longer, but usually faster, route. Not this evening. Under the overpass, a red stream slowly crept north.

He U-turned to get to the back road.

They were over the hill between Mill Valley and Corte Madera quickly but traffic was heavy in Larkspur and in Kentfield, a College of Marin event slowed traffic to a crawl. Through Ross, the road narrowed. Then, they just missed the light at San Anselmo's multi-street intersection. Past the Hub, the road was less crowded. Beyond Fairfax they moved. Soon, their car wound up White's Hill and then descended to a flat, straight highway. Cy bore down, but not fully; extra caution was due to a recent sharp increase in drug dealer busts after traffic stops.

They passed Woodacre, then Forest Knolls and, at about 8:10, came to the village of Lagunitas.

Rain fell again. Wiper sweeps punctuated anxiety about their lateness.

At the town's only gas station, they turned.

"On the right, look for a green van," he instructed.

A hundred yards down, she pointed, "There, in front of," about to say 'Ford Ltd', instead shouted, "Don't stop!"

Suddenly, four men jumped out from behind the smuggler's van.

Cy killed the car's lights and floored the accelerator. Only a glisten marked the road.

Seeing an intersection, Andrea yelled, "50 feet, left." Braking hard, their car skid-ded around the corner.

She turned and, seeing nothing, told Cy, "No cars, turn on your lights."

After a couple curves, the street intersected the highway.

"Right, to Jonah's," she directed. He slid through the stop and accelerated. She watched the speedometer and when it hit 65, commanded, "Hold that," and then resumed looking through the rear window.

She continued checking even after they turned into Forest Knolls and roller coastered over several small knolls.

Jonah's pickup was there, parked half-in and half-out of the garage.

"Wait. I'll go in," she said.

She gently knocked. Sounding like a bust would not be smart.

"Andrea, hi," he greeted.

"Don't ask – just give me your truck keys."

Jonah was quizzical but handed her a rabbit's foot key ring.

"We'll be right in."

She backed the truck out. Against the garage's back wall were bikes, garden tools and sports stuff. Working together, they moved it to the sides.

Seeing enough room, Cy went out and pulled their car in.

The old style garage had two large doors. Each closed one.

"Smell gas?" he asked.

Andrea sniffed and affirmed, "Yeah."

She aimed her flashlight under the bumper. The beam illuminated a purple tinged stream. "Those jerks shot at us," she indignantly exclaimed.

Cy found a right sized twig, went under the car and plugged the bullet hole.

Jonah and Asia, an exotically beautiful Chinese lady, waited at the door. Hugs were exchanged.

Jonah, also a dealer, knew their hasty arrival meant there'd been trouble.

"We're cool," Cy told him, "some people in Lagunitas got popped. We were late. Goons jumped out from behind a van when we slowed. The lights were killed but our gas tank got hit so don't light any matches in your garage. They couldn't have made our plates but going back to Mill Valley was too risky."

"You're welcome to stay here," Asia invited and added, "Jonah, get the cognac, I'm sure they could use some."

Settled in the parlor, Jonah's lady lit a fat joint and handed it to Andrea.

After a couple doobies and snifters of brandy, yawns signaled the hostess to make a bed for their guests. As the men hugged, the women did, then Jonah embraced Andrea and Cy hugged Asia.

Snuggling under the covers, Cy proposed buying another car. Andrea agreed, but, given this evening's events, she wanted to use some of their unspent 'buy' for a gun. Knowing that if they'd been on time, they'd be in jail, they fell asleep.

* * *

Who shot at them? Employees of the State of California? Working for Special Services, controlled by Governor Ronald Reagan and hiring only Republicans to sup-press illegal drugs? Or, perhaps they were employed by the older Office of Narcotics and Drug Abuse, which hired regardless of political affiliation. The Golden State was tough on drugs. Having about the same population of New York, it had twice as many prisoners. The disparity – inmates, mostly black, serving long drug sentences.

A higher authority, though, was likely involved. But, which branch of the federal government? Bureau of Customs; Border Patrol; Coast Guard; Internal Revenue Service [IRS]; Postal Inspection Service; Federal Aviation Agency [FAA]; Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms [ATF]; National Narcotic Intelligence [NNI]; Drug Abuse Law Enforcement [DALE]; Law Enforcement Assistance Administration [LEAA]; Assistant Secretary of Defense for Drug and Alcohol Abuse; the Cabinet Committee on International Narcotics Control; or the Special Action Office for Drug Abuse Prevention [SAODAP], like Reagan's Special Services, employing only children of big contributors or one of the dozens which wasn't even a budget line item. Although numerous agencies spent billions of taxpayer's money annually most in Congress didn't even know those programs existed.

If Fed, though, they were probably BNDD, the Bureau of Narcotics and Dan-gerous Drugs. The star organization, not the oldest, only three years old, created by Reorganization No. 1 of 1968, the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs was the largest, meanest and the nastiest federal drug police force.

* * *

Courtship hadn't been long. The evening after they met, Cy cooked. After dinner, while the sauna warmed, they smoked and tooted.

In the toasty chamber, the ambiance was sensual. Andrea laid on her tummy, on the wide shelf. He sat on the edge, lightly stroking her back and ass with a loofah mitten. Dry heat and sexual excitement added to their stone.

She looked up. He bent over and gently turned her.

Their kiss was sweetly intimate.

He stood, extending his hand. She took it and followed.

On the waterbed, still sweaty from the sauna, they made fulfilling love. After, he lit a fire and served brandy. While watching the flickering flames more coke was snorted. When the snifters were refilled, they copulated a second time. And then again. Her altered state glowed. So satiated!

* * *

Waking after noon, she looked forward to hanging out, making love all day long but the phone chimed and, like yesterday, something had to be picked up. When he returned, his new supply of coke led to fun and games. Screwing was marathon.

Being together - being lovers - was so right.

Andrea pondered her strong attraction while waiting at home. For three days

he 'muled' grass – his compensation, buying at half price.

When finished, an exhausted Cy called. It was, though, short.

He'd hardly slept the last two nights and had already popped a 'red'. The next afternoon, they went shopping in the City.

A new Trident style restaurant in North Beach was tried for dinner.

Over Tequila Sunrises, they discussed their future.

Cy asked her to move in. That appealed. Her roommate, Charlette, wanted to live with Rick, she was always at the rock star's house anyhow, so it would work for everyone.

He offered to pay all household expenses. Help with dealing would be appreciated but not required. Andrea, however, wanted full and equal participation. While sipping his drink he thought about sharing his business. Actually he never answered. He extended his hand. Hers clasped. Thumbs crossed.

Governed by the trade's ethics – they were partners.

* * *

Glenn Schmidt waited. A small plastic Christmas tree sat on the lamp table.

Pretending to read a magazine, he was really listening to Pamela, Matt Blane's secretary, make airline reservations. Christmas/New Years made it difficult. Finally, she pulled rank, demanding a first class passenger be bumped for the BNDD's San Francisco Regional Director.

Despite his eavesdropping diversion, Glenn was nervous. He had just worked with a new narc who, at Mr. Blane's request, shared his apartment. Contrary to his advice, the novice had fronted a dealer. There'd been five collars and ten keys of hash seized but five thou of the 'buy' was gone. Blane probably blamed him.

Pamela's phone rang and Glenn was sent in.

The double chinned bureaucrat stared at his underling, enjoying the narc's unease. Leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, he finally asked, "How's Lakewood working out?"

"Just fine, sir," Glenn lied. He knew what Blane wanted to hear.

"This last bust ... too bad about our five grand."

"Bob's new and ..."

Raising his hand to cut him off, he replied, "Happens. Still a good bust."

Blane paused, rubbing his chins, giving final consideration to an important decision. He continued, "BNDD wants you to infiltrate the Peoples Marijuana Party."

"Peoples Marijuana Party?" the narc repeated incredulously.

"Unbelievable isn't it? Some dopers want to put a proposition to legalize marijuana on the November ballot."

"They can't do that, can they?"

"BNDD legal says the Constitution guarantees them the right to try but we're still studying it. Right now, though, if it goes to Court, a Judge might hold they can. Stop by, find out what they're up to."

Handing Glenn a file sloppily stamped SECRET ended the meeting.

* * *

Entering the workroom, several former college football players, recently hired to add brawn to BNDD raiding parties, were horsing around. Anxious to get into his new assignment, Glenn went to a relatively quiet corner and read.

1

SUBVERSIVE GROUP INVESTIGATION

NAME: Peoples Marijuana Party

ADDRESS: 3248 Union St., San Francisco, CA 94115

PHONE: (415) 876-7866 NUMBER OF MEMBERS: 17 [approx.] BANK: Wells Fargo, Union St. AVG. BALANCE $280

ANALYSIS: PMP members are San Francisco mari-

juana smokers [names, addresses and employment in

Exhibit A]. 6 have arrest records: 1 incarcerated 4 yrs

in Texas, 1 for 17 mos. in Calif.

Lawrence Eaton, 28, founded and leads. Free lance

writer for alternative lifestyle magazines. Background

by FBI. [Exhibit B] Cohabits with Linda Sweargen, 27,

also active in PMP. Background by FBI. [Exhibit C]

PMP is collecting signatures of registered voters on

petition [Exhibit D] to qualify Proposition to legalize

marijuana. [Exhibit E]

FURTHER ACTION: Phone taps; clipping service; peri-

odic review of petition drive progress; policy formula-

tion re countermeasures.

REQUESTED BY: MB DATE: 12/10/71

INVESTIGATION BY: EK DATE: 12/12/71

REPORT PREPARED BY: SS DATE: 12/22/71

He read the exhibits, returned the file to an unsmiling Pamela, pulled a lid of good grass from BNDD Property and left for home.

* * *

Fog, smokelike, swirled across the Golden Gate Bridge's deck. Was his new roommate home? Working as a BNDD narc hadn't interrupted his pot smoking. Since Lakewood moved in, the place reeked.

Glenn knew that the guy, busted for selling coke, had turned to avoid jail but not that his family owned Lakewood Oil. A few days after Bob's arrest, his father had flown in on Lakewood Oil's corporate jet, claiming, typically, no time to deplane.

Fortunately, for Bob, the Regional Director had been alerted that Lakewood was the son of a big Republican contributor and intervened before Bob's San Rafael commune room had been ransacked and his drugs seized. Thus, the errant son had been able to fortify himself for his paternal encounter by smoking and snorting.

It had been trippy, stoned to the gills, sitting in the jet's soft leather seat, listening to the super pissed geezer go ballistic about 'hard drugs'.

This time, though, his inept parent did something he had never done before. He threatened. And, it was ultimate – being DISOWNED. Unwilling to forego his birthright, probably worth a couple hundred million [a lot of high times], Bob had agreed to cooperate with BNDD and, to guarantee his good behavior, move into that narc asshole Glenn Schmidt's plastic apartment in Tiburon's Cove Apartments.

Bob's primary personal motivation, however, never wavered – to prove he could make it as a drug dealer.

Cooperation with BNDD had elicited a dictated letter from his father with a $2,000 check. $1,500 had bought two ounces of coke. A sample in his pocket, he entered Mill Valley's funky 2 AM Club, as Glenn was driving across the Golden Gate.

Inside the funky bar, he spotted a fellow dealer sitting at a corner table with a very pretty lady.

"What say bro?" he greeted.

"Hey, Bob," looking at his companion, "meet my new partner, Andrea Blackwell."

He nodded and turned to Cy, "Been snowing."

"Ounce?"

"Doable."

Outside, Cy gave directions in case Bob wasn't able to follow.

* * *

Climbing the steep, rock studded trail Bob wondered why no one who had told him how mellow Cy's place was had ever mentioned you had to climb half way up Mt. Tam to get there. Near collapse, he finally joined Cy and Andrea on the deck.

In the business room, Cy scrutinized the goods for sale under a gooseneck lamp.

After the coke had been closely examined, they proceeded to the main room. There, as Andrea had, they sat on the floor, on large pillows.

Bob usually snorted before smoking but was handed an already lit joint.

He toked and passed it to Cy. Then, he dumped enough sparkling white powder for three on their marble block and, with a single edged razor, chopped and made lines.

Andrea was offered a thin, straight mound first. Then Cy and Bob each did one.

A second was tooted through their other nostril.

When Cy relit the long roach, Bob asked Cy, "Acceptable?"

To Bob's surprise Andrea answered, "Stepped on too heavy."

Having intended to ask for twelve hundred, he reduced his price, "An 'o' 'z' for a thou."

Andrea said, with finality, "Won't do."

Shrugging, she explained, "Our customers only buy top quality."

Not making a sale was disappointing but he stayed until the roach became tiny. Then, he made his way down the trail.

At his car, he decided to visit Alice, in Fairfax. She had been living in LA, married to an aerospace engineer. There, she'd met a crop duster in a bar. When the pilot moved north, to dust vineyards in the Napa Valley, she'd come with him.

They'd bought a twin-Beech which made one very lucrative trip to Guererro.

After the load was sold, her smuggling partner had split with the cash but left the aircraft. So, Alice had a plane but no money.

Wanting to import again she needed a pilot.

While looking for a flyer, screwing Bob was fun – that is, if he brought coke.

When he arrived she immediately asked, "Got blow?"

"Might," he teasingly replied.

Alice retrieved an antique silver hand mirror from the mantle.

Sitting close she snuggled against him. As he sprinkled glistening powder on her mirror, she murmured, "Oh Bob, you do know how to treat a lady".

* * *

Cy yearned to lay back in Costa Rica. Now he wanted Andrea along.

Not much had been saved, though. Income remained pretty constant, earning a few hundred dollars a week, sometimes even more than a grand, but then sometimes not very much, there being little to sell.

He'd gotten used to the risk of a possible bust but having coke around all the time took a toll. Their first fight came after a week of heavy snorting. Wanting him to sauna with her, at a commercial, to tease, she switched off the TV.

His temper outburst scared her and she went to stay with Rick and Charlette.

Realizing his gross overreaction, he persuaded her to come back to the cabin.

Forced to acknowledge coke's adverse effects, both resolved moderation.

* * *

Big money became possible in the closing minutes of '71, at Rick's producer's New Year's Eve party. Standing at a drug buffet, grass and papers on a pewter platter, coke and spoons on a silver tray and psilocybin punch in a cut-glass bowl, a good vibed, tanned man joined and introduced himself. He shook hands with both and then asked Cy, "Want to make ten 'g' in three days?"

"For sure," he responded.

Cranwood asked for their phone number. "Nothing on the phone. The day I call be at Zacks, in Sausalito, at 9."

An approaching couple ended business for the year.

* * *

Cranwood may have tried New Years Day but Cy, a football nut, had watched every game after a customer's brunch.

Andrea had smoked dope and listened to music with wives and girlfriends.

On the 2nd, around noon, the dude rang. That day, they hustled, replenishing holiday depleted stashes, but were on time for their meeting. Cranwood was already seated. A pitcher of beer and two mugs sat on the table. Andrea, obviously, had not been expected.

After a third was obtained, Cranwood filled them and raised his. All clinked.

The noise level in the bar was super loud but she leaned over and, in his ear, shouted, "We're partners." A nod acknowledged.

The rock band took a break. The juke box, while blaring, allowed conversation. "I have six keys, pure, more coming. Four take it, none from Marin but its put out here." Continuing, "Rent a private place, on a quiet street. It's only for my deal. Tell the landlord you travel a lot. An 'o' 'z' is $650. You make $50 per."

He handed Cy a 3 by 5 card with four typed names and phone numbers. "They all live in the East Bay, meet them there. They don't know each other and shouldn't."

"The 'duke-in'?" Cy asked.

"You're 'taking over John's route'. Nothing on the phone. In a few days, I'll call and ask for Bill. If you're set, got digs, made contact, say 'He's skiing'." They smiled at his snow allusion. "Show up here that evening, at 9. Get me a duplicate car key. We'll pick a supermarket near the place you rent. Every day, at 11, you go shopping. When you come out, there'll be a store bag in your car. In it there'll be a bunch of stuff, including a large box of pancake mix. That'll contain seventy packaged ounces. If more's needed put a note, pretend it's to the milkman, with the cash in the glove compartment. Your request will be added to the next delivery. Last day's just a money pick up. One more thing," he paused until both made eye contact, "Bail and legal fees are taken care of, understand?"

Both affirmed by nodding. If busted, and they didn't squeal, he'd provide assistance – a standard trade understanding and a good one to have.

CHAPTER TWO

Twenty minutes ago Dr. Saunders had told him to wait in his office.

Randall Dohrn, a malpractice attorney, neither liked doctors nor waiting for them. Finally, the physician hurriedly entered and sat behind his desk. The lawyer cynically wondered whether the bound volumes of medical journals neatly arranged behind Saunders were ever read or just put there to impress patients.

"Hard to believe you don't know."

"I'm sure you'll send a bill so I'd like your diagnosis."

"Fair enough. You have a large bleeding gastric ulcer." He paused, leaning back, "I remember when you cross examined me at Dr. Cole's trial. If those aggressive aspects of your personality continue to predominate, I predict you'll live in bad health. Eventually, that ulcer could even kill you. Radically changing your lifestyle, though, might make it shrink and eventually disappear." Looking over his glasses, Saunders asked, "How'd you cope, not being a 'go for the jugular' malpractice attorney?"

"You'd give up your practice?"

"Hope I'd be sensible."

Opening Randall's file, the doctor asked, "A fifth a week?"

"Probably closer to two. Sometimes, maybe even more."

"Drinking alcohol totally stops – no booze, no wine, no beer."

* * *

A couple of weeks before his retirement, a very worried doctor who'd once been a witness for the defense solicited Randall's professional services.

His daughter was in an Acapulco jail. A Mexican attorney had contacted him and said for $5,000 he'd get her marijuana charges dismissed. Randall was asked to go to Acapulco, retain the lawyer or, if necessary, find other local counsel.

* * *

A message to come to Hector Manuel's office awaited at his hotel.

The building was new and large. According to the suite's door the attorney who he was there to see was a partner in the firm.

The Mexican lawyer was well dressed, his hair long but neat.

He escorted Randall to a conference room and asked, "What do you know?"

"Only that she's charged with possession."

A document was extended, "The police report. Do you read Spanish?"

"No, you'll have to translate."

"Succinctly, an undercover police officer sold her a quarter kilo."

Randall's eyebrows rose.

"Ah, Mexico doesn't, unfortunately, recognize the defense of 'entrapment'. However, I can fully assure you, the prosecutor, my younger brother, will drop all charges."

Randall assessed Manuel could perform and gave him a cashier's check.

"Thank you. Shall we go see our client?"

They walked the short distance to the detention center. Its smell was revolting. The scared doctor's daughter truly appreciated their assurance she'd be out tomorrow.

Walking from the jail, into the sunshine, Hector invited his co-counsel to dinner.

Randall returned to his hotel and changed for the beach.

When it cooled, he went to his room and napped.

* * *

As Randall's taxi ascended a bayside mountain road, passing ever larger walled villas, it appeared Hector had assisted quite a few with Annie's predicament.

A maid escorted Randall to a wide balcony.

Acapulco Bay dramatically spread below.

"Magnificent," Randall complimented, taking in the view.

"Thank you. Would you like a drink?", his host asked.

"Unfortunately not. A stomach problem. On the wagon ... involuntarily."

From an inside jacket pocket Hector took a gold cigarette case, opened it and offered its contents of hand rolled cigarettes to Randall. "Perhaps one of these."

"This is strange. Our mutual client has a marijuana problem and now her attorneys are going to smoke some."

"When I was young, marijuana was illegal but wasn't a big deal. In the early 60's, America demanded our country enforce its drug laws." He smiled. "Fortunately, compliance was left to our states. Five years ago, Johnson said the Communists were using marijuana to win the Vietnam War and started giving us large grants to stop trafficking. Now, it's become extreme." He smiled again. "Yet, no one complains. Police get both generous aid and large bribes, growers sell for more, smugglers become wealthy beyond belief and," he paused, "we attorneys don't do too badly."

His temptation was strong, he missed alcohol's relaxation. Yet he resisted temptation – he knew it was illegal. But, given all the circumstances he decided to try.

"To prosperity of the bar," Randall toasted and lit the joint.

He deeply drew in the smoke and passed the marijuana cigarette to Hector who took a drag and passed it back.

By his second exhale, he felt a gentle warm breeze waft across his face.

The fading horizon was of pastel hues \- the most exquisite sky he'd ever seen.

Pleasantly, he was mildly intoxicated. And, it was even better than booze because there was no mental muddle – in fact he felt sharper.

* * *

Scoring dope in December '71, in San Francisco, was just a little harder than buying Scotch. While there were no marijuana stores so many dealt, to supplement in-come, subsidize consumption, or, as a favor, all demand was satisfied.

Still possession was criminal and how to acquire some, for the novice, wasn't readily apparent. But, since he really wanted more grass he schemed his best shot.

On the day before his last day in the office he sent for the firm's longhaired clerk.

Soon, Mark stuck his head in the open doorway, "You wanted to see me?"

"Come in," Randall invited, adding, "please close the door." Curious, Mark did so and took a chair in front of Randall's desk.

"I'd like you to get me something. If you can't, or don't want to, just say."

"Sure. What's your pleasure?"

Randall hesitated before answering, "Marijuana."

"I'll get you the best."

"How much? How long will it take?"

"$40. You'll have it this afternoon."

Randall gave the law student two twenties.

* * *

Less than an hour later, Randall was surprised to see Mark. "No luck, huh? Guess it's hit or miss. Keep the money, see what you can do."

"Mr. Dohrn," he slowly responded, "I scored dynamite. I'm still ripped from a skinny joint. Your humble clark," speaking arcanely, "has yet again accomplished his assigned duty in an extraordinary manner."

Randall picked up on his stoned humor, "Your contribution to the commonweal of Tarrantino, Dohrn & Schwartz is duly noted."

Mark opened his briefcase and took out a stuffed baggie, "I'm sure you'll dig this."

"Given your condition, you should go home. I'll cover for you. I'll say you went to the law library to do some research".

"Remember my Wilken memo?"

"Sure, your idea to analyze the hospital regulations made the case."

"I'd worked on it before, but couldn't find the right angle. Then, one day a buddy turned me on before I came in and worked on it again. I had a flash."

That impacted. It'd been very creative legal thinking. "Do what you want."

"I'll stay. Maybe I'll have another great idea and the firm will offer me a job."

In fact, they intended to do that. "Stoned or unstoned, you're a smartass."

"Thanks. From you, that's a compliment." He left Randall's office, smiling.

The grass looked potent. Seeds were powdery. Randall shoved the baggie deep in his briefcase's file pouch, closed the case and spun the combination locks.

After stashing the contraband the thought 'stoned sex must really be special', an idea he'd had frequently, immediately reoccurred.

He pushed the intercom, "Get Miss Borton, please."

In a few minutes, the intercom announced, "Your call on five."

Pushing a button and picking up the handset, "Hi Chrissy, I'll cook dinner."

"Going to a Junior League meeting. Want to meet after?"

"I'd rather you'd come over. Help me celebrate my retirement."

She pondered a few moments and then asked, "Eight okay?"

