The Grow

By Lindsay Mohlere

He’s a short dude with a big idea – a skillful thief among thieves. And this time, Billy “Mouse” Morrison is plotting his greatest heist yet. The goods? A mother lode of Mexican cartel marijuana, planted deep within the hidden canyons of Oregon’s Wallowa-Whitman National Forest.
Days after briefing his crew, Mouse is brutally and mysteriously beaten to death. Now his associates are left wondering—but when you’re in the business of stealing from other thieves, the list of suspects becomes long and dangerous, and there’s no saying who had it in for Mouse.
When Mouse’s compadres Luzon Marino and Bob Creek decide to follow through on their own—now in uneasy alliance with fence Gus Steiner and his violent, sadistic boyfriend Omar—loyalties waver, emotions run hot, and the gang slips into the crosshairs of powerful adversaries.
A gritty, fast-paced tale ripped straight from the headlines, The Grow is a dark and suspenseful look at the perils of illegal outdoor marijuana grow operations and the lifestyles of 21st century career criminals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsay Mohlere
• Release date: Mar 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311297853

Lindsay Mohlere

Born in Spokane, Washington and raised in Montana, Idaho and Oregon, Lindsay R. Mohlere has been at various times a poet, a journalist, railroad gandy dancer and conductor, able bodied seaman, husband a few times, restaurant chef, house painter, advertising entrepreneur, boxing referee, photographer, fisherman and hunter. His short stories have appeared in various magazines, including Gun Dog Magazine, The Upland Almanac, Sportsmen’s News and Timber West. He currently resides in Portland, Oregon - a city he considers nearly too weird.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Rachel for patience, and to Howard McCord,

Floyce Alexander and Mike Finnegan

for starting the seed

Cover Design Consultation:

Jan Buskirk, Oregon Street Studios

The Grow – A Novel

Chapter 1

Money on the Table,

Whiskey in the Glass

Angelo’s Bar and Grill is quiet for a Sunday afternoon. NASCAR rolls in silence on all seven big screen TVs hanging from the walls and ceiling. Two fat guys in blue satin bowling shirts and a skinny bleached blond hooker with bad teeth play acey-duecy at the bar. The joint has a morning after Saturday night stink of stale beer and greasy hamburger.

Billy Mouse Morrison sits in black shadows behind the empty pole dancer stage and drums his fingers on the table. Outside, it’s May in Portland, Oregon, high 40’s and raining like hell.

Mouse eyes the front door. 2:00 p.m. Luzon and Bob Creek walk through the entrance foyer side by side, late as usual.

What you got going? Luzon asks as he drops into a chair. Creek doesn’t say a word. He fist bumps Mouse and sits. He’s the rookie. Mouse and Luzon are varsity felons, thieves who steal from thieves.

If you want in, I got a hot gig we can turn huge bank on, Mouse says. We’ll be set for sure. Maybe a mill each. An easy pick.

Yeah, Luzon says, how we gonna snag a mill?

Rip off an outdoor pot plantation a bunch of beaners got hidden in the forest. They harvest; we grab. Take it down up in the woods. Have Gus run it through his warehouse. Easy shit.

Dude? Are you fucking nuts? Luzon says. Pot? Nobody steals pot. Big grows are cartel ops. You fuck with them, they cut your dick off and put a video of it on YouTube. Pot? No way.

Creek rocks in his chair and stares at his beer glass.

Hang on, Luz, Mouse says. Hear me out on this one.

* * *

Angie’s bro Raul and me run out past Hillsboro. We’re going to El Flaco’s hacienda. His birthday party. He’s a jefe gang dude connected to Los Zetas.

El Flaco? says Creek.

"Narco name. Real name is Pedro Sanchez. Everybody calls him Peety. Tall skinny dude. Crazy fucker. Took a machete to his birthday cake.

"Raul and me drive through his neighborhood. Looks like desolation row. Houses boarded up. Busted up cars and other shit in the yards. One house in the middle of the block burned down. A torched out pickup with melted tires was in the driveway.

"We drive a couple of blocks and we get to Peety’s street. Looked like east LA. A fucking barrio patrol stood guard at the corner. Six bad ass homies being dangerous.

Motherfucker stuck his head in the pickup had a teardrop tattooed at the corner of his left eye. An O.G. Maybe twenty. Shaved head and flame tats on both forearms. Other boys were backup. New gangsters.

Mouse pauses and drinks half his beer. Creek and Luzon look at each other waiting for Mouse to continue. It’s how the crew worked. Mouse came up with the ideas, Luzon would bitch about it and Creek would either vote yea or nay when they finished arguing.