Randall returned to dictating file summaries. His condition made the cases vivid. Compensation would never restore his client's lives. Making money wasn't worth a permanently damaged body. Retirement had been easy.

By a little after seven the day's final memo had been dictated, hopefully leaving behind his insights on unresolved cases,

A few minutes after leaving for home, he crossed the orange Golden Gate Bridge. Commute traffic had cleared. The road was still wet from an earlier rain. His Mercedes two seat sports car zoomed 101's sweeping curves.

Exiting 101 at Sir Frances Drake Boulevard, the Ross Exit, he turned into the Bon Air shopping center.

In the supermarket, he picked up a few things for dinner.

Waiting at the express checkout, he was surprised to see several brands of rolling papers in a rack of impulse items. An orange pack of Zig-Zags was added to his groceries.

He was in the shower when Chrissy arrived. That was okay. They were casual. She had a key and let herself in, fixed herself a drink and poured him a soda

She sat on the couch; he in his favorite chair. This evening pretty Chrissy, an Olympic gymnast gold medalist, petite, muscular but very feminine, was most alluring.

His briefcase's contents most definitely added a special excitement.

Boldly abandoning his intention to coyly bring up the subject, he asked, "Would it be okay if I smoked marijuana?"

"No prob. Since you can't drink, it'll be nice for you. It's been a while for me, since college. I'd like some too."

Randall retrieved his briefcase and extracted his treasure.

"Umm, this looks pretty good. Get me a shirt box, I'll clean it," she offered.

One was provided. Chrissy rubbed the leaves and seed pods off the woody stems. These were crumbled between her fingers. The twig like stems were picked out and the box tilted. Using the rolling paper's cover the grass was lifted and then dropped. Seeds rolled to the bottom. Two papers were glued together and creased. The now seedless grass was evenly distributed into the crease. After rolling, her tongue wet the glue strip and then she rolled it again. Finished, the neat joint was held up for inspection.

"Your talents, dear, never cease to amaze me," he complimented.

The joint was handed to Randall. He lit it, took a couple drags and passed it to Chrissy. She deeply inhaled and passed back the red tipped joint.

After his next drag, standing to turn on the stereo, he felt light headed.

He put a few albums on the turntable and dimmed the overhead.

How nice that Chrissy was in his life, how sweet their intimacy, he thought. "Those hits really hit me." Randall smiled. His use of the same word twice in one short sentence was unintended.

Listening to music, they smoked the rest.

At home, he was super stoned. Having Chrissy with him was so special. Her turtleneck sweater was snug. Her ambiance was so exciting. So desirable!

When she demurely asked, "Why sit way over there?" he instantly joined her on the couch.

He nuzzled Chrissy's neck which exuded an aroma of oatmeal soap.

After several kisses, he stood and tugged her hand. She came along readily.

Upstairs, his bedroom door stayed open. The room was dimly lit by the hall light.

Standing on opposite sides of the bed, they folded the bedspread down. She pulled her sweater over her head and reached behind. Bra straps went limp. The garment fell and her athletic breasts, not large but sexy, turned him on. Erect nipples were dark and large. Abs rippled. Her skirt, slip and panties were stepped out of.

Undressed, he stood nude.

Chrissy stared at his erection, her tongue tracing her lips.

A subtle scent signaled her arousal.

She lay on her back. He came on top, careful not to crush.

It was staggering, pubes tickling, her pointy tits against his hairy chest.

Kissing open mouth, tongue found tongue.

After gently sucking, his tongue's tip traced wide areolas. Bumps emerged and buds hardened even more. Luscious tits were kissed all over.

Slowly penetrating, he licked behind her ear.

His cock thrust deep, his pelvic bone against her clit. Lightly, he nibbled her neck. Perceptions were highly sensitive. Staying power was unbelievable. Copulation was much, much longer than usual.

A tight, strongly pulsating vagina finally brought him off. Hot come flooded deep.

Ejaculation/orgasm sent him into space. Awesomely pleasured, he was catatonic.

Retouching reality, he suddenly remembered Chrissy was under. He looked down, into her deep pink face.

She purred, "Oh honey, that was outrageous! – fantastic! – incredible!"

CHAPTER THREE

Once retired, Randall read nearly everything in the two newspapers delivered to his house, the San Francisco Chronicle and Marin's Independent Journal. Both had so many drug articles, that, without them, the papers would have been pages shorter.

Nearly all dealt with arrests, trials, convictions and sentencing. Some, though, reported on other aspects of this new insidious 'War on Drugs'. Anti-drug coloring books were given to elementary school students. Hundreds of methadone clinics were opening across the country to enroll heroin addicts. Government officials scurried across the globe securing pledges of international cooperation. Frightening results of federally funded research, always supporting continued illegality, were repeatedly cited.

After finding rolling papers in the supermarket, the economic impact of the Bay Area's abundant marijuana consumption became increasingly obvious.

Previously, he'd only noticed the rather substantial effect on attorneys' income; representing top echelon dealers had made several lawyers very wealthy.

'Head' shops had opened in most commercial districts, offering a wide variety of drug paraphernalia, much locally handcrafted.

He now empathized with drug users, especially pot smokers. Proposals for new harsh laws were discomforting. Constantly increasing anti-drug spending was worrisome. The formation of a Marin County Sheriff's undercover drug unit felt threatening.

Slick anti-drug PSAs [Public Service Ads] ran on TV frequently. Even those having nothing to do with marijuana, were grossly offensive.

Worse the federal government had zero credibility. A rumor that the federal drug police were suppressing a prestigious university study which proved grass helped cure both Alzheimer's and cancer, made him wonder.

Criminality was uncomfortable. One evening, on the freeway, on his way to the City to see Chrissy, a Highway Patrol cruiser suddenly appeared behind. Carrying a couple of joints, he was nervous. If stopped, would he be searched?

By the time the CHIP pulled around his heartbeat was significantly higher.

* * *

One drizzly morning, drinking Ovaltine in the breakfast nook, reading the

Chronicle, yet another drug article grabbed his attention.

PEOPLES MARIJUANA

GETS GRANT

Chicago[UPI] A Bennington Foun-

dation grant to the Peoples Mari-

juana Party was announced today.

The PMP seeks 325,000 signa-

tures to qualify an initiative to le-

galize cannabis.

Larry Eaton, State Coordinator,

contacted at PMP's Union St. head-

quarters, said offices would be open-

ed in the most populous counties.

"Petitions are already circulating

and the public's response is ex-

tremely supportive."

The article was especially interesting because Victor Blasé, Bennington's Executive Director, was an old buddy. They'd attended Boalt Hall, University of California Berkeley's Law School, together and regularly met for lunch before Victor moved to Chicago to run the foundation funded by a very profitable nudie magazine.

Resigned to permanent prohibition, a legalization movement was unexpected and exciting. Celebratory tokes were definitely in order.

In the den, a lid was taken from a desk drawer. Once in hand, he hesitated and after a few moments, put it back. He wasn't, after all, like the always stoned Haight Ashbury hippies. Without consideration, drinking rituals had been transferred. 'No smoking dope before five unless there was a special occasion, like a wedding or bar mitzvah'. Halfway upstairs, he turned and went back to the den. Indecisive, the question, 'Why not?', eventually occurred.

From the shake, the loose grass in the bottom of the baggie he rolled a neat joint. In his favorite chair, snug in robe and slippers, already with a pleasant buzz from his jumbo cup of strong coffee, he smoked and savored his product.

His extra long shower ended when the hot water ran out.

Dressed in jeans and sweat shirt, pleasantly stoned, it felt especially nice being at home on this typical winter rainy day in Northern California.

In the kitchen, he sliced a bagel and put it into the toaster oven.

The newspaper, open to the marijuana legalization article, lay on the counter. Rereading it prompted him to call.

Victor's card was found in a kitchen drawer. He called and asked for Mr. Blasé, telling the receptionist he was a 'friend'. After holding for a rather long time, Victor came on. After pleasantries, there was an awkward moment – Randall couldn't remember why he'd called. A glance at the paper reminded him. "The Chronicle says Bennington's funding marijuana legalization."

"Right, we're very concerned. Two years ago there were 250,000 possession arrests. Maybe 400,000 this year. They already got 'no-knock'. Now they want involuntary civil commitment. Drug users will be incarcerated, without trial, in mental health facilities which are really filthy prisons, until cured of their addiction. Involuntary civil commitment obliterates virtually all civil liberties. Police, without any supervision, decide who gets locked up. We're funding the PMP to help stop this bullshit."

"Donald Trump, a megalomaniac New York real estate developer, a client of Roy Cohn, the gay former Joe McCarthy goon, is behind this 'War on Drugs'. Cohn has the President's ear. As Nixon hates blacks who he thinks use a lot of coke and hippies who do, in fact, smoke a lot of weed, Trump's plan works for him."

"Can they get legalization on the ballot?"

"Hard to say. Politics are outrageously expensive in California. Much more has to be raised and, even more importantly, they have to inspire thousands of volunteers. Randall, sorry to rush, but calls are stacked. I'll send you some info."

"Coming out soon?"

"Between us, I recommended funding so a trip to see my friends could be put on my expense account," Victor joked. "Probably this summer."

"Good, while you're here, I'll acquaint you with aspects of the marijuana issue you might not be familiar with."

They both laughed.

* * *

That evening Chrissy came to Randall's for dinner.

She read the legalization article he'd tacked on his kitchen bulletin board.

"How about that? My vice might get legalized."

"They'll never get it qualified."

Her instant negativity surprised him. "Why not?"

"Well, getting enough signatures to get on the ballot is a lot of hard work and dopers aren't all that motivated."

"That's said, but so are lots of things. Do you think dope smokers are lazy?"

"Not really important, is it?

"Guess not."

Her disparaging comment nearly forestalled the day's second joint but he went ahead. As previously, Chrissy also toked.

While they ate, she asked, "Are you going to get involved with legalization?"

"I'd like to help."

"You could stand in front of a supermarket and ask people to sign petitions?"

He thought before responding, "No, that far I don't think I'll go." He paused, "I'll send the PMP some money."

"The classic checkbook liberal."

"The classic stoned checkbook liberal," he retorted.

* * *

In mid February, about a month after his appointment as Northern Counties Coordinator, a 'Rush' signal brought him to 1510. An excited Matt handed him today's New York Times, opened to the 'Opinion' page and folded to center a column. Glenn read it, excitingly exclaiming, "This guy says McGovern might favor legalization."

"That editorial runs in a couple hundred papers, all across the country."

"I never thought any Democrat would actually favor legalization."

"California Grass could be very important. Get legalization on the ballot and you're in BNDD's National Training Academy," Blane assured.

The four year college degree requirement to become a gun carrying agent had always, until now, seemed insurmountable, "Mr. Blane you can count on me."

* * *

Speculation that McGovern might support legalization was ecstatically received by FOLO. Not a big surprise. Pot smoke had wafted from several recent mass anti-war rallies. Leaders of pro-Nixon organizations were quietly told to not make an issue of the Senator's flexibility on pot. Classic political sandbagging – let the candidate hang himself.

Enhanced importance of California Grass prompted FOLO to recruit a recently retired CIA analyst [Iran Desk], Horace Hanson, a political manipulation expert.

An 'old boy' network of intelligence officials gave him easy access to the federal government's unbelievably enormous domestic intelligence resources.

Before leaving Washington, Horace studied past California initiatives in the Library of Congress, acquired 'the best' [most expensive] surveillance equipment, reviewed relevant files and entertained former colleagues. FOLO employment was disclosed but nothing was ever said about FOLO's plan to put marijuana legalization on the ballot to help elect Nixon. Assistance, he'd told his fellow spooks, looking over his glasses, would be appreciated by the 'very top'.

* * *

As it was convenient, Horace moved into 1510. Matt Blane fit the profile revealed by his Civil Service File. The 25 year federal employee had joined the Federal Bureau of Narcotics after two FBI rejects. By the time Nixon put Donald Trumps' plan in effect and made drugs 'Public Enemy Number One' Blane's seniority had put him in charge of a small office. Then, his career had soared. Now he was in charge of the largest Region of a multi-billion dollar enforcement agency.

Glenn, the narc, though, surprised him – an extremely competent operative. Psychological massaging and/or handholding wasn't necessary. Becoming an armed BNDD agent authorized to use lethal force sufficed.

Debriefings continued on Tuesdays and Fridays. At 1510, Glenn reviewed the phone summaries, reported significant happenings at PMP and delivered copies of documents.

Horace and Matt provided Glenn well thought out plans and strategies. Those sophisticated, intelligent ideas gave him super high status at the PMP. He was considered a political genius.

Who gave and how much was, of course, of paramount importance. NNI, National Narcotic Intelligence, furnished files on contributors. Reams of accordion pleated computer printout were delivered to Horace on all who had donated more than $100.

* * *

Nixon's urgency to create NNI, National Narcotic Intelligence, had been so high Congress had been totally bypassed. Months had been wasted while the few Congresspersons respectful of Constitutional rights had unsuccessfully resisted 'No-Knock'. To expedite, Nixon issued Executive Order 11676 to Attorney General John Mitchell who used 'recycled' funds, unspent from previous years, to build a mammoth computer center in San Diego, the President's adopted home town.

William C. Sullivan, Hoover's top assistant, Director of COINTELPRO, the FBI's insidious dirty trick, assassination program, was appointed Director of NNI.

Data gleaned from computer to computer hookups was supplemented by finks who were paid, had charges dismissed or sentences shortened to provide information, much totally fabricated, about anyone who had any contact with illegal drugs.

Concern over opposition was justified. NNI deemed everything relevant, regardless of reliability or pertinence to an active case. Babies present when an illegal drug was consumed, had files opened, marked 'PDU' [Potential Drug User].

Terminals, allowing easy access to NNI files, were furnished to all local law enforcement agencies. Police resources were more efficiently allocated.

National Narcotics Intelligence played an important role in the 'War on Drugs'.

* * *

Randall, just recently a dope smoker, was the only significant PMP donor without a NNI file. That bothered Horace.

Easily obtained credit reports partially filled the gap. That information confirmed the affluence of his Ross address. A '67 divorce was reported. No dependants.

Yellow pages corroborated employment. But when Horace called the law firm, he learned of Randall's recent retirement. A middle aged retiree of his economic substance prompted further investigation. Horace's Pentagon contact reported Dohrn had, until 1959, been a naval aviator, a 'tailhook', a carrier landing jet fighter pilot.

In a few days, a copy of Randall's military file arrived [more than 200 pages]. One item was particularly interesting. Randall, in 1952, a freshman at University of Southern California, took a psychology course requiring participation in laboratory research. Although not in the Navy then, a report of Randall's experiment was included.

In the study, four students had some of the clues which, if all were known, located an enemy submarine. Each could only communicate with two others. Randall took command. The others heeded his order that all information be fed to him. His group's record high score was attributed to his outstanding natural leadership.

* * *

The disparity between the information Victor sent and the federal government's drug propaganda didn't surprise Randall. Medical experts had always supported his cases. Inevitably, he'd been confronted by witnesses who testified opposite.

One document, a xeroxed page of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged with a bracketed paragraph, was unexpected.

"Did you really think that we want those laws to be observed?

"We _want_ them broken. You'd better get it straight that it's not

a bunch of boy scouts you're up against – then you'll know that

this is not the age for beautiful gestures. We're after power and

we mean it. You fellows were pikers, but we know the real trick,

and you'd better get wise to it. There's no way to rule innocent

men. The only power any government has is the power to crack

down on criminals. Well, when there aren't enough criminals,

one makes them."

Drug laws created millions of criminals. Now he understood Victor's concern. Trump's 'War on Drugs' was much more insidious than Randall had imagined.

CHAPTER FOUR

Glenn put people in jail. Until his PMP infiltration, all assignments had involved possession or sale of drugs officially designated by the federal government as illegal.

A court imposed racial quota had prevented the Wayne County Community Col-lege dropout from taking the qualifying exam for the Detroit PD. Having no job prospects, he came to San Francisco to live with a bachelor uncle, a shipping clerk.

A chance observation of a marijuana transaction in the Marina Green parking lot launched his present career. Walking along the water's edge, he saw two longhairs exchange money and then transfer several dope bricks from one car trunk to another. He followed the pot, watched it carried into a house and called the police.

Initiative paid off. The San Francisco Police Department began to use him regularly, and, after a few months, BNDD took him on.

Working for the police was satisfying. He truly believed all criminals should be severely punished.

Naturally deceitful, tricking targets, his 'pigeons', was easy.

The PMP welcomed the 'volunteer'. Grass was openly smoked, even offered for sale. A strategy session was attended. The PMP had no secrets. Their goal was to collect 325,000 registered voter signatures by a mid-June deadline to put marijuana legalization on the November ballot.

A couple times he'd been invited to Larry and Linda's flat to socialize.

After several drop-ins, he welcomed a summons from BNDD headquarters. Direction was badly needed.

That afternoon, he again sat across the Regional Director's desk.

"Can those stoned freaks get their stupid initiative on the ballot?"

"So far they only have a few thousand signatures. They're more concerned about raising money. Right now, California ACLU is being solicited. When that mailing list's finished, they have others. This is what they're sending." He handed Blane the solicitation letter. Adding, "Eaton's big hope is the Bennington Foundation."

"Oh yeah, they're famous for funding shit like this. What's the drug scene?"

"Plenty of pot. Cocaine's been mentioned, but I haven't seen any. They're smoking while addressing envelopes but yesterday, a Dr. Knapp came in and ..."

Blane's nod indicated he knew of the drug treatment specialist.

"He says he'll only endorse if dope smoking is not allowed in the office. That started a big argument. To some it's like blacks sitting in at lunch counters. I don't know what'll happen."

"Sounds like you're making a good penetration. This new organization in DC, the Friends of Law and Order, FOLO, wants you there on Monday. Tell the PMP you're going to San Diego. This'll cover your expenses." He handed Glenn an envelope.

* * *

The ten new 100 dollar bills in the envelope confirmed that working for FOLO would be a good thing. After trip expenses, a few hundred would be left.

To reinforce his 'tightness' with PMP's leaders, strong hash was pulled from BNDD Property, a perfect reason for dropping in on his new 'friends'.

* * *

At ten-thirty, Saturday morning, he buzzed Larry and Linda's flat.

Through the door, Larry mumbled, "Who's there?"

"Glenn Schmidt."

Clad in pj's, the State Coordinator unchained and opened the door.

"Sorry to wake you. I have a special treat to share. But, hey, if it's inconvenient ..." He slowly turned, hoping to prod Larry by feigning departure.

"I'm already up. Go into the living room. I'll see if Linda wants to join us."

In a few minutes they staggered in. She yawned, "Went to bed after three."

"You'll really dig this," holding up a AA battery sized piece of dark brown granular hash. With a fingernail a hash pipe bowlful was broke off. "A buddy on the Enterprise scored it in Beirut. Been partying all night."

Glenn filled their ceramic pipe. Each took a couple hits. The stone was profound. Glenn declined a third. Larry and Linda continued toking.

"Going to San Diego tomorrow so I won't be around. My aunt is pretty sick." Stoned deception came naturally.

"The PMP should have an office down there. A lot of weed in that town. If you find someone who could run a San Diego PMP, let me know," Linda said.

"I'll keep my eyes open." Being asked to look for a San Diego Coordinator emboldened him. "When I get back, I could pull unemployment – be involved fulltime."

Larry smiled, "That'd be great. We need all the help we can get."

Sensing enough had been accomplished, claiming exhaustion, Glenn departed.

* * *

Sunday, Glenn flew to Washington and checked into the YMCA.

After a fast food dinner, fearful of black crime, he stayed in and watched TV.

The next morning, a taxi took him to FOLO's headquarters, several upper stories of a recently built black glass skyscraper.

In FOLO's lobby, an armed, uniformed guard checked a list on a clipboard, put a blue tag on his shirt and escorted him downstairs and then to an internal, windowless, conference room where three other longhairs sat drinking coffee.

Glenn poured himself a cup. While he sipped, two more 'hippies' came in.

Shortly after, an impressive man, in his forties, crew cutted, wearing a vested dark blue pinstriped suit adorned with a white security tag, entered. "Greetings, I'm Stan Marquis, FOLO's Director of Drug Operations." He handed several sheets of paper to the nearest man, "These are your schedules. Pass 'em around."

Marquis glanced at his notes, "We support all 'law and order' candidates – especially our President. Nixon has increased drug control expenditures 1100%," Marquis paused for emphasis. "This enormous spending enables enforcement of all drug laws, from smuggling to using. Grants to local police departments insure all drug users are arrested. BNDD's hosting seminars at fancy golf resorts for State Court Judges so they know extremely long sentencing of drug offenders is official federal policy."

Marquis continued, "On Thursday and Friday I'm going to meet with you individually. Everything here is 'need-to-know'. No mouthing off, no 'war' stories, and, most importantly, absolutely nothing about your FOLO assignment. Any breach must be reported to me immediately! Another thing about security. Don't wander. There's a john across the hall - use it!"

The Director of Drug Operations plodded on, parroting the 'War on Drugs' rationale for its extremely harsh drug approach - to protect citizens from evil drugs.

Lunchtime finally came.

Filing out, a narc approached Glenn and greeted familiarly, "How's it going?"

"Do I know you?" Glenn asked.

"Josh Sturges. I was busted last year, at a deal you set up. Had a beard."

"Shit, I didn't know you were one of us. What happened?"

"Pled guilty," winking, "got probation. I'm working in San Diego. Still in Frisco?"

"Yeah, let's get a burger."

* * *

That afternoon and over the next two days spokesmen from BNDD, IRS, CREEP [Committee to ReElect the President] and SAODAP, [Special Action Office for Drug Abuse Prevention] staffed exclusively by children of big contributors, briefed the narcs.

They heard yet more reiteration why illegal drugs had to be controlled. Government representatives bragged how effectively their agencies were spending the billions Congress had appropriated to destroy the emerging drug culture and punish drug fiends.

Hard liners controlled all federal drug expenditures. Any drug law violation warranted severe punishment. Every speaker stressed arrest statistics, conveniently ignoring that mass police recruitment inevitably increased how many got thrown in jail. Fatalities caused by 'illegal drugs' were grossly inflated while the number of victims of 'legal drugs' [prescription, alcohol and tobacco] substances were either avoided altogether and/or understated.

On Wednesday the indoctrination ended with lunch at the Justice Department and a VIP tour of FBI headquarters.

Yet, the War on Drug's true motivation and the fascist police state it created, was a closely held secret. Productivity – workers not using 'illegal' drugs which might lessen profits was the highest priority, not, as they claimed, protecting citizens from the dire effects of drugs. A big cut of those excessive profits were paid to politicians as 'campaign contributions'.

That marijuana stayed illegal, notwithstanding a steady stream of scientific proof supporting legalization, was expected. Corporate greed and political greed, guaranteed marijuana's status remained unchanged.

Drugs increasing productivity were never a problem. Coffee was encouraged.

'Law and order' zealots believed the government's outrageous lies. If the consequences weren't so dire [millions in criminal justice], it would have been laughable.

High federal officials, including Nixon, were convinced marijuana use was part of a Communist Jewish conspiracy to undermine the morals of American youth so the Soviets could win the cold war and destroy capitalism.