So you don’t even get to the fucker’s house and you run into a dude with a tear drop. Great. You know what that means? Luzon growls.

Yeah. It means he’s shot somebody, Mouse says.

More like killed, Luzon snaps back. You wanna rip these guys? Come on, man. This is nuts.

For christsakes, let me tell you the whole story before you jump off the cliff, Mouse says. All I’m doing is giving you a plan. A way we can get the fuck out of here with enough dough to kick it. Its risky but the pay-off’s big. Bigger than we’ve ever had.

Alright, alright, Luzon answers. Let’s hear it.

Mouse continues.

"Raul starts babbling on about Peety’s birthday. This older dude walks over. He’s got two big fucking pit bulls on leashes and they jump up on the door and stick their heads through the window. Raul damn near jumped out the car. The dogs are drooling and growling. Drooled dog spit all over the door handles.

"Dog dude looks at me and wants to know who the fuck I am. Raul mumbled something in Mexican I didn’t catch and the dude pulls his mutts off.

"The kid with the tear tat waved us through, but that didn’t stop everybody hanging on the street from staring at us. Typical barrio shit. Young bitches stand around gettin’ wet watching the homies flex their muscles. Most of them bouncing a nîno or two. The older folks stay away. Sit on their porches and eat tamales. They stay out of it.

Nobody smiles or laughs. They all look like they’re pissed at something. Probably because they live in a shit hole and have to tally ho for the gang.

How’d Raul get in with these guys? Creek asks.

He’s a computer geek at some high tech place. Earns good bank but gets cash for doing Peety’s computer stuff. That’s all Angie said. Didn’t get much out of Raul. Didn’t want to heat him up.

What about the weed? Luzon breaks in. Who cares about fucking Raul?

Okay, I’m getting there.

Well, hurry up goddammit. I don’t want to be here all fucking day listening to life in the barrio. I’ve lived there, dude. Don’t need to go back.

"Okay. We go into the house and meet Peety. Everything is cool. Then the party really kicks in. They got tequila and beer. Couple hombre’s got a pig roasting in a pit out back. Senoritas dancing. Lots of reefer passed around.

"One of the big tit senoritas is offering a plate with lines of smack and Raul gets busy with it. Seen him a little later zoned out in a lawn chair. Snoring like a motherfucker. I end up sitting at a picnic table with four rough looking dudes drinking Hornitos.

Knew they weren’t Peety’s crew. Looked too beat up. More like farm workers. Peety’s guys are too brushed and clipped. Always wear baggy jeans hanging over their ass. Walk like they shit their pants. These other guys do real work. Overalls and work boots. You could see it in their hands. Their faces looked like leather.

They the growers? Creek butts in.

Yeah, Mouse answers. "I sit down. Don’t say a thing. They’re chewing up a storm in Spanish. I catch some of it. Only one of them is working. His name is Jose. The other three are on the beach. One of Peety’s coyotes ran them up to work in the berry fields but put them on pot plantations. They’re waiting to go back to Humboldt County for harvest. Jose tells the other guys he’s running a gig up here. He’s about five feet five and four feet wide. Wears this Cubs hat. Said he thought they were going to win the series this year.

Jose’s doing the talking now. Tells them hombres the weed is in eastern Oregon. In the Wallowa National Forest, off the Grand Ronde River somewhere.

Man! That’s serious bum fuck, Creek says. Big country out there. Big country.

No shit, Mouse says. "It’s like 700 miles from here. I Googled it. Wherever they got the weed is right near the Washington and Idaho border.

Then Jose starts bitching he can’t buy good irrigation supplies near the plantation. Afraid he’ll tip somebody off. Says he comes all the way over here to get what he needs. That’s when I joined in.

You don’t speak Spanish, do you? Creek asks.

Picked a little up living in LA. Street corner Mexican, Mouse says. But I know about irrigation. Remember those Johnson Ultimate Drip Kits you and I used down at your pot garden? Well, I toss that in and fuck I get their attention. I tell them I’m a grower too and the Johnson kit is the best ever. That they don’t need no stinking PVC, Mouse says in a mock Hispanic accent.

Creek and Luzon laugh.

Jose says he’s got over 15,000 plants spread out in one garden. Said he got his starts in early, not much snow. Asked if the system can handle that many. I tell them it’s the best drip system made. They can hook it up to the spring creek where they get their water. Run it day and night.

Luzon and Creek are interested. Mouse is all about detail.