* * *

On Thursday Glenn met with Stan Marquis.

"You'll be paid $400 a week by Pyramid Industry until the election." He continued, "Mr. Blane has related your observations. FOLO's analysis has led to an interesting conclusion." His pause was long before he continued, "FOLO wants legalization on the ballot."

Marquis continued, "Nixon has always been against marijuana and so are his supporters. He's 'perfectly clear' on grass and loses nothing by being against legalization." Deviously grinning, he went on, "The Democrat though, has a humungous problem. If he's 'anti', young voters will be turned off. They won't be for our guy but the opponent loses. If he's 'pro', maybe he gains a bit in California but everywhere else he loses big. The temptation to endorse is going to be strong. 18, 19 and 20 year olds will be voting for President for the first time. And, winning California is crucial."

Glenn was aghast, "But, what if,... what if marijuana's legalized?"

Marquis assured, "Never happen. We've researched this extensively. It'll be lucky to get 25%. Happily, for us," he smiled, "dopers don't register and vote."

The overall plan was explained from several perspectives. The techniques of the planned long term penetration and manipulation were patiently explained, often several times, until Marquis was convinced Glenn fully understood how to do it.

After Glenn was fully briefed, he was taken to meet Mr. Goodwin, the deep pocket funder of FOLO and its Executive Director. To the archconservative, who had inherited a half billion from his great grandfather, a promised ambassadorship was secondary.

Most important to him was strict adherence to drug laws, insuring that his wage slaves' productivity stayed high. Dope smoking employees might not remain submissive. Shit, they might even join unions. Police power enforcing fascist drug laws kept workers in line. Be maximally productive or go to jail!

Marquis outlined FOLO's plan to use legalization to screw the Democrats.

Goodwin smiled, "We're depending on you, son. Get that stupid initiative on the ballot!"

* * *

Friday morning, Glenn felt important when Sturges, assigned to running San Diego PMP, waited in Marquis' outer office while Glenn's FOLO mission, the long term penetration of PMP headquarters, was discussed. When Sturges was briefed Glenn was allowed to stay.

On Saturday Marquis took FOLO's PMP operatives to a fancy restaurant for lunch. They'd taxied there but walked back. In front of FOLO's building Marquis said, "One more thing. Everything stays 'top secret' forever, meaning it never happened. Clear?", before continuing he waited for both narcs to nod affirmance. "If you ever testify, which is extremely unlikely, the indoctrination and the PMP assistance never happened. If I'm ever asked under oath, that's what I'm going to say."

"Understood," Glenn confirmed.

"I got it," Josh seconded.

Marquis shook their hands and walked inside.

That evening FOLO's agents flew west to put pot legalization on the ballot.

* * *

As per the Regional Director's instructions, Glenn went to the modern high-rise at the corner of Laguna and Sacramento. There, a uniformed doorman politely greeted.

An elevator whisked him to the fifteenth floor.

He buzzed 1510 and Matt Blane opened a wide door into a large, sumptuous living room. Two walls were floor to ceiling glass. The vista extended from the Golden Gate to SF's downtown skyscrapers. Loveseats circled a fireplace open on all sides.

"Is this your place, Mr. Blane?"

"Nah, I live in Daly City. Last year, we busted the Peruvian Consul's son. State blocked prosecution but we confiscated everything," he smiled, "including this condo."

Matt Blane continued, "Mr. Goodwin is very enthusiastic. We're designated 'Operation California Grass'. I'm San Francisco control. '1510', this place, is headquarters. Pamela and Harris, the phone man, are the only others involved."

"I thought this was FOLO. Everyone but me works for the Bureau."

"BNDD is developing its political acuity," the Director glibly replied. "You're FOLO. Expenses, including your rent, are covered. Your paychecks will be banked. You get 100 bucks a week, cash." Blane took a key ring from his briefcase. "This," holding up a brass key, "is for a studio at 1535 North Point, appropriate for an unemployed carpenter, your cover. The silver one gets in here. The other key is for a red '65 Beetle parked in the basement garage. Motor pool says it's in good shape."

"Weekdays, between 8 and 10," handing him his card, "call this number. Ask for Cal. If he's 'busy', everything's okay. If my secretary says he's 'on vacation', come to 1510 the next morning, at 7. Tuesdays and Fridays, at 7, I'll debrief you here. If Rush calls, report immediately. Whenever you want, come up and review the phone summaries. If you need to see me, use your contact number. They'll find me. Meet here."

He stood and quipped, "Gotta go bust some junkies." Scanning around the spacious, luxurious apartment, he added, "This is one fucking nice command center. Stay, look around. Here's the first tap summary," handing him a document, "Harris did it while you were away".

When Matt left, Glenn toured the luxurious suite. The smallest bedroom here was bigger than his master bedroom in Marin. A white carpeted room with a round bed on a raised pedestal, a cozy sitting room with a fireplace, and a spacious marble bathroom with a deep, sunken jacuzzi tub comprised the master suite.

The dining room table was a rectangular slab of thick glass supported by chrome saw horses. A dozen burnished steel, red velvet cushioned chairs sat around it.

He returned to the living room to read the wiretap report. A note was clipped to it.

There are two interceptions - the PMP office and Eaton's

home. Everything is recorded. All relevant calls will be

summarized. If you want to hear a conversation, I'll find

it – just turn on the back-up. A tape which hasn't been

summarized can be heard by rewinding. Don't erase and

return it to the same place.

TELEPHONE INTERCEPTION LOG

DATES: 1/7/72 to 1/12/72

INVESTIGATION: Peoples Marijuana Party

SUPERVISING AGENT: MB

SEARCH WARRANT COURT: Administrative Order

SEARCH WARRANT NUMBER: Administrative Order

SUMMARY

778-7862 [PMP office] From Debra asking if she was

needed. Told to come and address envelopes. From

Dr. Knapp, answered by Eaton, congratulating for get-

ting phone. From unidentified person asking where

to mail contribution; Linda gave office address.

997-0927 [Eaton home]: 3 from Dr. Knapp concern-

ing smoking pot while involved with PMP. Knapp says

stoned people can't communicate with straights and

wants no smoking. Eaton agreed but worried volun-

teers might revolt. Knapp suggested doing something

'radical' to balance smoking ban. From Linda in L.A.

regarding feminist meeting. Eaton told her to go.

From Ernst Guning, lawyer in Modesto, asking for

petitions. 2 from Victor Blasé [Executive Director of the

Bennington Foundation]. First was to confirm that

PMP grant application had been received. In second,

Blasé said $5,000 would be sent but that did not mean

funding was approved. He said PMP's grant request

would be dealt with by board on January 27.

Schemingly, Glenn figured that since Larry had said many times the PMP should only appoint squeaky clean County Coordinators, naming a convicted felon, a drug trafficker currently on probation, to run an important county had to be 'radical' enough to balance 'no-smoking'.

* * *

When Glenn arrived at the PMP's Union Street office, about a dozen volunteers addressed envelopes. The mood was noticeably higher. "Welcome back," Larry greeted. "How'd it go down south?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on, "Great shit happened here. Bennington Foundation sent bucks!"

Glenn, quite adept at such things, pretended to be surprised. "Wow, that's fantastic. I think I found someone to run San Diego."

"That's southern, so it's Linda's call. She's at our place. Let's go talk to her," Eaton suggested. The invitation, further substantiating his insider status, was instantly accepted.

* * *

Settled in their living room Glenn handed Larry a joint. Usually, he would've lit it but was unsure how extensively Larry intended to impose 'no-smoking'.

"What about this possible San Diego Coordinator?" Eaton asked, lighting up.

Glenn deftly lied, "I've known Josh Sturges since '68. He's been into dope a long time, knows lots of people and is super enthusiastic about our initiative. One huge drawback, though, he's been busted for dealing, pled guilty and is on probation. Appointing a convicted drug dealer to run an important county might be too 'radical'."

Glenn saw that Larry very subtly reacted when he said 'radical'.

"Remember Dr. Knapp?", Larry asked. "His prestige would help tremendously but he won't endorse unless we have a 'no dope smoking' in PMP's offices rule."

Knowing Eaton had already agreed to 'no smoking' from the taps, Glenn went along, "Getting legalization on the ballot is most important. What's the big deal about abstaining for a few hours?"

Eaton smiled, "That's how I feel, but if I push no toking it's possible some volunteers may think I'm not really committed to legalization."

"Naming a convicted dealer to run an important county shows you're 'right on'."

Larry said, "Glenn, this is important. We're relying on your judgment."

"I vouch for Sturges", Glenn said convincingly.

"Linda, agree?" Eaton asked.

"It'll get things moving. That's what we really need," she replied.

Glenn suggested, to further curry favor, that he would advocate 'no-smoking'.

"That'll work. I'll call a membership meeting and you can propose it."

"Who's going to oppose?" Glenn asked.

"Eric Green's always mouthing off about civil disobedience", Larry answered. "To him dope smoking is equivalent to blacks sitting in at lunch counters."

"Yeah, you better watch out. Green wants to run the PMP", the narc casually remarked, relishing adding to Larry's suspicion.

"Linda, send that guy out for signatures. The less I see him, the better."

* * *

The morning after 'no-smoking' was adopted, Glenn reported for his regular debriefing. By the time Blane arrived, he'd reviewed the most recent tap summary.

In one call, Bennington's Executive Director, Victor Blasé, told Eaton a Board member wanted funding delayed until the leading Democrats were polled. Concern about candidates' positions confirmed FOLO's scheme.

Blasé had, fortunately, rejected the request and told Eaton he was going to recommend that PMP funding be approved at the next Board meeting.

Since his PMP infiltration Glenn had been watching TV news and reading Time and Newsweek. While marijuana had never been mentioned, he evaluated the front runners. Muskie and Humphrey probably favored possession being a misdemeanor. McGovern, though, with his hippie peace supporters, could possibly favor legalization.

* * *

Again arriving before Blane for their next debriefing, Glenn had studied the tap summary. He told his boss what was happening at the PMP, including, that his guile had been rewarded. Larry had appointed him Northern Counties Coordinator.

The Regional Director gave Glenn two baggies of grass and told him, "$2,949 was sent anonymously this week. Tell them to run ads with coupons in underground newspapers. We'll send in a bunch. You'll look smart."

CHAPTER FIVE

In March, Bob worked in the East Bay. Informers living in Marin most often worked elsewhere. Word spread quickly. A known narc had no value.

The police raid came after the snitch had left.

Narcs never testified. Usually the busted user or dealer had made a plea deal. In the rare case where there hadn't been a bargain, the agent who had monitored the bug testified. And, the incriminating tape of the illegal transaction was always available.

The busts he set up were routine but had taken a lot of time. His coke had finally been sold, except for some to take to Alice.

Anticipating hot sex, he went to Fairfax.

Unexpectedly, a guy, wearing nothing but tight leather pants, opened the door.

Alice called out "He's okay" and the dude stepped aside.

"This is Bob, the guy I told you about." Turning to him, "Morgan's a pilot."

Politely, but with reservation, they shook.

"Want to be part of a ton?", Alice asked. "We need financing."

"How much?"

"Ten covers trip expenses and the buy," she replied.

"You get a third of what we sell for. If your share isn't twice what you invested we kick in until you get double but we never go lower than an even three way split, even if you haven't doubled."

"That sounds okay. When do you need it?"

"Next week, but we want your commitment right now," Morgan answered.

Alice was, obviously, no longer going to be his bedmate. Her choice stung but he saw a golden opportunity to get BNDD off his back, "I'm in."

* * *

Blane met Bob to avoid offending his rich, politically powerful father.

That Lakewood's motivation was rejection was okay. Jealous lovers informing about partners, past or present, had led to many of BNDD's most spectacular successes.

"We're after distribution. BNDD will fund. Hold your deal together for three trips, set up a few high level busts and you can get on with your life."

The federal drug police bought a ton of high grade marijuana.

* * *

Waiting in Alice's van, before dawn, at an abandoned Napa Valley airfield, time passed slowly.

"It'll be dawn soon," Bob observed.

"What are you worried about? We don't even have a joint," she snapped.

"Hey, take it easy. It'd be better to unload in the dark."

"Morgan said it might be fifteen minutes," Alice defended.

"It's already been twenty."

There was heavy tension in the van. The next few minutes crept by slowly.

Alice bit her lip. She'd been fucked over yet again! All men were bastards!

Bob wondered if she'd be available if Morgan didn't return.

Through an open window the wind brought a faint drone of a distant plane. Alice recognized the sound. "That's mine!" she shouted.

The twin prop zoomed over at fifty feet, landed almost silently and taxied over. The cargo was quickly unloaded. Morgan still in the plane, swept the deck, threw out the broom and shut the hatch.

Hot engines started instantly. The twin Beech took off.

Bob and Alice arranged the fragrant 2.2 pound rectangular packages, neatly wrapped in orange paper and tied with hemp twine, on the van's floor. Blankets were tossed over the bricks and the curtain behind the seats drawn.

He drove carefully, obeying all speed limits. Through the passenger side mirror, Alice watched following traffic.

More than an hour later the laden van reached Fairfax.

They pulled into Alice's garage. The door was pulled down. Bob opened a rear van door, grabbed a kilo, cut the string with his pocket knife, broke it, stuck his nose in and excitedly exclaimed, "Whooee – most righteous shit!"

In the living room, the broken brick was unwrapped on a sheet of newspaper. Powdery resin coated the seeds.

A bud was crumbled over a tray and sloppily cleaned. A big, fat joint was rolled in an extra long, double wide paper and lit.

The pungent aroma that would soon make them rich filled the house.

* * *

Stoned on grass and coke, the smuggling partners conferred in Alice's living room.

Getting the dope to Fairfax was a major accomplishment but making a safe sale was even more challenging. Busting high level distribution rings was the cops' highest priority. Any and all paranoia was justified.

"We should all agree on who's contacted," Morgan stated.

"Before that, do we go again?" Bob needed two more trips to satisfy the BNDD.

"He deserves to know. We won't need his money anymore," said Alice.

"If he sells what I brought back for 80, I'll do another," Morgan proposed.

Bob had resolved not to name anyone, naively thinking he'd only have to give up their dealing contacts, but continuation was essential, "Is Jake Greenbaum, the lawyer, okay? I've heard he facilitates movement of large quantities."

Both nodded Greenbaum was okay.

The attorney, having previously met Bob socially, took his call.

After hanging up he reported, "We meet at the Trident, in an hour."

* * *

On his way to Sausalito, he phoned Blane from a gas station payphone.

"It's in Alice's garage."

"Who?" the Regional Director sharply demanded.

He hated snitching but his contorted life left no option, "Jake Greenbaum".

"I want that smart ass jew in jail. Call when it's set. Give the details to the duty officer." His tone softened, "You're doing good work, Bob, keep it up."

* * *

The attorney spoke as if the conversation was being taped to be played in court. Everything said was phrased to have a possible innocent meaning. Nonetheless, the discussion evolved to the available ton.

After drinks were finished, Bob followed Jake to his Belvedere mansion.

There, after the Japanese houseboy scanned him with a bug detector wand, he joined the lawyer in a windowless room. Loud rock music blared. Glenn gave him a baggie with a sample. Jake opened it, sniffed, checked a bud under a magnifying lamp, broke off enough for a bowlful, filled a scientific looking pipe, lit it, savored its taste and deeply inhaled. After holding the smoke in for a long time he exhaled.

Bob opened, "85 for the ton."

"75 with 10 points for me. You get," punching a calculator, "67 five."

"No way. 80 for us is as low as I go."

"I'm pretty sure I can make it happen so you get 75. Call the office in the morning. I'll be in court but if my secretary tells you I want to meet to sign papers, I'm 'on'."

* * *

His partners were noisily fucking when he returned. Unquestionably her moans were louder than when he'd been her partner.

He switched on TV and lit a long roach.

In a few minutes Morgan, wearing only his tight leather pants came in. "What'll Greenbaum pay"?

"75, I think. If he can make it happen it moves tomorrow. No commitment. If we decide it isn't enough we're not obligated."

Alice, flushed, hair messed, wrapped in a chenille robe, entered, "75 works for me".

"That's super dope – worth top dollar," Morgan contended.

"Maybe we could get more, but this way Jake's our only contact," said Bob.

"Since you can do better Morgan, you sell the next load," Alice said firmly. With finality, "If Greenbaum can put it together for 75, I say we sell."

With big bucks coming, each brought out their coke stash, together nearly an eighth of an ounce. Little was said while most was snorted.

Despite copious consumption, Bob crashed on the couch.

In the morning, Alice shook his shoulder and put a phone on the coffee table.

He dug the crumpled lawyer's card out from his slept-in levi's pocket and dialed. When the office answered, he asked, "Any message for Bob Lakewood?"

The secretary replied, "Papers are ready. Meet Mr. Greenbaum at the Corte Madera Denny's, at 5."

"I'll be there."

Shouting "Yes," Alice pulled Bob from the sofa, tightly embracing him.

Instantly, both recalled prior intimacy.

Morgan came into the living room, asking, "What's happening?"

Neither knew whether he was asking about their embrace or the deal's status.

"Jake's buying," Alice responded, backing away.

Bob, embarrassingly erect, quickly sat.

* * *

Jake showed at 6. "That asshole Judge kept us way late," he said, sliding into the coffee shop's booth. Looking prosperous and professional, he loosened his tie and undid his top shirt button.

"How'd it go?", Bob asked.

"Who knows? It's from a bust last summer. They got a San Rafael warehouse full of pot. There're three strong defense attorneys. Every conceivable issue has been raised." Continuing, matter-of-factly, "Today, some theology prof testified he's aware of God's presence after he's smoked." He paused, and then asked, "We on?"

"Red Hill Center at 11."

Jake extended his thumb raised hand.

They shook.

* * *

After reporting the arrangements to BNDD from a payphone in front of the supermarket, he picked up steaks, an expensive bottle of wine and cookies. In another fifteen minutes, he was back at Alice's.

Predictably, Morgan jumped on him, "And where the fuck have you been?"

"Hey jerk ass get off my case, Jake was an hour late!", Bob shouted back.

Alice, quite surprisingly, sided with him. "Jake being late is not Bob's fault."

"Remember Morgan, you make the next sale," Bob said aggressively.

"This bickering bullshit is so fucking tiring!", her voice rose, with exasperation. Looking at Bob, "What's happening?"

"Red Hill at 11."

"In a few hours – prosperity," Alice smilingly said.

The TV was turned on. Perchance, there was a news story about marijuana smuggling. The talking head spieled, "Organized crime controls this trade." Sternly, into the camera, he pontificated, "Mafia smugglers deserve extra long prison sentences because marijuana, besides being highly addictive, inevitably leads to the use of more dangerous drugs, like LSD and heroin. All drug fiends say they started with grass."

Bob and Morgan, calmed by the story's stupidity, laughed uproariously.

Alice fixed the steaks. The primo wine was opened. Several fat joints of their good stuff were smoked. It was almost festive.

* * *

At the arranged time, in the near empty shopping center parking lot, Bob climbed into Jake's super deluxe van and directed, "To Fairfax." Passing the movie theater, he instructed, "Before the gas station, turn right." The van accelerated uphill. Halfway up, he told Jake, "On the left, with the Beemer in front. Pull in and tap the horn."

While the garage door was up, the BNDD special agent surveilling the transaction took seven infrared photographs.

The van drove in. After the door was lowered the light was turned on.

A neatly stacked four-foot cube of orange marijuana bricks sat on the floor.

In the house, a supermarket bag, half full of cash, $20's, $50's and C notes, some banded, some loose, was dumped onto the kitchen table. Morgan and Alice began sorting and counting. Bob stood by to help Jake load.

The drug attorney tore the wrapper from a pot brick's corner, pulled off a bud and rolled a fat joint. Checking his Rolex, he lit it.

When acceptance was announced, counting was about half done.

Simultaneously the grass was loaded and the tally complete.

As Jake backed out, nine more infrared photos were taken.

The agent covering the house pushed the 'Talk' button on his mike and softly reported, "73 to Central – target departing."

The speaker crackled back, "Ten-four 73."

So he couldn't be seen from the house the stakeout sat uncomfortably low. In accordance with his National Training Academy instruction not to leave observant spots too soon and raise suspicions, he resolved to stay until the house went dark.

CHAPTER SIX

Ross had no mail delivery. Most afternoons, Randall walked to the post office, about 1/4 mile away, to fetch his mail. By midsummer, he usually toked before leaving.

Returning, spaced, he didn't see, and almost walked into, a Porsche 911 across the bridle path. On the far side, a bent over man examined the car's front fender.

"Damage?", Randall asked in a neighborly way.

The driver stood and turned, not seeing, as expected, an uptight old Ross codger but rather, a mustached, longhaired, middle aged freak. "Just scratches."

"Those posts are a little close," Randall observed.

"Live around here?" the young driver asked.

"My house is four up, on this side," he replied, pointing. "This your place?"

"Just moved in," sticking out his hand, "Bob Lakewood."

The man shook with thumbs crossed, "Randall Dohrn."

Bob hesitated, but given his neighbor's appearance and the 'fraternity' handshake, went ahead, "Time to smoke a 'j'?"

"Sure."

They got into Bob's 911 and drove up the long drive.

"Smells like mine. After it sits in the sun, I get a contact high."

"Only way to fly," Bob replied, thinking his neighbor was a surprisingly mellow dude.

Walking through the house, Bob picked up a cedar cigar box, his dope box, and turned on the stereo which included two six foot high outdoor speakers.

On a chaise, by the pool, he rolled a fat joint. Holding it up, he declared, with pride, "My 747".

Still high from before, Randall soared. Conversation, what there was of it, was light, an appreciation of the always beautiful weather, the music playing and the grass smoked. Comfortable, he took off his shirt and enjoyed the warm sun.

Two pretty girls came to swim. Randall stood to leave but was convinced to stay.

In a bit, he too was in the pool, nude, cavorting with the young hard bodies.

* * *

Bob had joined the Marin/money/music/marijuana scene. Rock stars and dope smugglers partied big time. His pool, where no one ever wore a swim suit, was a great place to hang out. The torment of being an informer dissipated. Morgan sold the second load to someone Bob didn't know. And a magic, for him, third trip was planned.

Scoring his house had been interesting. His lifestyle had a horrific reputation with real estate agents. He'd gone to a Sausalito hair salon and then bought an expensive suit, paying extra for instant tailoring. While waiting, he had a drink at the Trident.

Bob's hair, even an hour after his haircut, was still too long for the realtor – hippies were the worst! But, just before dismissing him, she noticed his orthodontically perfect teeth. And when he dropped that his family owned Lakewood Oil she was glad she hadn't run him out.

A book wasn't consulted. She knew every Ross listing. "There's only one possibility. Old man Larkin just went into a nursing home. The family wants $2,500 a month. First, last and a $10,000 deposit."

"That would be acceptable," Bob replied, using his 'rich kid' accent.

Her call to the property's manager stressed the prospective tenant's family pedigree.

The broker's smile revealed the house was still available. After formalities, she hung up. "If you approve, the lease will be ready tomorrow."

Standing, she asked, "Shall we go see?"

When they walked out, the broker headed toward Bob's Porsche.