He’s got 20 hectares, about 50 acres. Going to be ready to harvest in a few months. Country’s rough, he says. I told them they’d need 15 to 20 drip kits per hectare, but they’re easy to haul. Four kits to a backpack easy. Better than trying to carry 12-foot lengths of PVC down a forest trail.

Mouse pauses and drinks down half a pint of Moose Head Lager in one gulp.

Anyway, the three other guys don’t speak much English, Mouse continues. "Jose translated. They all know about irrigation and stuff. It’s like we were valley farmers talking about oranges.

"We’re getting into it pretty good, passing the bottle between us, grabbing a joint as they go around. Jose starts bitching about the shitty little town he goes to for his regular supplies. Tells me this town is called Joseph. Says it’s full of badass gringos and tourists. Says he and another dude at the site go to shower and get groceries. Never go together. He tells me he’s got a senorita stashed in a motel but the other hombre don’t fuck her. Says he gets his trim every time he comes to Joseph.

Jose says there’s always somebody to watch over the plants. They’re buried deep, off a main trail to an old road. Said it was a perfect layout. Good southern sun and hidden deep but easy to pack out when it’s time to harvest.

Mouse takes a break to finish his beer as the waitress brings another round to the table. The threesome at the bar has gone. They’ve got the place to themselves. There’s no hurry. Mouse has another lager. Luzon takes a double Cruzan on the rocks. Creek gets a shot of whiskey and a small glass of beer as a back.

Luzon shakes the ice in his drink. It sounds like a starter’s bell. The birthday party was for a cartel guy, right? These pot farmers are cartel peons. They gonna have a bunch of narco bad asses with AKs hanging around at harvest?

Doubt it, Mouse says. We take it off as they’re getting ready to roll out of the woods. They won’t have a posse gunned up. Just a truck and a driver or two.

Then what…? says Creek.

"The way I figure, you go over to that town and hang out. Take your trailer and camp out or something. I’ve never been there, but I know it’s out in the boonies. Nose around and look for the site. This guy Jose comes into town every week or so. He never changes his hat. It’s a Cubs ball hat. And he looks like a fireplug. You can find him. We got over three months before the shit is ready to cut. You go over for six weeks or so. Find Jose and find the weed.

You know, track him down. You be Wyatt Earp this time, Mouse says, referring to Creek’s propensity to ramble on about the Old West.

Mouse looks at Luzon. "Luz, we’ll line up Gus and Omar to take the load instead of us hauling it back. We’ll give them a base price they’ll eat up. If we grab most of the harvest, bud only. It’s at least 2000 pounds, we off it for less than a third wholesale; it’s three mill across the board. Gus can handle the weight.

If he can’t, we’ll front him half the load for another 500 a pound and wait for the extra cash. Gus is the best. He’s got a wired network. Set a meet for next week to download the basics.

Luzon sits back in his chair and stretches. Okay. I’ll set it with Gus, he says. Creek?

Creek looks straight at Luzon and then to Mouse. He takes the shot glass full of whiskey and downs it.

I gotta find a big Mex with a Cubs hat. Ha! Well giddee-the-fuck-up.

Chapter 2

Long Ago and Far Away

Mouse first hooked up with Luzon in the Westchester area of LA, having finished a two-year bit at the New Folsom Prison. He was convicted for intent to distribute Ecstasy while a student at Chico State. He’d done the full 24-month, 10-day ride as a result of federal drug sentencing guidelines. His first bust but not his first crime. When he was released he returned to his mother’s house in West LA on non-supervised probation with nothing to do. A college kid fresh out of jail.

After a month of hanging around the pool and listening to his mom bitch, Mouse got a job at a nearby Dairy Queen. One night, a few minutes before closing, two banger wannabes with blue bandanas tied around their heads stomped in demanding cash from the till.

The first banger came through the door swinging a baseball bat and screaming some sort of rap rant in Spanish. He smacked the counter up and down with the bat. Two patrons sitting in a booth ducked under the table just as the banger bashed it. Splashed their ice cream sodas against the wall.

The other banger followed waving a machete around like Zorro. Don’t move, motherfuckers. I tole you I chop you like cheese. Hear me, motherfucker? he yelled at Ted, the stunned night manager standing behind the cash register. Gimme cash, homes, or I’ll chop your face.

Ted pissed himself and emptied the cash register, dumping the bills into a D.Q. paper bag.