"Mind driving?", he asked, knowing his car exuded a special aroma from a treat finished as he arrived.

* * *

Getting to know Randall, his first ever older friend, was an unexpected pleasure of living in Ross.

His neighbor visited and enjoyed his pool several times a week.

Frequently, while he was there, Randall listened, patiently and nonjudgmentaly, to Bob's recital of life's injustices, notwithstanding that the complaints he heard were all pretty easily characterized as 'poor little rich kid'.

Occasionally Bob came over for dinner. Randall began stocking an extra half gallon for him, a rapacious milk drinker.

Randall was given several buds from the syndicate's second load.

* * *

Often, in the afternoon, Randall napped.

One spring day, loud knocking woke him.

Downstairs, an excited Bob was at the kitchen door. "Look at these." He held out two laminated tags decorated with a bright red fat tongue stuck out between thick lips, backstage passes for that evening's Rolling Stones concert. "One's for you! You'll really dig it, believe me."

His high enthusiasm was infectious, "Sounds fantastic."

"You drive, okay?" Not waiting for an answer. "Pick me up at seven."

When it was time, Randall showered and dressed. In the mirror, his longhair, bushy mustache and hip clothes reflected his current lifestyle.

His face had relaxed. Not so long ago, his usual visage was 'don't fuck with me'.

Momentarily introspective, his present appearance was pleasing.

He picked up a long roach from an ashtray and took a big toke.

Smiling, he exhaled before the mirror. Smoke obscured ... then dissipated.

* * *

Bob was out in response to a honk. "Hey, for an old fart you look pretty groovy. What about these skins?" He wore a shiny white glove soft leather suit. His shirt was shimmery red silk. Bright white and deep red – the Stone's colors.

Cruising into San Francisco, listening to the FM station covering the concert, their already high anticipation grew.

After their passes were checked by a longhaired private cop at the stage door, they entered a super vibrant scene.

About a hundred fancy celebrants, mostly young, but not all, milled about.

Bob saw some friends and went off to join them.

A winsome English lass ambled by, making eye contact. Randall said "Hi". His friendly greeting elicited a warm smile and, pleasantly, she stopped to chat.

Carie, a publicist traveling with the Stones, was a smart, attractive, sexy lady.

While they flirted, an attorney acquaintance of Randall's joined. All three unself-consciously toked a passing joint.

Notwithstanding time slowing grass, in the charged atmosphere, time flew by. The concert began over an hour late. The audience, even aware the Stones wouldn't appear until the opening act departed, demanded an encore.

After a couple more songs, the musicians left the stage. The emcee came out. He raised his arms and the crowd quieted. As Randall lit up, he overlooked hundreds of joints being torched in the auditorium. When the audience settled, the announcer screamed into his mike, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rolling Stones!"

An enormous roar met their emergence. The four musicians plugged into their huge sound system, tuned and played one hit after another. Music obliterated cognition – thousands of amps made it felt. Energy was pure and intense. Jagger's showmanship was superb. Singing I Can't Get No Satisfaction, he realistically fucked his guitar.

Randall was as transfixed as the teens pressed against the huge speakers.

After two encores, yet another was declined by a raspy Mick.

The high, happy crowd meandered from the theater's exits.

He and Carie waited for Bob outside the stage door.

Bob, who had also connected with a lady, had been invited to a couple post concert parties.

Walking to the car, Bob told Randall that he'd gotten off on LSD just as the Stones came out and that the show had been truly cosmic.

The revelers squeezed into Randall's two seater, Bob's new friend on his lap, Carie in the jump. First they went to North Beach, and then, around three, proceeded to a Mill Valley bash, departing at dawn and stopping at Lakewood's for a morning skinny dip.

After a while, Randall went home with his new friend.

That evening, to be re-enjoyed over many joints, further cemented Randall's and Bob's friendship.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Randall had been ill, at times in great distress. That had dictated his retirement. Even a reduced case load would not have eliminated stress and the ulcer it had produced.

His health rapidly improved. Not waking hungover, hustling to the City, spending a long, tense day, then returning so wired, it took hours, even with a couple of drinks, to unwind, made a huge difference.

But, it wasn't an easy transition – from the hectic pace of a busy professional to being on an endless vacation. Slowly, though, he began to relax.

The first few months were in the rainy season, so mostly he was at home. Having lived in his house for seven years, five with no wife, there were several waiting projects.

A radial arm saw and a lathe were added to his already adequate shop.

Working carefully, he built and stained a wall of bookshelves in the den closely matching those already on another wall.

Usually he woke around 7 and watched TV until about 9. Then, til hunger sent him to the kitchen, he read. The remainder of the day was spent puttering around.

Tedium and availability increased dope smoking frequency. In less than two months three more lids had been acquired. That was somewhat bothersome. Was he substituting grass for booze? Was he finding the marijuana experience too appealing?

Tasks were divided into those which had to be done before toking, like using the table saw, and those which were okay after, like sanding or gardening.

Anything done stoned was more interesting. Activities which had been mundane became more interesting - supermarketing turned into an adventure.

Focusing on sensory input was enhanced. Never before a music aficionado, he often sat in his den, high, listening, frequently with headphones, the volume turned up.

In his yard, the form and function of nature amazed him. Scrutinizing a piece of fallen redwood bark – he found its form and function truly wondrous.

Many stoned experiences were beyond sensory. Grass made him contemplative. Marijuana brought new perspectives. New insights were often enlightening.

A peaceful aura effused from his persona.

High expectations were met every time – frequently surpassed.

* * *

Mostly socializing in San Francisco since his divorce, he'd lost contact with Marin acquaintances. Now, while running errands, he ran into old friends. Near the end of March, he bumped into Ann Miller in the market. She and her husband, Jon, had been close to Randall and his ex.

Each was surprised by the other's casual, hip look.

After exchanging news she invited him to dinner. He readily accepted.

* * *

When he arrived, his hostess tightly hugged him and then Jon did the same.

The interior of their home had dramatically changed, as if another family had moved in. Not a familiar piece. Funk had replaced French Provincial. The sofa was a purple velvet, humped-back Victorian. An antique steamer trunk, trimmed in disintegrating leather, sat where a delicate parquet coffee table had been. Plants covered every surface and more hung from macramé holders.

Jon fluffed his shoulder length hair acknowledging Randall's long coif.

"Not practicing anymore so I'm giving it a try."

"Ann told me. You not lawyering anymore came as a big surprise."

"Well," Randall smiled, surveying the room, "things have changed here."

Pleasantly, for Randall, the Millers had also become dope smokers. Before dinner,

they shared two very good joints.

Retirement, they said, would liberate him – life's true meaning would be revealed.

It was a happy connection. Having mellow friends would be fun.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Randall was introduced to several upper middle class, dope smoking Marinites. The affluent, good looking, unmarried professional was soon invited to a stream of social events where just about everybody toked.

Marijuana's role in his life substantially enlarged. Some days he got stoned before brunch and stayed that way all day.

Notwithstanding his new popularity, he still saw Chrissy frequently.

Unfortunately, for her, Randall's changes were problematic.

Formerly mature, he now seemed less so. Dope smoking well illustrated.

If he had become so fond of grass shortly after they had begun dating, she probably would have withdrawn. But, after two years, breaking up seemed too extreme. Randall, even with faults, was very special – a loving, sensitive and considerate man.

Something else added to her confusion.

* * *

In the summer of '65, Chrissy, a Vassar junior, took an archeology course which included a field trip to Egypt. To Luxor, the class steamed up the Nile.

At the rail, their guide, a University of Cairo professor, told of a recent attempt to prevent bilharzias, a disease caused by a Nile River parasite. Although many previous inoculation programs had run smoothly most adult males were refusing the free shot.

A probe of their reluctance disclosed a rumor had circulated that men free of bilharzias had much less staying power and were, therefore, less sexually satisfying. Many wives and lovers were persuading their partners to forego the shot.

She hadn't believed that females would brazenly accord such high priority to sexual satisfaction. The guide, she thought, was a something of a dirty old man, perversely enjoying having a 'sexual' talk with a young American.

As weeks passed without her objecting to the increasing frequency of Randall's grass smoking, the story became more and more credible.

Certain fantastic sex impacted. One balmy spring day, Chrissy, a junior architect in a big firm, arranged model furniture on a floor plan. When placing the bed, she felt warming between her legs, imagining a nude, erect Randall laying on it.

In a bit, her panties dampened.

Only mid-afternoon, she tried hard to concentrate on her task. Finally, she phoned.

Soon, she drove from her building's garage, on her way to Ross, on her way to being made love to by Randall.

* * *

Chrissy had come to San Francisco well introduced and was often invited to 'society page' events. For the past couple years, Randall usually escorted her.

Margo Anderson's party was formal – black tie and cocktail dresses.

He sat in a leather arm chair before a fire roaring in a large, big enough to stand in, fireplace. Chrissy was off, chatting with a college girlfriend.

Through the archway into the high ceilinged Tudor living room, a stunning female entered. Golden hair cascaded over bare, tan shoulders. The dresses low neckline white empire gown accentuated both her bronzeness and ample cleavage.

She was his fixation and he wanted to meet her. But how?

Happily, the super attractive lady stopped to chat with a man Randall knew.

He joined them immediately.

"Hello Jacques," he greeted.

Formally, Jacques introduced, "Randall Dohrn meet Suzanne Stanford."

"My pleasure," Randall said politely, extending his hand, which Suzanne softly shook, her hand linging an extra moment.

Smiling, she asked, "Jacques, be a dear, fetch me a glass of white."

Jacques departed toward the crowded bar.

"Live in the City?" Randall asked.

"No, in Aspen, next to Margo's condo. In town to shop, called to say 'hi' and was invited." She looked around, "Frankly, these parties aren't my favorite."

"What is?"

"Getting stoned."

"I knew we had something in common."

"Want to go outside? I have an incredible hash joint?"

Randall took her arm, both waving to Jacques, returning with a wineglass.

The butler directed them to the courtyard. Although chilly, there was an enclosed gazebo. Inside, Suzanne took a neatly rolled joint from her clutch.

Randall lit it for her. She deeply inhaled and passed it to him.

The taste was exotic. "My first hash joint. How do you fix 'em?"

"Use a lighter or match to get the oil burning. After a bit, blow it out and crumble the hash over the grass."

Several times the joint went out. Quite stoned, they often spaced out.

When only a tiny roach remained, the cozy living room beckoned.

After a warming minute in front of the fireplace, Suzanne went to the john.

Chrissy approached, visibly pissed. "You and that blonde were gone for nearly half an hour." Sniffing his dinner jacket, she scowled. In an angry whisper, "Disappearing with that woman and smoking grass here was unbelievably rude!" Harshly, she demanded, "Take me home, right now!"

Thankfully the drive was short. Heavy tension filled the small car. Both were working through things.

"I'll call tomorrow," he said, stopping in front of her place.

Chrissy said nothing and darted into the bright lobby of her building.

* * *

She answered on the first ring.

"You don't like me smoking dope."

"I didn't expect you'd do it all the time."

"Am I different?"

"Yes ... no, I don't know." She paused. "You look at things differently."

"There've been quite a few changes in my life."

"Do you have to smoke grass every time we're together?"

"Things we do together, like going to fancy restaurants, like making love, I especially enjoy doing stoned."

"What if I was doing something you didn't like?"

"I'd tell you it bothered me. You've never once expressed disapproval."

"Let's drop it. It's going nowhere."

"If you disapprove of my smoking it doesn't work."

"To be honest, I'll never be one hundred percent comfortable about it."

"If you feel that way, we shouldn't see each other."

Surprised, "I can't believe your dope smoking is that important?"

"It is," he affirmed.

"There's not much more to say, is there?"

"No, I guess not."

"Well, goodbye. It was very nice... rare and nice," Chrissy said in a subdued tone.

"Goodbye Chrissy... it was exceptionally nice."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Two months had passed since the New York Times columnist speculated McGovern might support legalized marijuana and the candidate had said nothing. Even when, in mid-March, The Commission on Marijuana and Drug Abuse, each member appointed by Nixon, unanimously recommended marijuana decriminalization it was ignored.

McGovern, although vigorously campaigning, said nothing about neither the Commission's proposal nor Nixon's immediate rejection.

As the PMP, greatly assisted by BNDD and FOLO, was rapidly collecting signatures, McGovern's silence was becoming worrisome.

Then, to their great relief, in late April, McGovern's California organization contacted the PMP. Harris, in the bedroom with the phone tap equipment, overheard the call and alerted Horace who was practicing putting on the living room's thick carpet.

Horace summoned Matt.

Blane left for 1510 after telling Pamela to make a 'Rush' call to Glenn.

* * *

Broad smiles greeted the narc's arrival. "Guess what?" Blane asked.

"Eaton told me. He's sure if McGovern comes out in favor it will give the PMP a tremendous boost."

"This meeting could be important, we should wire him," Hanson suggested.

The Regional Director nodded agreement.

Horace retrieved a brushed aluminum attaché case from his bedroom and opened it on a coffee table. A portable cassette recorder was built in. On either side, in padded compartments, were receivers. Listening devices, the 'bugs', were nestled into niches in the gray foam fitted into the case's top. Included were: a ballpoint pen, a flag lapel pin, lipstick and lip balm, a money clip, a wrapped tampon, a fingernail clipper, a carabineer key ring, a glasses case, a nickel and half dollar, an aspirin tin, a foil wrapped condom, men's and women's red LED digital wristwatches and matching gold wedding bands. Each could transmit whispers.

Horace extracted the nickel. "Take this", he said, "the commoner the better. Put it in a pocket by itself – nothing else, especially no other coins."

"Don't buy candy with it," Matt quipped.

"At 4 go to where they'll meet. Talk to someone. If there's any problem, I'll call and offer to donate printing. Get back to me here from a safe phone," Hanson instructed.

Glenn was impressed, bugs frequently didn't work. Horace was a real pro.

"Be sure to tell them that legalizers are already pro McGovern," Matt coached and then asked, "What's most important to California's new young voters?"

"Aw, c'mon ...", the narc stood, anxious to get back to the PMP, anticipating showing off his masterful control to his bosses. Until now, he'd only reported how easily he manipulated the PMP – tonight they'd get to hear him do it.

Matt and Horace joined, one at each side. Comradeship synchronized cadence. The three upholders of law and order marched across the wide living room.

Nothing was said. Matt's pudgy hand squeezed Glenn's shoulder.

After he left, Horace praised his cohort, "Glenn's selection was brilliant. He's fantastic. Incredible deep infiltration. He's 110% accepted by his pigeons."

"Yeah," Blane pridefully replied, "When FOLO wanted someone to do a long term penetration, I knew Schmidt would be perfect."

"Have Pamela here at eight thirty. Coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

* * *

Expertly using the foot pedal Pamela transcribed and attributed every word. Matt dozed on a sofa but Horace, thrilled by spying on private conversations, reviewed each page as it was typed. Even though he'd already heard everything while parked near the PMP's Union St. office, monitoring the transmission, reading the transcript was exciting - actually sexually titillating.

The doorman called when Pamela's taxi arrived.

Horace walked her to the elevator.

"Thanks. You did great." He pulled out a thick roll of hundreds, peeled off three and extended them, "It's appreciated."

She hesitated, "I'm not sure. Mr. Blane gives me comp time when I work overtime. I'd be getting both vacation days and ..."

A chime foretold the elevator's momentary arrival.

"Between us." A wink and nod confirmed their confidential relationship.

She grabbed the proffered cash and stuffed it in her purse.

Blane was still asleep on a couch when Horace reentered.

"Hey buddy, wake up."

Yawning, Matt asked, "Well, is George going to endorse?"

"Don't know. The peacenik definitely wants his foot in the door. Listen to this," reading from the transcript, "'The Senator believes it's tragic that young people convicted of marijuana possession have felony records forever,' and," flipping through pages, "then there's this, when the meeting was wrapping up: 'Our goals are similar. On June 6th we need votes. Two weeks later you turn in signed petitions. We want the PMP to quietly spread that our man favors legalization. We have offices in every county except a couple of the smallest. We'll circulate petitions and maybe get some signatures. I'll be honest, we're going to let our county managers decide how to handle your petitions – some, especially those in conservative rural counties, might think legalization is too controversial.'"

"Those sneaky bastards!" Blane exclaimed. "We should leak it."

"Remember, McGovern's softness is still being sandbagged," Horace chided.

* * *

Pamela deposited the McGovern/PMP meeting transcript in the Internal Security

pouch in the Federal Building's basement mail room. That afternoon, an Air Force fighter flew it across the country in a couple hours. In DC, a Justice Department courier, his briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, delivered it to BNDD's ultra posh headquarters.

A copy was messengered to FOLO. Marquis and Goodwin studied the transcript. To them the conclave had huge significance. McGovern's full endorsement would have been better, but, without question, Operation California Grass was 'on track'. And, even better, the meeting probably never would have occurred but for FOLO's and BNDD's secret assistance to the PMP. Their deviousness was writing history.

BNDD also saw California Grass was working. They were, though, becoming wary. A major politician questioning federal drug dogma might inspire others. Notwithstanding, they agreed to continue. Loyalty to Nixon was paramount. Nastiness to his many 'enemies' was the best demonstration of full commitment.

Being 'good team players' was important. Indeed, in 1972, it was most important.

CHAPTER NINE

Dim light came through the living/bedroom's large windows. Andrea was wired. All night she hoped everything was okay. But, if so, why wasn't he home or why hadn't he called?

Sipping tea, she heard a car door close on the road below and went onto the deck. Nobody, though, came up the path.

If he'd run into trouble, Cy would have contacted the attorney he had retained to be available for such emergencies.

At nine, she called the lawyer's office. His secretary said the attorney was in Court but was expected by ten.

"Is he appearing for Cy Richards? Cy might have been arrested last night."

Hearing Andrea's distress, the receptionist helpfully offered, "I'll see if the service put anything through last night."

The secretary returned shortly, "Nothing came in last night. Give me your number. Mr. Cantrell will call when he comes in."

Andrea's scary wait resumed. Maybe Cy wasn't home because there'd been an accident? Notification would have been impossible because the address on his driver license was a couple years old.

She called Marin General, the local hospital, and asked if Cy was there.

An officious woman responded, "That's a police matter. I'm transferring."

The phone was answered on the first ring. "This is BNDD Agent Malone." He firmly demanded, "Who am I talking to?"

"Could you please tell me Cy Richard's condition?"

"Whoever this is, listen carefully, I'm Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs Agent Malone, a federal police officer. This is a direct order. Identify yourself! After you do that, I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Fuck you asshole!" she shouted, slamming the phone. The nerve of that mother!

While nervously waiting for the attorney's call, thinking it would be best to not have drugs around when Cy returned, she boxed their coke inventory, scales and packaging and used wire ties to close the garbage bags of grass. Then, with her anxious energy, changed the waterbed's sheets and straightened up.

Finally, the phone chimed. "Mr. Cantrell, I'm Cy Richards' lady. He didn't come home last night. I called Marin General. He's there, but a BNDD agent demanded my name before he'd tell me anything."

"Typical goon cop bullshit. I'll find out and call back."

In just a few minutes the chime sounded. "Andrea," the lawyer's tone chilled her, "Cy was shot at Pantoll. He arrived at the hospital alive but died in surgery."

The news instantly stunned her.

A tear fell. Crying was uncontrollable. Her man was gone. She was totally unprepared. Their lives had been so intertwined. Every activity, from doing a sweet dope deal, to preparing an elaborate gourmet dinner, had been so special.

Laying on the waterbed, sobbing, she soon drifted into a much needed sleep.

Mid-afternoon, the phone's ding-dongs roused her. Why didn't Cy answer? Then, suddenly aware he wasn't lying next to her and never would be again, she woke instantly. Stunned by her new reality, the handset was lifted.

"Hello," took a supreme effort.

Jerry, a pound buyer, cheerfully greeted, "Howdy Andrea, Cy around?"

"No, he was ..."

Before she continued Jerry asked, "Did he mention what I need?"

"He did, but ..."

"Can you get it to me before 8?"

Responding reactively, she agreed, "Yeah, sure."

After hanging up, she decided to call back, tell Jerry about the calamity and decline the delivery.

First, though, she went onto the sunny deck and laid on a chaise.

When the late afternoon sun went behind Mt. Tam, it quickly cooled.

Going in, what felt right, for now, was going along with the flow.

* * *

Cy not being there hurt, but every day was a little easier. While she made no forward moves, buyers' requests were fulfilled. Continuing their high class dealing operation was tribute to her loving teacher.

Cranwood's was the big one. Besides being very lucrative even more was made reselling what had been bought at wholesale. A week passed before she contacted him.

His answering service told her to call back in ten minutes. She did so, asked for Cranwood and heard a ring before he answered. Remembering his phone phobia she said only, "It's Andrea, I want to talk."

"Tomorrow, at 3, be in front of the elephant statues in Sausalito's downtown park."

* * *

Her guess, that the cruising dark brown Rolls was Cranwood's, was right. A finger went to his lips when she got in. Silently, they rode the short distance to Muir Woods and parked in a lot filled with station wagons bearing out-of-state plates.

On the wide trail, the urbane dealer asked, "What happened?"

"Cy was meeting a Stinson Beach dude to deliver ten lids. The cops were tipped. He was shot twice in the back at close range. He died later, in the hospital."

They stopped talking when a fast walking family overtook. After the group passed, she continued, "His license address was ancient. I'm not worried and you shouldn't be. There's no reason I can't do yours."

He'd figured that's why she wanted to meet, but a lady putting out his coke, most importantly making sure it was paid for, was a big leap. "Might be too heavy duty."

"I don't think so," she smoothly said, bringing her 9mm to her shoulder bag's opening.

Looking down at the blue steel automatic, Cranwood nodded.

Not needing a new distributor appealed. And, her confidence was persuasive.

"Okay, everything's the same. I'll call when it's on." With a thumb raised, he extended his hand.

Andrea clasped his and shook. Then, she drew him into a tight embrace.

Their bodies fit together well. She was femininely soft. He was a few inches taller and muscularly firm. Her sweet smell was mesmerizing.

"You won't be disappointed," Andrea assured.

* * *

They met on Rick's new 45' sailboat. Taylor, a stellar rock and roll photographer, was in Marin to do Rick's next LP cover. No photos on this sail to Monterey, though – the rock star's image was earthy.

The sea was gentle but the wind blew steady and strong. The Smoking Gull, a luxurious teak decked schooner, quietly cruised a mile off shore.

Rick and Charlette steered in the cockpit. It was sunny and warm. Andrea and Taylor dozed on the foredeck. Her companion woke first.

When Andrea awoke Taylor asked, "Have a nice nap?" and then added, "You really are beautiful. I'd love to shoot you - your photos would be fantastic."

The boat cut through the water. Expectancy grew exponentially.

Her hand was gently taken. Fingers intertwined.

Instantly, desire arose. In a fraction of a second, lips brushed.

Their kiss lingered, tongues probed. Kisses became passionate.

Desiring privacy, they went below through the forward hatch.

In the master stateroom, Andrea took an amber vial of chopped coke and a tiny

silver spoon from her bag. Each did two. The rush added to their vibrant excitement.

Another kiss was shared. Taylor gently cupped Andrea's soft breast from below.

Andrea laid back on the bunk. Her shorts were pulled off. Her belly kissed.

Then, Taylor spread her legs and gently licked Andrea's hood.

Throbbing pulsations spread through Andrea's body. Every nerve was sensitized. Taylor wouldn't let it end - one orgasmatic spasm followed another.

Oral led to even more. The most profound 'O' yet!

Destined, they became lovers.

Pleasure giving/receiving was fully mutual.

Intensely, yet again, trying new positions, they orgasmed together.

Satisfaction was beyond anything Andrea had experienced before.

Cuddled, on their sides, warm bodies tight, in the afterglow, all senses highly acute, conscious only of each other, they turned on again.

"Lay on your back and spread your legs wide," Taylor proposed.

Andrea eagerly complied.

* * *

That night, in Monterey, they stayed together. New horizons opened.

In the morning the Smoking Gull headed north.

Fog hugged the shore but the wind was robust. By dusk the sleek boat was berthed in Sausalito's downtown marina.

Andrea accompanied Taylor to a quaint art deco style hillside hotel.

Room Service brought dinner. By candlelight, they savored a gourmet, multi-course repast as avalanches of fog cascaded down bayside hills, divided into whispy fingers and spread across the glassy, shimmery, moonlit Bay. Breathtakingly dreamy!

The album shoot was set for the next day. Andrea was glad to have the space, to service her regulars before Cranwood's began.

Business went super smooth – an extremely profitable day.

That evening, Taylor came to the cabin.

In the sauna, turns were taken with the loofah mitten. So, so sweet!

After an erotic baking, on the deck, they gasped as cold water from the hose cascaded over their heads.

The post sauna photo session was a stoned giggle. Taylor's new SX70 Polaroid produced instant color pictures.

When asked to remove her wrap, Andrea teasingly refused. Further requests were cooingly made. Playfully, she let her robe fall off a shoulder. Then, after a few more pleas, a boob was bared and, in a short while, the robe lay on the floor.

Taylor licked Andrea's nipples to make them more photogenic.

Andrea took the camera. By sweetly beseeching and cajoling, she also persuaded

her lover to shed all. Creative poses were suggested. Those pictures would become her fondest remembrances.

The Polaroid was put on a tripod. Now its timer selected which precise moments of their hot, unbelievably satisfying intimacy to record.

Photo play soon ended. Passion prevailed ... and prevailed again.

During a break from sex, sitting in bed with their backs against the wall, Taylor's calendar was spread on their laps. Consolidation of two photo shoots yielded four days for a visit, three weeks hence.

Morning came after nearly continuous love making and no sleep but they were still late arriving at the Sausalito heliport.

The two rotor passenger copter noisily landed as Andrea parked.

They ran to the gate. The helicopter's powerful downdraft swirled trash.

The attendant motioned immediate boarding.

At the top of the short ramp, Taylor turned and blew a kiss.

Blowing Andrea's long hair horizontal, the helicopter lifted and headed south.

* * *

Taylor left Wednesday. The following Monday a happy Andrea visited her safe deposit box. Cranwood's had gone superbly. The last time, when Cy had been there, final allocations had been tense. This time she'd been 'in charge' and it went easily

From her bag, she added a big wad of cash to what she and Cy had accumulated. All together it totaled $51,220. At the cabin, she had a half pound of high quality coke and two of good grass.

Days of hustling had certainly earned an afternoon of goofing off.

Towering redwoods divided Mill Valley's main street. Under their foliage, things were mellow. Nearly everyone smiled and made eye contact. Virtually all males had either longhair or facial hair, often both. The females, young and old, were fantastic. Their dress and coif reflected their earthy, most definitely liberated attitudes.

She browsed the racks of a few newly opened boutiques.

Waiting for a soy burger and a strawberry kefir at a natural food restaurant, she pondered more lucrative business options. Bringing in a suitcase of coke was her choice. It'd take a truckload of grass to make that much money.

Scores of hours, mostly stoned, had been spent thinking of various drug smuggling methods. Selecting the best was her resolve. In the meantime, she'd get a passport to be ready. There was no hurry, hers was a good trip.

Andrea was, though, very open to expansion.
CHAPTER TEN

Cranwood's criminal enterprise flourished. He kept it simple, purchasing pure coke from a Columbian lab and sealing it into the frame of a rugged four wheeler. His welding expertise was superb, the Navy having trained him to weld submarine nuclear reactors. After it had been driven over muddy Columbian roads for a few months, the vehicle was shipped to the US.

He personally extracted the coke. His own dealer syndicate sold ounces. Five very profitable loads had been disposed of, three before Andrea and two since.

Mostly, he was in Bel Air with his girlfriend, Polly. She lived in his sprawling mansion – last occupied by a big movie star.

Both dated when he wasn't in LA. When Cranwood was in town though, they were monogamous. Polly knew he dealt cocaine in quantity but didn't know, and didn't want to know, details.

They were a popular couple. Her reputation as a movie editor was growing. He always generously shared his abundant supply of nose candy.

Unfortunately, there was a lot of curiosity about his wealth. If a 'dead rich uncle'

didn't suffice, most often he'd be rude, usually saying, "None of your fucking business".

* * *

"Guess what?" Polly asked rhetorically as she walked through the door, "Gloria Bartley was arrested for drugs."

"Cops find a joint or a bindle at a traffic stop?"

"No, BNDD agents came to her house. Just about killed her mother."

The arrest of the thirtyish, reserved English lady, Joseph Clark's personal assistant, made no sense. Cranwood knew she wasn't a dealer. In fact, he guessed, she was probably 100% straight, not even a user.

Polly had edited Joe's last movie. They'd been to a few social events at the director's house. His assistant had always been there. He'd always brought 'refreshments'. Once, perchance, Gloria walked by just as he was unfolding his bindle to offer toots.

The next day, the LA Times reported her alleged crime, carrying four ounces of cocaine from Miami to LA, had occurred several months ago, before they had even met. Joe Clark posted her bail and hired an attorney to represent her.

Over the next few days, the paper named those subpoenaed by the federal grand jury. Every witness had snorted coke he had brought to Joe's.

Apprehension grew. No one else had been charged, but Cranwood knew toilets had flushed or, given its cost, there'd been some rapid consumption.

Then, after a couple newsless days, Polly came home visibly distressed. "I saw Gloria at the studio," she told Cranwood.

"Oh, what did she have to say?" he casually asked, not revealing his true interest. While he trusted Polly, the less she knew the better.

"The federal prosecutor has offered, ready for this?, total immunity if she'll testify against her boss."

"What's the government got against Joe Clark?"

"He directed a movie about a disabled Vietnam vet who's treated like shit when he gets home. Nixon hated it was a huge hit. At first, Gloria thought Joe's help was great but now she's afraid the lawyer is really protecting Clark."

Politically motivated drug cops might be extreme, maybe even unbribeable. Inevitably, he'd be named, if not already, and, whatever the initial motivation of their investigation, the 'Thought Police' would love to nail him.

"She really needs people now," Polly continued. "Let's have her for dinner."

Cranwood frowned. "Not such a great idea."

"What about lunch?"

"Not too smart, people are followed."

"I don't understand where you're coming from," she hotly replied.

"I'm into being safe, not sorry and you should be too. Where'd you see her?"

"At Clark's studio office."

"Did anyone see you two talking?"

"Just the receptionist." Her grimace reflected internal fuming, "It's too fucking crude. Everyone's probably thinking just like you. Gloria's facing twenty years in prison and nobody wants to be seen with her."

Polly stomped from the room.

* * *

Risking prison was unthinkable; draconian sentencing frightened him. Avoiding a decades long prison sentence mandated a quick return to Columbia. First, though, he had to fetch some stashed cash, about five mill, from a safe deposit drawer in a downtown San Francisco bank.

Something else compelled attention. Before Gloria's arrest, he'd cabled his South American ranch to send a Land Rover. It would soon arrive in Oakland with its hidden cache of 48 kilos. Distributing the coke himself was way too risky but abandoning the vehicle risked exposing his very valuable modus operandi, something that might be useful in the future. A sale to a dealer who had been putting out ounces was most desirable. To which, though, wasn't readily apparent.

* * *

He and Polly had their farewell dinner at Chasens, a traditional Hollywood eatery.

At four, he tooted and headed up I-5.

Ten hours later, with one stop for gas and two for coke, he reached home.

After dropping his suitcase, he attended to another priority. Andrea's Muir Woods' hug was a very pleasurable recurring memory. He called his lady associate.

* * *

As she parked in Sausalito's Gate 6 lot, Cranwood walked over. "Should have said it was social, but I don't trust phones. Mind coming to my place?"

"Not at all."

She locked her car and got into the comfortable passenger seat of his Rolls.

They drove down Bridgeway, through Sausalito.

Well amplified soft rock emitted from multiple surrounding speakers.

In a few minutes, they cruised over the Golden Gate Bridge. San Francisco's high rise skyline, including a new tall slender pyramid, sparkled. A full moon shimmered on the flat, still Pacific.

At his Telegraph Hill building his car window whooshed down and he punched a code into a keypad. The steel gate rose silently. An elegant mahogany paneled elevator, next to his parking space, whisked them to the penthouse.

Andrea's expectation that Cranwood's digs would be ultra luxurious was not disappointed. The large foyer's floor was marble. Large square black and white tiles creat-ed a large checkerboard. Antique mirrors, surrounded by elaborately carved gold frames, hung on dark green brocade covered walls. The huge living room was sunken. Massive furniture was upholstered in chocolate velvet.

"Excellent taste," she complimented.

"I'd like to take the credit but an expensive decorator did help a bit."

At the corner bar, he removed the lid from an ivory chess box sitting on the counter. The thirty two compartments, each labeled with embossed plastic tape, had hinged doors with tiny pulls. Each cubicle contained a substance the government had declared illegal – forbidden psychoactive experiences.

"What's your pleasure? Coke, something different than mine?"

"How about something mellow?"

"Let's do this Baalbek hash. From an old Roman town in Lebanon. Very strong and very, very mellow." With his Dunhill lighter, he softened a thumb sized plug, broke off a bowlful, filled a shiny brass Proto Pipe, torched it and took a big drag.

He passed the pipe to her. She inhaled deeply and then again. Two hits sufficed.

A ready fire, aided by a gas starter, soon blazed.

They sat on an overstuffed couch, staring at the flickering flames.

"No more deals, right?" Socializing was her persuasive clue.

"Yep, going back to Columbia." Andrea was sharp, quite likely to detect any bullshit. For sure that would not help get her into bed.

"Might come down. Introductions would be very appreciated."

Much preferring romance to business, he invited, "Come, see my view."

She followed him onto the refreshingly cool balcony.

Below, a freighter came from the Golden Gate. Soon it was silhouetted against Alcatraz, now occupied by Indians and dark. His enroute load came to mind.

He gently turned her face and tilted it to meet his lips.

Neither resisting nor responding, goose bumps were from the chill alone.

"Let's go in," she softly suggested.

Inside, he poked the fire and added a log.

"You're very dear Cranwood," she said gently, "but I'm deeply committed to someone."

Cranwood was impressed. Not exploiting his lust to further her smuggling ambitions displayed, to him, high integrity.

"If you came south, how much would you have to make your buy?"

"About fifty."

"What about 48 keys, here in the states, for fifty?"

"You're kidding!" The value of that much coke was humongous, like selling two keys totally returned her investment - the rest would be pure profit.

"Let's toot and talk details."

* * *

The next afternoon, money was exchanged for the claim document.

Ten days later the newspaper reported the ship with the laden vehicle had arrived.

A customer's wife gave her a lift to the Port of Oakland.

As Customs had already cleared the Land Rover, no waiting was necessary.

She drove to the house they, and then she alone, had used for Cranwood's deals.

* * *

In the garage, beneath the Rover, Cranwood's instructions made sense. The front bumper was bolted to plates on both sides. From those plates, 4" steel boxes extended the vehicle's length, about a foot and a half in from each side.

Scraping mud from where he said the coke was hidden revealed nothing.

She tried sockets until one fit over a nut attaching the bumper. That socket was put on the wrench handle's square drive.

When the wrench was pulled, it spun, nearly smashing her gloved hand. Then, she noticed a little lever. Flipping it reversed rotation. A giant breakthrough!

Underneath, trying again and pulling hard, it and two others yielded. The fourth wouldn't budge. Only two on the left loosened. Andrea was frustrated and exhausted. Only five nuts had been removed, and, this was, according to Cranwood, the easy part. She scooted out from under the vehicle and sat with her back against the wall. A piece of pipe, about two feet long, was leaning nearby. It was just big enough to fit over the wrench handle. She had an idea.

Back under, she tested her theory. Hallelujah, it worked! The pipe's added leverage loosened the tight right nut. Then, the two on the left yielded.

When all the nuts were off, the bumper was kicked to a thudding fall.

Time for a much needed break. She left the stuffy garage, grabbed a cold beer and read the reciprocating saw instructions on a shady deck.

Returning to the Rover she went back under. A caged work light illuminated. Nothing happened when she squeezed the saw's trigger – it wasn't plugged in.

An outlet on the work light was used and she tried again. This time the wildly vibrating saw almost jumped from her hands. Trying again, the tool held firmly, it was controllable.

Her first attempt just left shiny scratches but the next try cut into the top corner. In a few minutes, the hack-saw's teeth were worn and the blade had to be replaced.

For more than an hour she laid on her back, holding the heavy, noisy tool above except for short breaks every few minutes to change saw blades.

Finally, only a quarter inch remained. Again, with yet another blade, she raised the now warm saw. A few minutes more cut through. That section of the chassis fell crashingly to the floor. Inside the fallen frame member, clear plastic bags of white powder sparkled.

Andrea had her cocaine!

* * *

Her plan minimized holding. It was risky but new customers were okay if they had been introduced by trusted dealers. Terms were strictly cash. No fronting. Coke's growing popularity meant distribution went super fast.

Verging on exhaustion, selling had given her a sore nose.

Daily, her safe deposit drawer was stuffed. No time was taken to count.

The fourth and final morning, the remaining 10 keys were loaded in her trunk.

The first stop was in west Oakland. She parked behind a boarded-up machine shop in a grimy hood and took a supermarket bag with two keys from the trunk.

From behind the door, the new customer sharply directed, "Bring it in."

Entering, she said, "2 for 50, right?" Strongly suspecting a ripoff, she managed to sound calm and normal.

"It's different," he nervously exclaimed, pulling a cheap looking revolver from a pants pocket. "I want your car keys. Give me your purse," he snarled.

She set the shopping bag with the coke on a long unused dusty steel desk. As she handed him her handbag, he glanced at it. In that split second, her gun emerged from under her untucked blouse and was instantly against the scumbag's head.

He was so had. Any resistance and she'd pull the trigger. He knew it. His revolver fell to the floor with a tinny thud.

Her immediate concern was his following. "Take your clothes off, asshole!"

The sleazy creep stripped to dingy white jockey shorts.

"Those too!"

Removing them, hands covered his privates. Dark kinky hair covered his body.

"On the floor, face down, arms on your side," the pissed off lady ordered.

She put his clothes and pistol into the bag with her coke.

It had to be done.

Her boot broke his nose, cartilage smashed, blood gushed. "You tell Buddy," the dealer who had introduced this piece of shit, "That I did that!"

While selling the rest, she decided this was her final. She had plenty of money and what had happened, offended her. When the coke had been sold, Andrea became a wealthy ex-dealer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On a warm, typically perfect Ross summer afternoon, Randall lay on a chaise besides Bob's pool. Facing the sun, his eyes were closed.

His eyelid's redness darkened. Aware of a subtle fragrance – not a perfume, a natural scent - he knew a woman stood between him and the sun. He opened his eyes. A brilliant white sun ring surrounded her head. A very pretty face could just be seen.

"Hi, I'm Andrea."

"Randall."

Gracefully, she reclined on an adjoining lounge. Knowing it wasn't cool to stare, he still managed to fully take in an extraordinarily attractive nude young woman.

"Bob said you're an attorney."

"Before retiring, I was. Do you have a legal problem?"

She hesitated, but was sure, that even if this mellow looking, longhaired, mustached, older dude didn't help, he wouldn't do something weird, "I have a mill in cash that needs to be cleaned".

Intrigued, he deferred explaining possibilities to extend his time with her. "I might be able to help. Plans for later?"

"I'm loose."

"When the sun gets low, let's go to my house and discuss your options?"

"Sounds fine, just say when you're ready to go."

He'd met several ladies at Bob's but none so appealing. Knowing only that she was super attractive and had an illegal fortune, he tried reining his emotions.

Waking from a dreamy nap past five, before saying anything, he gazed.

She had also dozed. Having half turned, gravity had reshaped her breasts. Her neatly trimmed bush was the same shade and tone as her blonde hair.

Quietly he murmured, "Andrea ... Andrea."

She heard but didn't open her eyes. His saying her name did sound nice. Quickly though, she reminded herself how much she loved Taylor.

There was absolutely no chance of romance with Randall Dohrn.

* * *

Riding to his house in Andrea's new Jag XKE convertible, he felt confusion. May-be it was wishful thinking but he guessed that she was presently romantically involved and had unexpectedly met someone she was attracted to, namely him.

Entering through the kitchen, they went into the cool den.

"I'm going to shower. If you'd like you can watch TV or play an album."

He walked out but returned immediately, asking, "Would you like something to drink?"

"No thank you. I'm fine, really."

Showering, he thought his offers had probably sounded awkward.

Andrea, comfortable in a large leather armchair, saw gold wings in a lucite block on the coffee table. So, he'd been a military pilot. What kind of plane? A large framed photo of a soaring swept wing fighter answered. So, the military thought he was aggressive and combative. Not with women, though, she was sure. He always got his way.

When joining Andrea in the den, he wore pressed, often washed levis and a tight dark green tee. His tan, black mustache and long hair gave him a Mexican bandit look.

From a cedar cigar box balanced on his knees, he rolled and lit a neat joint. After a huge toke, he passed it. She let a dense cloud of smoke hover just outside her mouth before sharply inhaling.

"Did you quit because you made so much money you didn't need any more?", she asked.

"Oh, I made my share. Retired because of a messed up gut." He paused, "And there was something else. Everyone I associated with was somehow involved with my practice. I've found there's more to life than suing sloppy doctors."

After his second toke, a gentle euphoria came on. His strong attraction faded, somewhat, but concerned he might sound 'out of it' his question was reviewed before he asked, "What do you do?"

"I dealt. Remember, that's what I wanted to talk to you about? - cleaning my money." Smiling, with a touch of smugness, she added, "Guess I'm also retired."

Conversation lulled. Andrea thought of Taylor. Randall resisted surrender.

Still though, he reviewed his next proposed query, making sure it wouldn't make him sound 'out of it', "Were you dealing grass?"

"Yeah, but mostly coke. Like a toot?"

"Ah, ... well, I've never ... ". Shit, he immediately deeply regretted his admission.

Taking a small dark amber colored glass vial from her shoulder bag, she asked, "Want to try?"

"What'll it do?"

"Things'll intensify. You won't be hungry. It'll keep you awake."

"Losing my appetite and not sleeping doesn't sound appealing. What's the attraction?"

"Every so often, you really do get off. Everything makes phenomenal sense and you're in the center. If there's more, you keep snorting to maintain that fantastic feeling but what usually happens is that you just get speedier. But, when you do get off, it's super." She paused, "Oh yeah, there's one more thing - it's great for sex."

"I understand that – pot definitely enhances physical love for me."

"Not really the same – more like a speed rush."

"Think I'll pass. But, please, go ahead."

Andrea was delighted he declined. Belatedly, it'd occurred he'd take her sex remark as an invitation. And, even more importantly, her own feelings crystallized. "I'm going to pass too. When I was telling you, I heard things myself."

Randall was impressed. Knowing Andrea Blackwell was going to be interesting.

* * *

After briefly discussing her 'dirty' money, he again used the leverage his assistance bestowed to make another date telling her he needed to visit the law library to evaluate laundering options and asked her to come for dinner on Friday.

One anti-grass argument that seemed valid, when he first started smoking, was short term memory impairment. But, over the past few months, there'd apparently been a full adjustment because he precisely remembered every moment spent with her.

He thought of nothing but Andrea, remembering how she had looked, especially when au natural at Bob's pool, what outrageous tits and ass!, and then in shorts and tube top in his den.

* * *

Thursday, Taylor called. An Ohio county had canceled a rock festival and freed the weekend.

Exiting the copter at the Sausalito heliport, her lover was a shaft of light.

In fifteen minutes they were back at the cabin and in another five in bed.

Truly appreciating Randall's help, Andrea kept her Friday dinner date.

A trip to Hong Kong was proposed. There, they'd 'arrange' a phony million dollar loan to a corporation he'd form for Andrea. Her company would buy stocks and bonds which she could sell whenever she needed funds.

Business was planned to be finished before dinner, a prelude to a very social evening. But, after dessert, Andrea told him her dear friend, whose achievements as a photographer were extensively extolled, had unexpectedly visited, and she had to leave.

After she was gone, he was royally pissed. Dinner hadn't been rushed through but her early departure was rude, shattering his romantic expectations. Initially, he resolved to just never see her again. She just wasn't worth the aggravation!

In a while, though, he mellowed and realized how super nice it had been. What was her story? How could she resist what was so obviously meant to be?

* * *

Saturday evening, Andrea and Taylor went to a San Francisco movie studio party. The production company's current release, the current mega hit, a tale of a mafia godfather, was projected in a corner of a sound stage, before armchairs with headphones.

In another corner, a multi-screen psychedelic light show accompanied a trio, famous for never playing live gigs.

It was a plush, high energy bash but Andrea wished she hadn't come. In the mammoth space she recognized no one. Taylor, it seemed, knew everyone.

Taylor repeatedly introduced her as best San Francisco girlfriend. Andrea felt that designation trivialized their relationship.

After a couple hours of standing, Andrea suggested they sit.

A couch in a relatively quiet area beckoned.

"You're not having a good time, are you?" Taylor asked.

"Not really," she coolly replied. Taylor as a 'Hollywood' person turned her off. And Taylor's introduction had been so insipid. Did Taylor have 'best girlfriends' in other cities? It was all rather distressing but she didn't want to get into it at a party.

"I don't get to see these people often." Taylor glanced at a nearby chatting group, "Oh, there's Jay, I've got to thank him for a great assignment. I'll be just a minute."

A guy walked by smoking hash. He stopped and offered his pipe to Andrea. She took a deep hit. It was 'knock-your-socks-off' potent.

Rather than dwell on disappointment Andrea was bemused, marveling at the depth of two infatuations, one with Taylor and the other with loving without regard to gender. Thoughts of Randall occurred. The romantic/sexual ramifications of their upcoming trip to Hong Kong came to her with a start.

* * *

Before Andrea's premature departure on Friday evening, he had asked her to come for lunch on Monday, to finalize their money sanitizing scheme.

Knowing that Taylor left on Sunday, she had agreed to come.

His hunch about her present involvement made him somewhat competitive.

The one cookbook his ex-wife hadn't taken laid open on the counter. Meticulously, he followed a recipe for what he hoped would be a delicious Quiche Lorraine.

Pleasantly, Andrea arrived a few minutes early. Her presence further brightened the sunny kitchen.

"Thought you might, being a pot aficionado", opening her hand, revealing three neatly rolled joints, "enjoy these."

"I'll put this in the oven and we'll try one."

On the shady patio, reclining on padded redwood chaises, they toked her dynamite. A quarter smoked, it went out.

Profoundly stoned, they tranquilly laid back. A crested jay landed on a small table between the chaises, looking from one to the other, signaling, it seemed, that they belonged together.

The timer chimed and Randall took the perfect looking Quiche from the oven.

Andrea picked magenta cosmos and artfully arranged them in an empty glass on the umbrella covered patio table.

During lunch, the trip to Hong Kong was discussed, but, as a vacation rather than a business trip. He shared remembrances of previous visits. Bullshit was behind – unabashedly, they flirted, sending strong signals of positive expectancy.

Before dessert of melon and papaya compote, more of what she had brought was smoked.

He had never before even approached being so stoned.

It was nearly three when they went inside.

After dishes were set on the counter, long, sweet kisses were shared.

He showed her the rest of the house.

In his bedroom there was vibrant excitement. They were drawn together like strong magnets. It was right.

For her, wearing only shorts and a tube top, undressing was easy.

His clothes fell into a pile.

She was so much sexier than his vivid memory. Boobs sagged just slightly. Nipples were super sexy. Bumpy pink areolas were large. Tips were erect. Her golden pubes gave just a glimpse of plump, wrinkled labia. Naked, she lay on her back.

Lust was mutual and unchecked.

Previous ultimates were so far surpassed. Fusion was cosmic.

Eventually, hunger took them downstairs, to the kitchen.

The robed lovers stood in front of the open frig, feasting on munchables.

* * *

The next day Randall admired the former drug emporium while Andrea gathered a 'few things' which turned out to be a large suitcase and jump seat full, taking two trips by both down the rocky trail.

After dropping off her stuff, they wandered through a supermarket's aisles, stocking up on necessaries and treats.

Days were free form. Usually, but not always, they woke early. His bedroom had a TV and small frig so they spent a lot of time there. Before long though, they'd been intimate in every room, bathrooms included.

Everything was discussed. Past and new observations were offered. Occasionally,

points of view differed. Sometimes, they even argued.

Her age and sex were totally disregarded. She couldn't have been more charmed.

Sunbathing was their main activity. Andrea believed solar energy was directly absorbed by the skin, the more exposed the better. Randall thought otherwise but notwithstanding agreed nude sunbathing was best.

One day Andrea mused she might go to law school and eventually they could practice together. Proposing, "Our firm will be 'Blackwell and Dohrn'".

"Not 'Dohrn and Blackwell' in recognition of my extensive experience."

After considering, "No 'Blackwell and Dohrn' definitely sounds better."

His backyard was as private as Bob's. Whatever was not a problem.

Dinners were double joint, cooked by both after toking.

TV was watched most evenings. Movies were favorite, commercials just right for food runs.

Long walks were often taken on nearby tree canopied streets and sometimes they hiked up Mt. Tam's slopes.

When entertaining male guests, Andrea was splendidly hospitable. If a lady visited, subtly, but clearly, territoriality was conveyed. Andrea was the lady of this house!

Since Randall had plenty of money and felt it was the male prerogative to pay for everything, the trip to Hong Kong was dropped. Quickly, effortlessly, they melded.

CHAPTER TWELVE

To celebrate with Horace and Matt, Glenn uncharacteristically declined Larry's invitation to join him and Linda to watch the Democratic convention.

A few weeks before, he'd had a fantastic time partying with his bosses. Horace had suggested a statewide signature tally. Research predicted that if, by now, the PMP had collected more than 175,000 signatures, getting legalization on the ballot would happen. That would force presidential candidates to take a stand. Nixon would, of course, be opposed but his opponent might fall for the trap.

County Coordinators were surveyed. When the count was done Glenn came to 1510 to report that the PMP had already collected over 190,000.

The anti-drug crusaders had consumed large quantities of alcohol, not a drug according to the government, gotten falling down drunk and raucously celebrated.

Hanson's prediction had been correct. Legalization easily made the ballot.

Glenn sought that same camaraderie when McGovern was nominated. Only the official Democratic nomination remained for total fulfillment of Operation California Grass. Even though the candidate had said nothing supportive of legalization, FOLO and BNDD had been assured, repeatedly, that he'd eventually endorse.

McGovern's wishy-washiness had been rewarding. PMP's voter registration campaign gave him a slim victory in California's winner-take-all primary.

The TV was muted when McGovern's nomination was official.

Picket carrying delegates and descending balloons filled the screen.

They were ecstatic. Blane exclaimed, "Just once, 'Georgy Boy', for the TV cameras – tell American parents their kids should smoke dope and be stoned hippies."

Horace opened a bottle of expensive French champagne, poured three glasses and toasted, "To the War on Drugs - to complete obedience to Law and Order - to putting drug users in prison for a long time."

* * *

At PMP's Union Street office, Glenn encountered a dropped jaw, devastated State Coordinator and asked, "Hey, bro, what's wrong?"

"Later!" Larry barked.

"Something happen?"

"I said not now!", he snarled and stomped away.

Glenn had never seen him, usually pretty mellow, so distraught.

Guessing the phone tap tape revealed what had so distressed Larry, he made up an excuse and left PMP's office for 1510.

When he arrived Horace asked, "What's up?"

"Don't know. Eaton's really freaked and wouldn't say why."

In the bedroom with the phone tap equipment, Glenn rewound and played today's recording, fast forwarding when not interested. After several trivial calls, one came from Bennington. Blasé's secretary put Larry on hold. Shortly, Victor Blasé came on. "Effective immediately, Bennington's aid to the PMP is terminated."

"Funding was approved through November. We depend on Bennington."

"The Board's decision is final," Blasé responded in a curt, businesslike tone. "Re-

view your documents. You'll see the Board can terminate monthly grants at any time."

Several further entreaties were fended off and the call ended.

"I'll get Pamela," Horace said. "Stick around."

* * *

Blane accompanied his secretary.

Pamela had always been standoffish but today was nice, almost flirty.

Horace replayed the call, wryly observing, "McGovern saw our trap. He's trying to bury legalized grass."

"Affirmative, every Bennington Director is a McGovern supporter."

Horace shook his head, "He didn't take the bait."

Pamela typed the Blasé/Eaton conversation and left with Matt. The transcript would be sent to Washington via the daily intelligence flight.

Horace and Glenn frowned at the unfortunate turn of events.

* * *

A copy of the call transcript and a memo setting a conference tomorrow were messengered to FOLO. Goodwin and Marquis were disappointed. But, FOLO's sneaky secret support of marijuana legalization had already given McGovern the California primary and thus the nomination. As McGovern was Nixon's easiest possible opponent, Operation California Grass was already a stupendous success.

Seeing their political manipulation work so well brought them true ecstasy.

At BNDD's meeting, Marquis suggested ways to exploit McGovern's failure to support and urged immediate resumption of anonymous donations.

BNDD, though, was vehemently against any assistance. Questioning federal drug dogma was gross misbehavior mandating immediate, harsh punishment. Legalization leaders deserved a lesson they'd never forget.

Authorized to use discretion, Marquis decided FOLO should withdraw. Washington DC police had recently arrested CIA agents and Republican Party operatives inside the Democratic Party's Watergate offices. While ordinary citizens had no rights, these victims were politicians, whose privacy protections were inviolate. Who knows? The scandal might even expand into other dirty tricks like FOLO's scheme to get marijuana legalization on the ballot. Marquis deemed it prudent to distance FOLO from BNDD's impending nastiness.

Operation California Grass entered a new phase.

* * *

Glenn met Matt at 1510 while Horace golfed.

Told his pay stayed the same, he was given new orders – report only to BNDD - destroy the PMP – help punish the assholes who challenged our sacred drug laws

Now Glenn could be his true self. Driving to PMP's office, he became charged. This would be fun. Regardless how nice the smart asses, Larry and Linda, had been, he really didn't like them. To him they were spoiled upper middle class kids audaciously trying to remove criminal sanctions from a 'Schedule 1' drug.

A raid of their apartment was imagined, furniture being smashed, police batons breaking TV and computer screens and the PMP assholes questioned with pistols barrels stuck in their mouths – BNDD's standard interrogation technique.

Cruising for parking, he recalled the contract for a benefit concert awaited his review. Screwing that up would be a fantastic beginning!

* * *

Insanity existed between marijuana politics and music. The biggest rock acts were under contract to large record companies owned by major broadcasters. Assisting legalization might prompt more stupid regulations from Nixon's Federal Communication Commission. The FCC had recently banned 'pro drug' songs. Was Puff the Magic Dragon sinister? Was Puff the dragon's name or a verb?

Unwillingness to help was never disclosed. Rather, promoters were endlessly strung out, done with true expertise as that was the music industry's standard way of doing business.

Big Bart Morgath, a San Francisco music impresario, had watched several proposed benefits fizzle, figured the majors would never allow a pro pot appearance and put together a respectable small label benefit.

* * *

When Glenn arrived at the PMP office, Larry immediately asked, "Concert paperwork come?"

"Late yesterday. I'll check it first thing."

"It's top priority", Larry told him. "Without Bennington we desperately need that money. We're close to qualifying but we're not there yet."

Glenn quickly found the 'flaw' he was looking for.

Entering Eaton's office, he declared, "Morgath's trying to rip us off."

"What are you talking about?"

Glenn proffered the contract. "Take a look, second paragraph on page four."

Larry read it. "I don't see any problem. All record royalties are paid to us, net of any unpaid expenses."

"Yeah, but his costs are fully reimbursed from the gate receipts. Music promoters claim phony expenses long after the event. The record companies should pay us directly. That money could be important for the future."

Relying on Glenn's long record of correctness while he was being coached by Horace and Matt, he reluctantly agreed. "Okay, contact Morgath and suggest a redraft. But, be diplomatic, don't upset him. Without Bennington, those proceeds are crucial."

Glenn returned to his office and called Morgath.

"Raring to go!" the promoter exclaimed. "Everything okay?"

"Not quite. Larry wants record royalties sent directly to PMP."

"Getting that money is tough," Big Bart patiently explained. "Do it my way."

"Not possible, Larry doesn't trust you," Glenn casually responded.

Morgath, insulted, hotly fired back, "Tell Eaton that's the way it's going to be done!"

"Mr. Morgath, Larry told me the record money provision had to be redrafted."

"Fuck Larry Eaton and the PMP! I'm not busting my ass for the biggest jerk in the State of California!"

Returning to Eaton's office, Glenn shook his head, "Morgath backed out."

"I don't believe it!" Larry turned the phone on his desk and directed, "Dial."

Larry's directive was unexpected but, unable to think of a way out, he retrieved the file from his office, went back to Larry's and dialed the number.

"Bart Morgath, please. Larry Eaton calling."

The office was silent. Glenn sat, staring at the floor. Was his first day of destroying the PMP going to be his last? Would his sabotage be revealed?

He looked up. The handset was no longer against Eaton's ear.

"Morgath wouldn't talk to me," Larry dejectedly reported.

Repressing a smile was hard but Glenn stayed appropriately glum.

* * *

Randall, attending a meeting of Marin PMP supporters, arrived at the rambling Tiburon home of Cleve Johnson, a waterbed tycoon, unnecessarily bringing several joints. A gray cloud already floated above the two story great room and enough grass and hash sat on tables and the hearth to stone all attendees many times over.

As Randall had guessed, it was a fund raiser. All the attendees, including a famous screenwriter, a doctor who wrote for hip publications and a well-known defense attorney, were very affluent and likely had already donated significant amounts.

Larry tapped a hash pipe on a coffee table to get the group's attention. After cogently describing PMP's present situation, he asked for questions.

Randall had the first, "Why'd Bennington terminate?"

That inquiry had been anticipated and Larry had prepared his response. "The foundation, aware of the fantastic job we'd done getting signatures, believed the PMP could and should be self-sufficient."

Johnson then asked, "Why not close your county offices and advertise? TV ads can be very effective in elections."

"Unfortunately, our base support is not affluent and we won't be able to raise enough to do that effectively. We'll use 'people power' – our county offices enable us to do that." The 'people power' rationale, thought to be the least effective, had been sold to Larry by Glenn. Blane had fed it to Glenn.

Glenn cleared his throat. Larry introduced the Northern Counties Coordinator.

"You guys all have a lot of money", Glenn began. Continuing, "Give now to change the law and you'll save in the long run. Even rich people get busted for marijuana and that will be embarrassing and expensive."

Larry sensed Glenn's strange remarks had made the 'high-rollers' uncomfortable. Rather than making an appeal for additional donations, which would sound like buying 'not getting busted insurance', he implored, "Please remember, replacing Bennington's assistance quickly is crucial."

The PMP leaders stayed a while longer.

Shortly after, through an open window, the group heard Larry tell Glenn, "You were so weird." Then, car doors shut and the engine started.

Mainly the group discussed how bizarre Glenn was. No one said whether they'd give more, or, if so, how much. The consensus was that PMP had done an incredible job, but, without a vigorous media campaign, legalization wasn't going to happen in 1972.

* * *

The next day, Randall, curious as to why Bennington had cut the PMP off after the initiative qualified and a tight election coming, called Victor.

Blasé hesitated before explaining. "Absolutely not for publication. McGovern's campaign is freaked. Favoring pot legalization is a huge disaster everywhere but there."

"His current position?"

"That possession should be a misdemeanor and that dealing, regardless of quantity, be a long mandatory minimum sentence felony."

"Wish it were a surprise. Still coming out?"

"Next month. I'm doing 'post grant' research for Bennington," he wise-cracked.

"Don't forget, I have some expertise in this area – I'll share it with you."

* * *

McGovern's unwillingness to support legalization made Randall's decision whether to donate more even harder to make.

Without a presidential candidate's endorsement or a strong ad campaign, legalization would never happen. Usually he disliked and rejected futile gestures, but...

Andrea agreed giving the PMP an additional $500 was a solid idea.

* * *

Matt Blane, now well known in high level Washington circles because of his role in the continuing saga of squelching the PMP, was selected as BNDD's candidate to become the next Commissioner of Customs.

As expected, BNDD headquarters was totally clueless about what was really happening in California. The top men believed if the PMP was not stopped it could hamper capitalists from fully exploiting workers and actually lessen their obscene profits.

To Blane, the PMP was a big zero, only credible because FOLO and the BNDD had rendered huge assistance. But, as he was being continuously praised for crushing the dope smoking, hippie subversives, misconceptions were not corrected.

To assist his obliteration of the PMP, Blane was told to contact BNDD's Internal Revenue Service liaison in San Francisco and use the IRS's vast resources to wreck havoc in the lifes of anyone who had donated a significant amount to the PMP.

Ralph McGrady, a 'reliable' Revenue Officer, was briefed by Matt Blane who gave him several 'targets' and told him to expect more.

* * *

All PMP mail first went to San Francisco BNDD. There, Pamela candled the envelopes using a special lamp. Cash and money orders were seized. Checks were allowed through, after all information was recorded. Who had given and how much was always known.

His additional $500 contribution put Randall on the list of potential tax targets.

Blane reviewed the Randall Dohrn material Horace had left behind. He also was impressed by the twenty year old report of Randall's college psychology experiment which noted his outstanding natural leadership.

Disrupt the life of the privileged pothead, Randall Dohrn, McGrady was told.

* * *

Matt told Glenn his benefit sabotage was 'what the BNDD wants'. "Keep up the good work," he praised.

The narc was totally devoted to 'fuck the PMP'. He was good at it.

Phones were disconnected when he pulled the payment from outgoing mail. A hefty deposit was required to turn them back on. $50 was lifted from petty cash; keys were taken off a desk and pocketed. He told new guys a pretty lady volunteer was spreading the clap.

Whenever he couldn't be overheard, he was grossly rude to donors and volunteers, especially County Coordinators.

His impact was devastating. Reputed to be politically brilliant, while Horace and Matt were feeding him great ideas, he was accorded great deference. Replacement of Bennington's funding was artfully delayed. Counseling that dwindling funds allowed only a single chance, he stressed it had to be right. Failure meant oblivion. Whatever was suggested, he pointed out possible pitfalls, intending to put off implementing any viable alternative as long as possible. As he hoped, nothing happened, things wallowed.

Glenn crippled the PMP. Morale plummeted. 'No-smoking' meant a visit to headquarters wouldn't, in any way, be a high experience.

Persuading the electorate lay ahead and the PMP desperately struggled to keep its few county offices open.

Getting legalization on the ballot quickly became meaningless.

Glenn, while looking morose, was ecstatic. Helpfulness had required effort but destroying the PMP came naturally.

But, he was so busy destroying the PMP that almost two weeks passed before he asked Pamela for a date.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She didn't date snitches but months of typing California Grass memos had greatly elevated his status. And, her last sweet encounter had been a while ago. She was, well, rather horny. Expectations couldn't have been higher. A bubble bath in the master suite's sunken tub after sex was sweetly anticipated.

Her arrival was punctual. She had a key but, since this was social, rang 1510's doorbell. Her tight jersey dress, so different from her usual work outfits, said a lot. Pamela was a sexy lady.

Glenn warmly greeted. Her demeanor was so unlike usual. Her friendliness conveyed an openness he hadn't expected.

Settling in a loveseat, she overlooked a panoramic view of San Francisco Bay.

Sailboats of all sizes filled the Bay on this warm, clear evening.

He fixed extra strong drinks, served Pamela and then fiddled with the hi-tech stereo. After much dial turning and button pushing, easy listening music was produced.

California Grass was discussed. Debriefings had become routine but with his date he could expound on subtleties, particularly those showing his cleverness.

Returning from getting a second round of drinks, he sat beside her.

When the setting sun dropped below the coastal hills, conversation lulled. The dramatically beautiful, high, wispy, red streaked clouds, enthralled.

His arm, which had been on the loveseat's back, came to rest on her shoulders.

She moved closer and turned. Lips parted. They kissed. Tongues probed.

Pleasantly surprised by her enthusiasm, he stood and extended his hand. "Let's go to the master suite."

Hand in hand, they walked down the long wide hall.

Unintentionally, but fortuitously, music had been piped in.

They tightly embraced. Her mound gyrated against his crotch. She was lascivious. He'd been with women who hadn't required slow, patient seduction before but, with Pamela, it was unexpected. And, there was something else – even though she obviously wanted sex, he didn't detect a hint of an erection.

Sitting on the round bed's edge, they kicked off their shoes and scooted to the center. A beige raw silk bedspread covered the firm, new mattress.

After a few minutes of necking she stood and pulled her dress over her head. Standing there, wearing only a pink lacy bra and matching bikini panties, she waited.

He disregarded her invitation to finish her undressing. Still soft, he wasn't ready to undress himself so he didn't get up. This was very disturbing. The last time, he'd ejaculated instantly. It had been embarrassing but at least he'd gotten hard.

She gave up waiting for him to take off her sexy lingerie and got back into bed.

Heavy necking resumed. Reaching around, with one hand, he unsnapped her bra and caressed her firm, athletic breasts, playing with her hard nipples.

A sensitivity that would surely lead to a hard-on was felt. To help, he visualized his most exciting partner ever, remembering how her firm, melon sized pointy boobs wildly flopped as she had sat on top while he laid on his back, massaging her clit, having one pulsating orgasm after another. Screwing had lasted all night.

Mental sex and caressing Pamela's sexy little tits did nothing.

After petting a while longer, feeling awkward still being clothed, he got out of bed and stripped, except his jockey shorts. He glanced at the soft bulge. Pamela, he saw, was looking at the same thing.

It was confounding. The evening had started so fine. 1510 was a fantastic place to begin an affair. What was wrong? With hope, she reached inside his shorts.

His responded by slipping his finger alongside her panty's damp crotch, between soft labia and into her wet, tight pussy. That sent a jolt. He was sure he'd get hard.

Foreplay didn't do it, so she pulled Glenn's briefs down and took his flaccid penis into her mouth. Sucking his cock excited her even more but, after trying for several minutes and getting no response, she quit. Romantic illusions shattered. Impotency elicited no compassion. The guy was pathetic. If incapable, he shouldn't have started.

Standing to leave, love juice trickled down inner thighs. Quickly dressing, she announced, "I'm going," and departed.

Not understanding, he was both humiliated and perplexed.

The next time, he'd get hard. But, he knew, he'd never try again with Pamela.

* * *

His inability to achieve an erection came to mind constantly. Making his daily call-ins, exchanging a few words with Pamela, always triggered a mental replay of the 1510 disaster.

While showering, his soapy hand tried. Nothing was felt – as if nerves had been cut.

Having business in Marin, he visited his Tiburon apartment [although unused, FOLO paid the rent]. Enroute, he bought Playboy, his all time favorite jack off magazine. In the master john, he propped the glossy mag on the vanity and dropped his pants. He lathered his right hand and turned pages with his left. Unthumbed through before, the pictures were fresh. Flailing his dick, he lustily stared at perky tits, trimmed pubes and plump vulvas, some with pronounced lips and others with none visible. His sudsy cock remained limp.

What was wrong? Was his PMP destruction that exhausting? Maybe true, because, besides his limp dick, he thought of nothing but fucking over the asshole legalizers. Anything done to fuck the PMP made him happy.

Before, setting up users and dealers, sending his 'pigeons' to jail for a very long time was very gratifying, but his present assignment was even better. His long penetration, leadership role and record of super political savvy combined to make his evil mission incredibly effective.

* * *

Sonoma's Coordinator, Lance Lewis, a Stanford pre-med senior, tall, handsome, expensively and stylishly dressed and coifed, was everything Glenn wasn't.

Shortly after Sonoma PMP opened, Glenn went to Santa Rosa to show the new Coordinator how to run a County office. Instead, though, he traipsed from store to store with Lance. All the shopkeepers knew him and asked about his family. Even the straightest took petitions for their customers to sign.

That evening, Glenn accepted Lance's dinner invitation.

At the Lewis home, a hilltop hacienda, drinks were served on the veranda by an elderly white jacketed black man. A tinkling bell summoned the diners.

A uniformed Mexican maid presented a platter of seafood crepes to Glenn. Mrs. Lewis saw their guest was unsure how to proceed and asked that the others be served first. Glenn watched Lance and his parents deftly, with one hand, use the large fork and spoon on the platter to put a crepe on their plates.

Trying the same, the cream sauce covered crepe tumbled onto his lap.

Mr. Lewis strongly opposed legalization. Glenn could never live at home having a political view contrary to his father's. Obviously, different rules applied to Lance.

From the beginning, the phone taps revealed Lance repeatedly told Larry and Linda of Glenn's shortcomings, emphasizing his working class background and lack of college education.

Over the months, resentment of the rich asshole festered. Payback time.

* * *

Larry, carrying a letter, came into his office.

Glenn, its author, knew its contents.

"What do you think?" Eaton asked, handing him the typed missive. Glenn read his 'fuck Lance' composition, a fictitious donor's inquiry why his contribution hadn't been acknowledged, as if he'd never seen it before and glibly offered, "The guy probably got stoned and thought about donating."

"It's Northern, find out what's going on," Larry directed.

"Sit down, I'll call." Information had nothing but Glenn reported, "Unlisted."

"Write the guy", Eaton instructed. "This could be serious."

Glenn blind copied the Baker letter to Larry.

In a few days the phony response was mailed from Petaluma, a town in southern Sonoma County.

When the reply arrived, Larry came into Glenn's office. Although the letter was addressed to Glenn, Larry had already been opened it. "Look at this."

The bank reports my check for $1,000 was

cashed July 16th endorsed 'Sonoma County

Peoples Marijuana Party by Lance Lewis'.

Gordon Baker

Glenn slowly shook his head at Lance's apparent betrayal.

Larry, super pissed, returned to his office and drafted a memo to County Coordinators restating the mandate that all donations be forwarded to headquarters. It went on to accuse Lance Lewis of cheating by retaining a substantial contribution.

Glenn couldn't have done a better job of character assassination.

The narc was so pleased at how well his 'fuck the PMP' program was working that he forgot his impotency for a while.

The next day, Glenn went north, found a lethargic, overweight high school girl to replace Lance, leased a furnished office, made a deposit to get a phone installed and put an ad in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat.

The following morning, rather than going to PMP's office, he went to 1510.

The speaker in the phone tap room was turned on. A few minutes before nine, the call came. With true glee, he listened to the terse conversation.

"This is Lance. An ad in the paper says that the Sonoma PMP's office is now on Forest Street. What's going on?"

"Where's Gordon Baker's $1,000? Why wasn't it sent here?"

"Who's Gordon Baker? All donated money was sent to PMP headquarters!" he hotly responded.

"Baker gave $1,000. The check was endorsed, Lance Lewis, Sonoma PMP!"

Lance's tone softened, becoming conciliatory, "Larry, someone's been fucking with your mind. I swear every contribution was sent to San Francisco."

"You've been replaced. Claim any association and we'll sue." Eaton hung up. Glenn, hearing the fruit of his deceit, was super delighted.

In the living room, not anxious to go to the PMP office, where everyone was glum, he turned on TV. The inane game show, though, didn't distract for long.

Maybe, he fearfully thought, he was a latent homosexual who didn't like sex with women. He'd tried a couple skin flicks, bought a few hardcore magazines and took a supposedly invigorating vitamin every day. Nothing had worked.

Pacing back and forth, possible excuses for missing that morning's scheduled Ex-

ecutive Committee [he, Larry and Linda] meeting were considered. Linda was going to LA, so if he didn't attend it'd be postponed for a few days.

Larry had asked for more grass. Saying he couldn't attend because it was a 'now or never' opportunity to score some free pot would be a very acceptable excuse.

He called BNDD headquarters and asked Harris, who regularly came to 1510 around ten, to bring a couple lids. The wire tap expert asked if he also wanted cocaine. The narc instantly hit on the idea.

Anticipation was high. Getting Larry and Linda to abuse coke had fantastic potential but, even better, it was a very potent 'sex drug', something he needed right now.

Harris finally arrived. Glenn left immediately after signing the receipt.

Traffic on Laguna moved but every light on Lombard was red. He cut over a block but on Chestnut a trolleybus driver was reconnecting to the overhead wires. Finally the bus was connected and slowly proceeded.

Parking was easy in his building's passenger zone but the elevator was 'out of order'. He raced up four flights, entered his studio and bolted the door.

A generous serving was dumped on a dinner plate and crushed with a butter knife. With a credit card, he made two fat lines. Using a new single rolled into a tube, he snorted one glistening line and then, through his other nostril, the other.

He flipped through his porno mags, fly open, rubbing his cock's head. Spread female genitalia and semen dripping down young girl's faces didn't, though, excite him.

Hoping that more would help, he snorted another two thick lines. The dirty pictures still had no effect but in a short while an euphoric state of mind came on. When the PMP withered into nothing, which would surely be soon, he would rest and be reinvigorated. His normal sex drive would return. This probably happened to a lot of men but just wasn't talked about.

Coke alleviated his sexual anxiety. Things were good, no, – things were great!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Andrea and Randall no longer visited Bob. Using his pool wasn't worth it. A weird lude dealer had moved in. Qualudes, a prescription hypnotic muscle relaxant, was the new hot recreational drug. Taken while drinking alcohol, 'ludes' enhanced intoxication, ultimately producing stumbling and slurred speech. While snorting, Qualudes created an unnatural state, not quite asleep but not really awake.

Apparently, changing channels was their main activity. During Randall's and Andrea's last visit, Bob had only briefly deserted the TV – the lude dealer had stayed glued.

Given several large, white tablets, Randall resolved to flush them when he got home.

* * *

A routine BNDD 'whereabouts check' of Dohrn revealed that 'the person of interest' now had a female companion. A photo of the pretty woman and a man exiting the Trident was found in a mug book. Only Cy was identified but National Narcotic Intelligence provided 'known associates'. One lady was listed - Dohrn's new girlfriend.

Attending a college pot party had initiated Andrea's NNI file. Her presence at several Marin County drug transactions and her former boyfriend's demise were duly noted. A Department of Education file was cross referenced; Blane requested a copy.

A few days later, it arrived. Education's file included a student loan application. So stereotypical. A middle class coed starts smoking marijuana – likely becomes 'sexually liberated', and ultimately drops out.

Dohrn's having a girlfriend changed nothing. If she got hurt by associating with the asshole dope smoker it was too bad.

* * *

It took three weeks for the Internal Revenue Service to assemble the relevant documents. Randall was a complex person[s]. Tax minimization had motivated creation of several return filing entities. Each included many schedules and statements.

From the stack, Ralph McGrady concocted a phony Jeopardy Assessment. That authorized seizure of all property prior to initiation of legal proceedings. Dohrn, then without any assets to defend himself, would be presumed to be guilty of tax fraud.

Forms to impoverish 'the rich dope fiend' were completed. A Friday notification meant the 'bad actor' [Blane's characterization] would have a nervous weekend.

* * *

Randall incredulously read the Notice taken from his post office box. It just wasn't possible he owed $300,000 in back taxes. For years an expensive accounting firm prepared his returns, insuring they were absolutely correct and legal.

Andrea waited in the car. They were off for three days at Sea Ranch, a coastal vacation development, a couple hours drive north.

Muttering, "This has to be a mistake," he handed her the Notice.

Notwithstanding the unexpected tax intrusion, their romantic retreat was special. The autumn weather was crisp. The Pacific, sometimes calm, sometimes with huge crashing waves, had a vitalizing presence. Long walks were taken on deserted beaches.

Near home, on Tuesday, he stopped at his bank to cash a check.

Inside, he presented his check to a familiar teller. Frowning, she said, "I have to check with the manager", locked her cash drawer and walked away.

The manager, looking glum, returned to the window with her and reported, "Mr. Dohrn, the IRS has seized your account and sealed your safe deposit box."

Back in the car, Andrea felt his anxiety.

At home, Randall immediately called his accountant but the CPA wasn't in. Next, he called the IRS. The operator put him on hold, came back to ask who was calling and then returned to inform him that Mr. McGrady was unavailable.

Upstairs, he laid down. He heard the shower. In a bit, it turned off.

Clean smelling, hair toweled dry, she came beside him – completely and totally capturing his attention.

After superbly sweet intimacy, they drifted into a nap.

* * *

The phone woke them. The accountant, who'd also been notified of Randall's Jeopardy Assessment, was flabbergasted. A morning meeting was arranged.

Finally, near five, McGrady called.

"Is prosecution planned?" Randall harshly opened. McGrady, already pissed because Randall hadn't called on Monday, as he was supposed to, was further taken back by the taxpayer's pissed-off, aggressive tone. "That hasn't been decided."

"If criminal charges are to be filed, a Miranda warning is required."

"Is that so? Maybe I better check with Legal."

"Why don't you do that before you fuck up your sweet tit career"

"Mr. Dohrn," his voice was tight, "since you're so interested in possible prosecution, you're 'on notice' that uttering obscenities to a Revenue Officer is a felony." He slammed the phone.

* * *

The straight world's probe, the unexpected tax assault, wasn't totally unwelcome.

Placid had been nice, but without legal conflict life was a little too sedate.

Best was Andrea's being there, watching him dealing with the challenge and always conveying absolute confidence that, because he was good, he'd ultimately prevail.

Credit cards amply provided. And, Andrea did have a big pile of cash.

IRS personnel treated him like a lowlife, a person unwilling to obey the law. Two weeks later, when details were finally provided, it substantiated the weird nature of this tax assault. Every deduction had been hostilely scrutinized. Added to over a couple hundred deficiencies, were penalties and interest compounded for years.

After arranging for a detective to dig up dirt on McGrady an irate Randall exclaimed to Andrea, "Mother fucker! I'm going to find out who set the tax man on me and ream him a new asshole. He'll forever regret having fucked with me, and I do mean forever," he said meanly, his visage a teeth gritting grimace.

She came over and tightly hugged him.

Her embrace instantly calmed him. He sighed and said, "Really, the government can't do shit! You so far eclipse their ridiculous games – I do love you very much. I cherish Andrea Blackwell, your mind... your body... you."

"And I love you," tightening her hug, her enchanting aroma so evocative of their multi-times a day intimacy.

* * *

Flipping through his neatly arranged, now thankfully unworn, suits in his walk-in closet, he recalled seeing farmers in rural court houses, doing business, wearing work overalls. That was proper. Why should he dress? IRS employees worked for him. Instead, he put on levis, an unironed cowboy shirt with pearl snaps and new workboots.

Andrea waved as he drove off.

After a quick trip into San Francisco, just as he began cruising for parking, a car

pulled from a primo spot in front of the Federal Building. Plenty of time was left on the meter. Attending federal courts had brought him there frequently. Now, though, everyone seemed frantically hurried.

An escalator deposited him in IRS reception.

Finally, after waiting over a half hour, he was escorted to a small, sparse cubicle. There he was questioned by a hostile Ralph McGrady. Knowing the trap of perjury, Randall answered truthfully. McGrady recorded his responses.

The completed form was turned so Randall could review it. After carefully doing so, he signed and asked for a copy.

McGrady snidely replied he would get him one.

When he returned with the copy, Randall asked, "Enjoying your visits to The Stud Bar?" Completely caught off guard, he stammered, "No, no, I never go there." If 'outed', he'd be instantly fired. Homosexuals were deemed unfit to be federal employees.

Randall stood, cracked a broad, knowing smile and left.

* * *

When he returned from San Francisco and pulled into his drive, two men, in suits, stood in sunshine, sweating profusely. Jacket armpits were wet. Andrea, in shorts and tube top, sat in a padded deck chair, in the shade of a towering oak. Her automatic was pointed at them.

He rushed to her side, asking, incredulously, "What's going on?"

"After you left, I heard loud banging and looked out. They were nailing that," pointing to the ground, at their feet, "to the front door."

On the grass, lying next to tools, locks and hasps was a poster:

PROPERTY SEIZED BY INTERNAL

REVENUE SERVICE TO SATISFY

CLAIMS AGAINST OWNER

"You sneaky assholes. Ordering me into the City so you can do this shit!"

"Interfering will get you in worse trouble," the older suited man said and thrust a

folded paper at him, "we're here to enforce an Official Seizure Order."

Randall quickly perused the 'Order', "This piece of shit is worthless – it's unsigned."

"The executed Order is at our office, in the Federal Building. That copy was made before the Regional Chief signed," the profferer defended.

Randall pointed at the men, "Stay there!" To Andrea, "I'm calling a Judge."

In the den, from behind his desk, he dialed Federal District Court.

After asking for Judge Durmont, he ranked the other federal Judges if his first choice wasn't available. A couple of decades ago, he, a young attorney, and Willis, a seasoned pro had tried a complex product liability case together in Fresno. For five weeks they had gotten smashed every evening.

The Judge answered. "Randall," he heartily greeted. "Heard you retired."

"Had to Willis. Fresno was my downfall. I didn't think you could try a case without serious drinking." They laughed. "I called because two IRS agents are here to seize my house. Can they, if the Order is unsigned?"

"Unsigned? Where's the signed Order?", the Judge asked.

"They said it's at their office, in San Francisco."

The Judge pondered for a few moments. Finally, he pronounced, "They'll have to go get it. Your house isn't going anywhere. Tell them to call me."

"Thanks very much."

"Glad I could help," he paused, adding, in a paternal tone, "sure hope you get this tax mess straightened out."

Randall went outside, took Andrea's automatic and pulled back the barrel assembly. The chambered round flew in a graceful arc. He barked, "Right now mother fuckers, get the fuck off my property. Call Judge Durmont at Federal Court."

When the goons reached their car he lowered his gun.

His arm over her shoulders, they went inside, into the cool den.

He retrieved a stash and rolled.

The first toke was reminiscent of a martini's first sip. "What unbelievable outrageous bullshit! We wouldn't have even been allowed in to get our clothes."

Andrea came behind his chair, massaging his neck and shoulders.

When the shared joint became tiny, he scissored it in a hemostat.

Andrea felt his tense muscles loosen and her kneading softened. She asked, "Will the IRS return?"

"It's not 'will' – it's 'when'! We've got to split. The sooner the better."

"Use my money. Get them off your back."

"Very risky. If they find out where it came from, it'll be confiscated."

"A no brainer. You mean so much more to me than that pile of paper."

* * *

What to take, for who knew how long, challenged their stoned capabilities. They were easily distracted from their packing chore.

Past nine, after what had been a long tense day, they left for the City. When, the Nob Hill hotel's desk clerk said that only the Presidential Suite was available at $450 a night, Randall didn't respond but took a green credit card from his wallet and laid it on the counter.

Easy acceptance of the expensive suite made the desk clerk suspicious, especially since this longhaired man was with a much younger lady, not likely his wife. A thick booklet was checked and then a number dialed.

Watching, Randall wearily said, "It's good."

"This won't take long," the snooty clerk replied. But it did. He stood with the phone against his ear for a couple minutes, obviously unanswered.

Finally, the credit card company told the clerk the card was valid and the holder had the highest rating.

Even though both were exhausted, they wandered through the suite, smoking a fat doobie. Yes, indeed, they definitely agreed, being stoned in the Presidential Suite, was special!

* * *

When Randall woke he propped a pillow against the padded headboard.

A few minutes later, Andrea stirred. Also using the headboard as a back rest, she hugged his arm and kissed his cheek, greeting, "Good morning, sweetheart."

"Good morning lover," he sweetly responded. More seriously, he continued, "We've got to be businesslike".

Smiling, "I can do that. That's how what's in the safe deposit box got there."

"We need expert help. But who?"

"A lawyer who does big drug cases would be best," Andrea suggested.

"Terry Brown, George Callahan and Barry Woods have the big reputations," he thought aloud.

"I've heard Brown has ripped off a couple clients," Andrea offered.

"Woods has a serious tax problem himself," Randall added.

Softly, in her ear, he said, "We'll make an appointment to see Callahan, go to Mill Valley, get cash from your bank and then go to his office."

"Why are you whispering?", she whispered back.

"This room might be bugged."

"Best under the covers," she said, her hand reaching under the blanket, finding his hairy crotch and his already firm appendage.

With great fortitude, he resisted. "Honey, let's do what we have to do."

"Just like I heard, older men have low sex drives," she teased.

Holding her wrists, chest against chest, although she resisted, he pinned her to the bed.

"I might be older but I'm also stronger so you better not mess with me," he admonished. Gently, he continued, "Seriously, dear, I wish we didn't but we have to take care of business."

Arms wrapped around his back and pulled him tight against her, "Okay, but don't forget, you owe me one!"

He didn't. They made exquisite stand up love in the shower - wet and soapy.

* * *

From a lobby payphone, rather than the phone in the suite, Randall made an appointment to see Callahan.

Convinced the government was weird, the rearview mirror was checked frequently on their way to Mill Valley.

Handling the cash was stoney. Enough was taken to solve the tax problem.

Back in the City, he parked in an underground garage. An intricate 'keep dry when it's raining' route, through garages and lobbies guaranteed they weren't followed.

Callahan saw them immediately.

Randall explained the tax assault, omitting nothing, deducing it was probably his two $500 donations to legalize marijuana that had led to the current mess.

The lawyer quickly deduced their need for explainable, clean funds to post a bond and asked, "It's okay if someone loans you the money, right?"

"Yeah, borrowing works, but, given my situation, the federal government has a lien on everything I own, who's going to lend me money?"

"I will. Andrea's cash is collateral. We'll make it look 100% kosher. Give me a Security Agreement on all your personal property and a Deed of Trust on your house. Those docs, I assure you, are meaningless."

"That'll work. What a relief!"

"A taste to celebrate?" Callahan took a machined rolled joint from a cigarette box on his desk and handed it to Andrea. "A friend's sure it'll be legal someday and wants to be ready. Enjoy a Rolling Smoke Show."

Randall thought the grower/blender was very likely right.

Drug prohibitions obviously changed. Coffee drinkers were burned at the stake during the middle ages. The jazz musician Louis Armstrong used to say he was old enough to remember when alcohol was illegal and marijuana wasn't.

The joint of happy dope nearly vanished.

Randall distributed fistfuls of hundred dollar bills. Ten were paper clipped together. Piles of ten paper clipped packets were put on the desk. Soon there were 35 stacks, the loan, 300 thou plus the fee of 50.

Exiting George's building, they were super high. Tomorrow, they'd go home.

* * *

What would Washington think? Dohrn's putting up a bond could really mess things up. Having a 'target' escape persecution looked bad. A positive evaluation was now crucial. Nixon had just announced a drug interdiction expert would be the next Commissioner of Customs. With two decades more seniority than either of the other two drug police candidates, Blane considered himself a 'shoo-in'.

TV news the day of his appointment was imagined. In the White House Rose Garden, the President would lavishly praise him and introduce 'Commissioner Blane'.

He'd cite some really scary, never before used statistics and vow to the American public that he'd destroy the scum who refused to obey the law, especially the drug laws.

Thumbing through Dohrn's file, reading snatches didn't inspire. Finally, the tens of millions of taxpayer's money paid to 'consultants' to organize BNDD files paid off – he lifted the X-REF tab. A narc, unaware that Lakewood was also an informer, had been at Bob's house and reported that while there, Randall Dohrn, a neighbor, had visited and, in the narc's presence, took several tokes from a circulating joint.

An informer and a target being buddies made getting a search warrant easy. Blane would swear Bob had told him that Randall had drugs in his house. That would suffice. Neither would ever know. Narc identity was never revealed, not before, during or after trial. Nondisclosure had been approved by the United States Supreme Court: "This Court cannot reject a rule so necessary to protect those upholding the law."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

At nine PM, five mean, tough agents gathered in Blane's conference room. They'd been well selected – the jerk ass dope smoker would not be coddled.

Blane wanted to go along but a Regional Director's presence at a mere possession bust would be a red flag. Rather than have a subordinate brief the agents, though, the standard procedure, he personally gave the raiders their orders.

"Your 'No-Knock' authorizes breaking down the door. Do it! Don't stop at one lid. All white powders, regardless where you find them, are to be brought to the lab. This," patting a backpack on the table, "is in case you can't find his." Taking a 'plant' along on raids was standard operating procedure.

All nodded they understood.

"If he doesn't get out of it totally, he'll only get a slap on the wrist. Make the point tonight that smoking marijuana is and always will be illegal!"

Again, with even more unity, nodding heads acknowledged their command.

Prior to dispatching the raiding party, Blane mentally reviewed the planned bust.

If Dohrn's buddy, Lakewood, was visiting, it could get complicated.

Bob's number was in his Rolodex. On the fourth ring Bob picked up. Blane told him to stay put to await further orders.

Then he called Dohrn. Blane hung up when a friendly Randall said, "Hi".

"The doper's there, get going! Carter, stop at Lakewood's. Tell him to stay away from our operation. If he's not home you need my ok to proceed. Make BNDD proud. Give that smart ass marijuana smoker a lesson he'll always remember."

* * *

Late in the afternoon, after snorting all day, they had popped ludes and begun sipping creamy ice cold Russian vodka. Bob, not asleep, wasn't really awake. Eventually, the door bell registered. After several tries, he finally managed to stand, but after a couple steps, stumbled and fell.

By the time he opened the door, Carter was back to his car.

"Hey, what do you want?" Bob loudly mumbled.

The BNDD agent ambled back and clandestinely flashed his badge. In a hushed tone, "Mr. Blane wants you to stay away from Dohrn's. Got that! Don't go there!"

Zoned out Bob went inside.

In the dim light he couldn't see if the lude dealer was asleep, awake, or in between.

At first he couldn't figure out why it was so important to Blane that he not go to Dohrn's.

Anxiety buzzed in his stomach.

They were going to bust Randall! He had to warn his friend!

Channels began opening but not quite enough. Calling never occurred.

He left, jogging down his long drive. Half way to the street, realizing the situation's urgency, his jog became a run.

At Lagunitas Road, to the right, away from his friend's, he saw the headlights of two stopped cars and taillights of another. As he watched, the red lights turned into a drive and then backed out to head toward Randall's.

He charged down the bridal path alongside the road. Towering elms shaded faint street lights. He stumbled over unseen tree roots. He got to Randall's just as the first car slowed to turn into the drive.

He ran across the lawn. The large yard was divided by a moonlight shadow.

Hearing, "Halt!", Bob, dove to the darkness.

Laying on the grass, he only heard his own panting and idling engines.

Two cars sat at the foot of the drive and one had pulled up near the house.

Three men stood, holding guns, illuminated by the stopped cars' headlights. Two others were jogging down the long drive.

No one moved toward him. A large redwood stood between him and the house, about twenty feet away. His muddled mind thought that when he reached the towering tree, it's thick trunk would shield him and he'd be able to warn Randall of the impending raid.

He rose and darted toward the tree. The dumdum bullet smashed into his back. The bullet's force propelled him. Brief thrill of flight preceded sorrow when the shot's report caught up – he wouldn't be able to warn his friend.

Randall and Andrea, hearing the gunshot, ran into the living room and, through a window, saw a man trot across the lawn and then return to the cars at the foot of his drive.

It was Carter reporting, "It's Lakewood, the guy Mr. Blane sent me to tell to stay away from Dohrn's. For sure he's dead!"

"We've lost the element of surprise – Dohrn's probably flushing right now. We should abort," exhorted the shooter who had killed Bob.

The 'in-charge' agent getting into the car of the drug cop who had blown Lakewood away approved abandonment of the planned seizure and arrest.

"Carter, move your fucking car!", Bob's killer screamed.

Carter got in and began backing down the drive. Not fast enough, though, to avoid being smashed into. Both cars, damaged but drivable, burned rubber.

Two men, one white, one black, both carrying pistols, ran up the drive.

Randall retrieved his service .45, told Andrea to call the police and exited through the rear door. When turning the house's corner, the agent's car shielded him. Crouching low, unseen, he sprang up as they divided. A small sweep of his pistol kept both covered. Firmly, with severe authority, he ordered, "Mother fuckers - drop those, hands up!"

Surprised and scarred, guns thudded on the asphalt.

As the agents raised their arms a bright red light flashed across the house.

Stopping nearby, the Chief of the tiny Ross Police Department jumped from his patrol car, exclaiming, "Dispatch reported a shot."

Both agents lowered their arms. The black said, "Officer, we're BNDD."

"Slowly, show me ID."

They pulled shield cases from rear pants pockets and flipped them open.

"Who was shot at?" the Chief sternly inquired.

"A suspect fled the house", the white agent stated.

"Nobody left my house," Randall emphatically retorted.

The Chief swept his flashlight over the lawn. After several sweeps, the beam revealed a mound.

The four men walked across the dew covered lawn.

Randall recognized his young friend. "That's Bob Lakewood, the guy renting the Larkin place." Blood oozed from a large crimson crater in his back.

Footprints in the damp grass clearly showed he was heading toward the house, not from it. That a suspect had fled the house had, obviously, been a gross lie.

"We're here to search for drugs," the lying BNDD agent exclaimed.

"This is the first I'm hearing about a fed drug raid," the Chief responded. As a courtesy, local PD's were usually, but not always, notified. "Let's see your warrant."

It had left with the leader. Both stared at the ground, saying nothing.

A second patrol car pulled in. The policeman jogged over to the group, his belted equipment jangling. "What happened?", he asked.

"Larkin's tenant is dead. Advise these two," the Chief ordered, looking at the BNDD agents.

The officer read the Miranda warnings from a laminated card.

"Okay, now, who shot that boy?" the Chief sternly demanded.

Neither responded. Both stared at the ground.

"Have it your way. You're under arrest."

"You can't do that – we're United States law enforcement officers," the white BNDD agent asserted.

The Chief tightly grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, "Bullshit, I can't! A Ross resident is lying dead on Mr. Dohrn's lawn and you two are my only suspects."

Led to the police car, they were spread eagled, patted down, cuffed with arms behind their backs and roughly shoved into the caged rear of the patrol car.

* * *

Blane was dictating an Operation California Grass status report while awaiting notification of Dohrn's incarceration. The phone's ringing startled him. It was way too soon for that asshole pothead to be in jail.

Carter reported the disaster. Dumbfounded, he hung up. A way out? Busting Alice, Morgan and the buyers might look panicky. Besides, secrecy was dictated – the media loved 'narc shoots narc' stories.

The phone rang again. Slowly, he lifted the receiver. Unbelievably, it got worse. Two of his agents had been arrested for murder by the Ross PD.

* * *

The report being dictated wasn't honest. Nor had several previous. That Glenn, BNDD's super star operative, was cravenly addicted to BNDD supplied coke was not, nor had ever been, mentioned.

Initially, since BNDD wanted PMP's leaders to abuse, Glenn's heavy use had been tolerated. Then, when it became excessive Blane had tried to ignore it. The effects, though, were vivid – wandering eyes, confused thinking, rapid speech. Most of his nose capillaries had burst – it was noticeably red.

Given Matt's inclination to bury bad news, Washington would have never known, if he had known himself, of Glenn's recent close call.

Obtaining a nonstop abundant supply of free coke had finally made Larry suspicious. The cover, 'from a dealer behind legalization', had worn thin. When the PMP had been hot, there had been a lot of drug donations but, recently, such gifts came rarely, almost never. In the entire state, only Glenn's friend continued to be munificent.

The suspected deceit's enormity created a hard protective shell. Doubts, though, eventually penetrated. They were frightening.

* * *

Suspicion caused a throbbing headache. Despite his extreme discomfort, Larry stayed in the office until lunchtime.

As Glenn was second in rank at PMP's headquarters he went to his office and told him of his severe headache but, of course, not its source.

The Northern Counties Coordinator urged him to rest at home, assuring Larry he'd cover his absence.

In his apartment, Larry lay down but tossed and turned – not a nap afternoon.

Pacing the flat's length, he passed his coke stash. Magnetically, it attracted.

There wasn't much left. A line was made and tooted.

Instantly, he focused on Glenn. Whatever Glenn had touched since the Bennington cutoff had crashed in flames. Despite great initial promise, nothing had ever worked. Major things, minor things, money things, people things – all turned to shit! Unsuccessfully, he searched his memory for an exception.

Naiveté accentuated anguish. Why hadn't he been wary?

Enough coke remained for one healthy snort but not two.

When only a little is left, the line gets made quickly.

He zapped it.

Soon, he knew, he would want another.

Glenn had more but to get some he'd have to confront that perfidious Judas. Be-

sides, he knew coke couldn't be snorted constantly. Dried out, it he'd be better able to deal with that fucking narc rat.

Long paces ended in the living room with the bare mirror. Resolution to abstain didn't last long. Not having cocaine's euphoria to mask his gross ineptness was scary. The leader of an organization devoted to changing a pro-police, authoritarian law should have been on guard. Letting a narc get so close was beyond stupid.

Now, however, he thought it'd be good practice – pretending not to know. And, a narc shouldn't be left in charge of the PMP office.

Larry walked to headquarters briskly, afraid he might miss his supplier.

* * *

Larry's super heavy negative vibe alerted Glenn – the mark thought he knew!

He was ready. Good narcs were always ready. "I'm glad you came back." He waited for eye contact. "I want to ask your forgiveness. This is hard, but ..."

Larry's jaw dropped. A confession?

"Until yesterday, I thought you were deliberately wrecking the PMP."

The outrageous accusation made Larry's expression even more incredulous.

"Nothing I tried ever succeeded. Like that ad last month. After the magazine said no more 50% discount, I still wanted to run a full page but you said 'a half would do'. Hardly anything comes in. All those readers and no cash or money orders, just a few checks. Then, I thought about the petitions. You, me and Linda do the impossible. It was so great. So then, bingo, shit happens – Bennington cancels, Morgath reneges, McGovern fades, most of our people bail. The election's coming and we're not running much of a campaign. That's a real bummer."

"Then, I saw it was like wanting hash, but scoring great grass instead. Looking again at the proof you were a rat, I found other, more reasonable, explanations. I saw that you were truly committed to legalization. Please forgive me. I'm really sorry."

In a few moments, in a much lighter tone, Glenn asked, "Hey buddy, how about a pick-me-up?"

In a flash, a vial of coke, a single edge razor blade and a plastic snorting tube were on the desk. A healthy amount was dumped onto a sheet of PMP letterhead. There was quite a bit. Preparing fat lines, he said, "You must be getting low. Take what's left. I'll be seeing my buddy."

It was, undoubtedly, Larry's best snort in a long time.

Glenn, pleased by his performance, really got off.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Blane's elation, when Nixon said a drug cop would be the next Customs Commissioner, which had crashed to despair when Bob was killed, had fully returned.

BNDD's and Lakewood Oil's press people had 100% snuffed all news of Bob's death.

The Director's call had not been, as expected, a real ass chewing. "Upsetting one 'fat cat' wouldn't bother Nixon." And, adding to his buoyancy was a steady dose of Valium, a called in prescription fetched by Pamela on government time.

Then, finally, it was announced the appointment would be made in ten days.

On the ninth day, however, it was inexplicably postponed a week.

While waiting, he often fantasized. His favorite was ambushing and wiping out a band of pot runners. The headline – 'Blane Kills Marijuana Smugglers'.

Finally, the big day arrived. The flag pin embossed on back with the Presidential Seal, saved for special occasions, adorned his suit jacket lapel.

His calendar was kept clear so he could be available for interviews.

The press release would be issued right after lunch in Washington, to make the

evening network news. On the west coast, it was midmorning.

"The White House on five," Pamela announced with awe over the intercom.

He heard nothing after, "Myles Ambrose will be a great Commissioner."

Matt Blane hung up, stretched out on his couch and cried.

* * *

At the next morning's debriefing Matt was hungover from booze and Valium.

'Rudolph' rambled on with little to report, frequently glancing at the coffee table.

What was supposed to be there, wasn't. His requested coke remained in the Regional Director's briefcase.

Blane wanted Glenn to ask. It didn't take long.

"You brought my stuff, didn't you? I said I'd be seeing my dealer buddy. This cover's well established and ..."

Matt enjoyed the narc's anxiety. Tightening his smile, "I've checked the receipts. Sure you don't have some laying around?"

"Stringing people out takes a lot."

"Yeah, but there's only two," Matt wryly observed. But, he did take the coke from his case and put it on the table.

Glenn instantly snatched the rolled baggie and stuffed it into a pants pocket. Signing the receipt his hand shook. It had never occurred they were so revealing.

Without coke, he'd never be able to cope with his limp dick. He needed the money Blane had been banking. Nervously, he asked, "Next time, please bring my passbook."

* * *

Earnings were pretty easy to estimate. $400 per for 41 weeks, gross. Pyramid, he figured, probably deducted about $100 a week. And, BNDD had been paying him since July and it didn't take deductions from narcs. And, since his pay had been deposited in a bank, interest would have accumulated.

At a PMP party, he'd met a guy who sold quantities at great prices. It was easy to get in touch. They met in a Marina pub. With minimum superfluous conversation, a deal was struck – $9,000 for a pound, a special price for the PMP big shot.

* * *

That arrangement made, the balance in the passbook Matt brought to their next debriefing – a mere $9,224.02 – was shocking. "There should be more."

"Look at these." Glenn was handed a rubber banded packet of payroll stubs.

The gross was $400. Following came deductions, the largest for withholding, then Social Security, Medical, Dental, Pension, state income tax, disability insurance, Management Club and Flower Fund. The net was a mere $220.98.

"Well," Glenn challenged, "BNDD never took deductions!"

"We didn't. You were paid the same – $220.98 a week."

* * *

Enraged, Glenn went to his studio. Those mother fuckers. He'd get even! He could cause big trouble. Great story – a federal government agency manipulating, then destroying a political organization. He imagined snorting a long line of BNDD coke on 1510's glass dining table while that asshole Blane knelt, hands prayerfully clasped, begging him not to expose Operation California Grass.

Slight relaxation came. His heart still pounded, but slightly slower. And, Blane had nothing. Except. Of course, Pamela, that fucking cunt, had told Blane what had happened on their date.

Glenn was right. They often discussed sex. Once, after she confided liking cunnilingus, he had masturbated in his private john. His wife thought stuff like that was 'dirty'.

Glenn's impotency neutralized any threat. Any inquiry regarding employment would be answered, 'Yes, Glenn Schmidt had once worked for BNDD but was dismissed because he'd developed serious psychological problems'.

* * *

The Regional Director's extortion plan was far superior.

At his office, after seeing the cokehead, Matt locked the California Grass file in his briefcase, to be put in an absolutely safe place, with his mother. Shared illegality was job security. Keeping his fat federal paychecks coming until his ample federal pension began was very important. And, he wasn't going to be shunted to a backwater to bust college students for a few joints.

The Valium label read: 'One every four hours'. Doctors probably gave the same pills to 100 pound women. Big [fat] men needed more. The child proof cap wouldn't come off so he bit it, spit out the plastic fragments and gobbled four.

* * *

Leaving early, ahead of rush hour traffic, Matt was quickly on I-280. His government car, a luxurious brand new Lincoln, didn't, though, exit at Daly City but continued south, to SFO, San Franciso's airport.

Waiting in line, he realized that using a federal government travel voucher left a 'trail'. Luckily, he had enough cash to buy a ticket to Pittsburgh.

While Blane traversed the country in crowded coach, framing his only alternative – 'Drug Abuse Advisor' to a big corporation, at a hefty salary, Glenn, waited in the fern bar, still pissed at having been screwed by FOLO and BNDD and therefore spending all his money on coke. Though, knowing he'd have a substantial quantity available was very comforting.

The dealer arrived on time, carrying a bulging, brown vinyl, legal sized case.

Glenn was excited. "Should we go to the john?"

"That wouldn't be cool," he drawled. "See those dudes sopping beer. Like, man, they've got to pee. We're good here."

He gave the case to his customer.

Glenn opened it on his lap.

"You do have something for me?" the dealer asked.

The narc nervously slid an envelope across the table, upsetting a full ashtray. Despite the mess, the envelope quickly disappeared. Fast moving lips revealed counting. Finished, the dealer stood. "Remember, I've got the best. Pounds anytime – tons require a week's notice." A Cheshire cat smile highlighted his joke, "See ya."

Glenn also split. His new treasure merited a few celebratory snorts.

Soon the BNDD's VW was parked in the 'passenger zone' in front of his building.

Inside his studio, the plastic bag of white crystalline powder was pulled from the case and the wire tie undone. Through a piece of plastic straw, one hand steadying the other, he snorted dishwasher detergent.

Pain was intense, nausea instant. He barfed foul bile all over himself.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The morning after Bob was shot, fog penetrated the Ross valley.

Randall arranged to meet with a Marin County Assistant District Attorney.

He wore a vested suit. She put on a bra, dress, pantyhose and pumps.

Efforts to be taken seriously, however, were for naught. No charges would be filed, they were told, because Bob's killer was on official business.

"So there was a search warrant?" Randall asked.

"There was," the prosecutor coolly replied, conveying that Randall, an 'old enough to know better' drug user, was responsible for the tragedy.

* * *

Enroute to Maui, they sipped cocktails. Pleasantly alone in the upstairs, 747 first class lounge, his hand rested on her thigh. They sat close to each other, sharing togetherness. So sweet, so sexy, so much in love.

After a night in Kaanapali, they rented a beachfront cottage, paying cash and using a phony name. Their rental car, also falsely rented, barely made it down the long, potholed road to their hideaway but its remoteness was highly desirable.

After picking up their luggage they filled a cart at a market.

The numerous grocery bags carried in contained provisions to last a while. All but one. In a few days, the stash held very little.

While on their private beach, sunbathing, Randall postulated a theory, 'Marijuana Use Frequency as a Function of Running Out' and declared his intention to seek a federal grant to conduct further study.

A nude, giggling, bosom jiggling Andrea was his appreciative audience.

A joint made from unrolled roaches was aperitif to a barbecued salmon dinner. That joint's roach, held in a clip, was smoked as the radio broadcast Beethoven's Ninth.

In the morning, they hiked between tropical vegetation and gentle surf.

They came to a public beach. A driftwood log offered a resting place.

A college student age Hawaiian approached, sat opposite and greeted, "Hi, visiting Maui?"

"We are," Andrea replied.

"Staying long?"

"Not sure," Randall responded. Then he added, "Until we mellow."

"This will most assuredly do that," he said, taking a baggie of dark green buds from his backpack and proffering it. "You have heard of Maui Wowie."

Amazed, they looked at each other – scoring so easily and quickly was unexpected.

"Got a paper?" Randall asked.

The young man furnished one and Randall rolled a joint from the shake in the baggie's bottom.

Not near other beachgoers, they smoked it.

Randall bought two.

* * *

The beachfront cottage had been rented for three months. A couple weeks short of that, they returned to Ross.

Randall was determined to protect their home and confront the government's weirdness which had set the IRS on him and left Bob dead on his front lawn.

A security system was ordered. His property would be surrounded by a 10' high chain link fence topped with several strands of stainless steel razor wire. Entry would only be allowed through an electric gate after the visitor had been scrutinized by closed circuit television. Tampering with the gate or fence activated floodlights and sirens.

His investigation into the political vendetta against him began at the District Court Clerk's office. Retaliating against the asshole who had tried to make his life miserable was paramount. Identifying the police informer, he deduced, was the best way to start.

A clerk told him that whenever a federal law enforcement agency obtained a search or arrest warrant a file was opened. The computer printout index, however, had no 'Dohrn' entry.

He asked to see the Magistrate, the federal official authorized to issue warrants.

As Randall entered, the unsmiling jurist stood.

"You issued a warrant to search my house so where's the file?"

The Magistrate spoke carefully. "I personally know that proper procedures were followed in disposing of that matter."

"Explaining why there's no index entry," Randall sarcastically replied.

"If a file's opened after official court hours and closed before the next court day, it doesn't appear."

"When I was practicing, if a file was ever opened, even if immediately closed, it was indexed."

"That was necessary when we used hand ledgers. The number had to be accounted for. Now the computer automatically renumbers." His tone softened, "Why are you so interested in our court's procedures?"

"I must see my file. It's imperative I know who spied on me."

"That wouldn't be in it. If a law enforcement officer swears he was told by a reliable informer illegal drugs are present, that's sufficient. I'm told who the undercover is. It is definitely not in the public file. Even the police officer is not identified but referred to as 'a trusted sworn police offficer'. That information is highly classified." He paused. "But, I'm going to tell you. In this case the reason for secrecy, protecting the informer, is no longer meaningful."

"Bob Lakewood?" Randall tentatively queried.

"He was a narc. Had been for several months. His boss swore, under oath, that Lakewood told him grass and coke were in your house."

"That never happened. Bob knew I had no coke."

* * *

'Nugatory', ran through his mind. Finally he said, aloud, "Nugatory."

"What's nugatory?" she asked.

"They've rendered it nugatory."

A riddle? She reviewed the hour since his return. While changing, he had told her about Bob. Then, in the den, they had toked and that was all. It was far too obscure. "What have they made nugatory?"

"The Fourth Amendment, the protection against unreasonable searches. Follow this. Some low life, casually hired by police, most often in jail, is sent, without any warrant, to snoop around. If he sees drugs, he tells the cops and that's probable cause which gets a 'real' warrant from a judge. Police come pretending to look for contraband – but they are really there to seize and arrest. The scumball, the paid informer, has already, with no warrant, done the searching."

"Scamarama! Why's the government so crazy about marijuana?"

"Several reasons. My buddy Victor whose foundation used to fund the PMP told me this rich developer named Trump wanted this 'War on Drugs' so he and his billionaire buddies could make more money. They don't want stoned employees. They're worried their profits might diminish and that would mean less to split with the money grubbing politicians."

"Capitalism works fine until the bosses start treating the working class like shit. Good example - these fascist drug laws making millions miserable so the capitalists, like Trump, will make more money. They know exactly what they're doing and its obscene!"

"Booze, a big taxpayer and generous political contributor, doesn't want competition. And, by opposing marijuana and other 'illegal' substances shows the bureaucrats that alcohol isn't really a 'drug'."

"And, sadly, drug laws intimidate people. Dissidents are locked up. People are justifiably afraid of police. Fascism to protect us from 'drugs'. Nixon's a tight ass authoritarian. Thanks a lot fuckhead!"

"Drug police sell their souls, usually for little more than minimal medical benefits. Then the mindless, that's a requirement to be hired, automatons follow any order they're given. They'd arrest their grandmother for having a cone if ice cream was declared illegal. Self righteously, claiming they're protecting citizens, the government deprives people of one of God's most bountiful gifts – cannabis sativa."

"Politics makes me horny," was her response.

A ready to go fire was lit. The FM was tuned to a romantic music station and a vicuna lap throw was spread in front of the hearth.

While preparations had been quick the pace romantically slowed.

They tightly embraced. Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.

Tongue probing kisses were intimate and sweet. A thrilling tingle spread through her body when he softly nibbled her neck. The buttons on her blouse were undone.

They laid on the vicuna throw. Mostly on top, his thigh was between hers, snug against her noticeably warming crotch.

Lovely breasts were gently caressed, fingers lingering on nips.

Mouth followed hands. So hot!

Nipple play wired her boobs to 'down there'.

He undressed himself and took off Andrea's blouse and jeans. He spread her legs, appreciated her beautiful pussy and then savored her taste. With his tongue's tip under her hood she orgasmed. Perfect!

They readjusted so she was on top. She relished his crotch's muskiness before mouthing his rock hard cock.

Repositioning herself, she lay on her back, the soft vicuna hairs against her skin, the fireplace radiating comforting warmth.

On top, resting on elbows, careful not to crush his pink love bunny.

They kissed, tongues intertwining. Mouth to mouth intimacy thrilled.

Profuse vaginal lubrication made penetration a sensational pleasure.

Rhythms changed, their courses zigged and zagged.

"My turn to be on top," she murmured.

He rolled on his back. Andrea sat astride, cowgirl style.

Light from the fire played on her bouncing boobs – outrageously alluring.

Extending, supporting herself on outstretched arms, she directed an erect nipple to his mouth to be sucked and licked.

So connected, he deep inside her, her nip between his lips, they orgasmed simultaneously. Yin and yang of the godhead joyfully merged.

* * *

She waited in the car when he took the buff IRS envelope from his post office box. Dark green showed through the manila envelope's window.

Elated, he gave it to her, gripped the wheel and stared ahead, "How much?"

Andrea ripped the envelope open, "$309,909.77. The assholes paid interest."

"Fuck them very much! The jerks who tried to fuck with me lost big time! Your help, dear, was, and is, so, so greatly appreciated. Without you, nothing would have been possible. Believing in me and putting up your cash. You were beyond super!"

Hearts thumping, they kissed, a long and intimate smooch, over the console.

* * *

A few days later, George Callahan joined them in the restaurant on the top floor of Bank of America's red granite skyscraper. They had smoked a doobie in the garage. The view, a cocktail, the ambient luxury and the stone very nicely combined.

After lunch, in the lawyer's office, Randall showed George the IRS check. "Pretty ironic, the feds cleaned a good chunk of Andrea's money. Keep the cash."

"You do know your tax problem and the aborted bust were connected?"

"Oh yeah, we figured that out pretty fast."

"This is for you," handing him an accordion file folder.

Quizzically, Randall looked at the folder's contents of banded hundreds. "What's this?"

"Charging a fee to a victim of stupid, cruel government persecution just didn't feel right."

* * *

He woke a little after seven. It had been raining when they went to bed and it still was. He moved his leg from between her warm thighs, sat up against the padded headboard and remotely turned on the TV, lowering the sound to just audible.

On TV, Senator McGovern and his wife were exiting the school where they had voted. Their smiles looked forced.

During the commercials, he reviewed his feelings towards the Democrat. Initially, he'd liked McGovern's anti-Vietnam war stance but, in the primary, had voted for Humphrey, as the best bet to beat Nixon. Ultimately loyal to his party, however, he'd supported McGovern. Then, when the nominee didn't endorse legalization, he had turned off. Eventually, though reluctantly, the candidate's rationale had been accepted. Then, with only a few weeks to go, deep disappointment came again. With no hope, why didn't McGovern speak out on divisive issues? Get a dialogue going.

When the ads ended, the morning show's hosts discussed Nixon's expected landslide.

His torso was squeezed. Half open eyes gazed up.

"Good morning, dear" Randall said sweetly.

She sat up, leaned over and kissed his cheek.

On TV, voters leaving polling stations were interviewed. The blue collar worker favored McGovern. An uptight suburban matron ardently backed Nixon.

"Don't let me forget to vote," Randall said.

"After what the government tried to do to you? Besides, nothing'll change."

"Marijuana could be legalized."

"Never happen. Millions of bureaucrats would lose their jobs if it was legal - they'd have to think of new ways to rip off taxpayers."

"Well, it could pass, if enough dopers voted", adding, sarcastically, "if registered."

"Hey unfair, when I was dealing, giving the government my address didn't seem like such a great idea."

The sheet which had, no longer provided modesty. Her bareness turned him on.

"What time do the polls close?", she sexily asked.

"At 8, this evening."

"So you can stay in bed all day and ball?"

"I'm sure that's why," he smiled.

Nibbling his ear lobe, she purred, "I like that. We're going to have fun."

THE END