As the gangsters turned toward the front door a Mexican looking dude walked in. The robber with the money and machete bumped against the guy on the way out, who in turn snapped him in the back of the head with a sock full of marbles, dropping the banger to his knees. The other robber wheeled around to help his buddy, cranking his bat like he was ready for a fastball. He met the sock square on the jaw and went down in a heap, spitting blood and broken teeth. Mouse ran around the counter in time to kick the first thief in the face as he tried to get up, while the Mex dude retrieved the sack of cash from the other fallen bad guy.

They stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye. The Mex stepped over the moaning bodies, stuffed the sack in his pocket and walked out into a night ringing with sirens.

Mouse threw off the D.Q. hat and apron and followed out the door. A block later he caught up to him.

Hey, man, nice move, Mouse said, standing back from the guy; wary he might try to use the sock on him. That’s good work.

You gonna ID me to five-O?

Fuck no! I just got out of New Folsom. Did a deuce. Didn’t see shit.

The Mex dude dug into the bag of cash and pulled out a wad of bills and handed them to Mouse. Be cool, he said and walked off.

Mouse pocketed the cash and ran back to the restaurant. Two black and white LAPD cruisers with lights flashing were in the parking lot, alongside a white Fire Department EMS van.

The cops were questioning the manager and a paramedic was patching up the dazed and handcuffed robbers. Cops asked Mouse if he knew the Mexican guy and where he went.

I ran up Playa for a block, but didn’t see him. He vanished.

Mouse had over $600 cash in his pocket and didn’t feel like having a meaningful chat with the law. He hadn’t had any serious mad money since he’d been busted. Chugging some tequila and getting humped by one of the pole dancers at the 205 Club was first order.

A few nights later Mouse stood at the bus stop on La Cienega and Venice waiting for the No. 7 when a guy in khaki chinos and a red hoodie pulled over his head walked up smoking a joint. Yo, D.Q. dude? Have a hit.

It was the Mex guy who tripped up the idiots at the D.Q. Luzon Marino.

* * *

That meeting began a perfect partnership. Mouse the dreamer and planner, Luzon the muscle and driver. Their first gig together was to rip-off homes in high-end neighborhoods.

Mouse had the idea. "See, we stay away from big ass mansions or those gated places. Alarm systems and big fucking guard dogs. They got gardeners and maids and shit like that too. Target the nice neighborhoods, no Hollywood shit. Fresh paint, trimmed lawns and basketball hoops over the garage. Expensive rides too. Mercedes or Beamer 7s in the driveway. That’s the give-a-way.

Yuppyville is where we want to be, was the way Mouse saw it. The people work and got nice shit like new TVs and stuff. If there’s a kid or two, they’re at daycare or school. Nobody robs these people. The houses are nice and the neighbors watch everything going on. We grab cash, jewelry and credit cards. Nothing real big, easy stuff to pack and dash.

It was a simple plan. Case the neighborhood. Pick a target. Smash and grab, in and out. Run away.

Everybody walks their dogs before they go to work or when they get home. Great cover, dude. It’s money, Mouse said.

Mouse borrowed his girlfriend Sheryl’s two dogs. He leashed up her mixed breed terrier and golden retriever, put on plaid shorts, a bright colored Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, and grabbed a few small plastic bags. Local boy walks the dog.

Luzon dropped him off three blocks away from the street he wanted. Mouse took the dogs for a long, slow walk up one side of the shady, tree lined avenue and down the other. He did this in the morning, 7:15 sharp, and in the afternoon, 3:30 sharp, for four days straight, making note of who was home and who was not.

Didn’t take long to find the right house.

On the fifth day a brown utility van with a ladder lashed to the roof backed into the driveway of 1823 Webster NE at 8:42 a.m. Two men, one short with long blond hair and a taller Hispanic, dressed in matching blue overalls exited the truck and passed through a gate on the left side of the garage. Fifteen minutes later, both men came out the front door with two large gym bags apiece, got in the van and drove away.

See, what’d I tell ya, Mouse laughed slapping Luzon’s shoulder as they turned the corner on to 18th Avenue going north, away from the neighborhood. Slick as pie. Quick in. Quick out. It’s the only way to go.

Once inside the house, they’d grabbed three boxes of women’s jewelry, two men’s Rolex watches, a Macintosh laptop, a gold coin collection displayed on a table and $530 in cash. Luz emptied the liquor cabinet while Mouse flipped through a file drawer in a desk alcove off the TV room. He found a copy of the homeowner’s recent Federal Income Tax form with the husband’s Social Security number written on it. He took the second page and left the rest of the form undisturbed. Mouse folded the page and slipped it into a pocket under his overalls.

Total take on the job was 15K after they fenced the goods in Compton. Together they worked the LA area for two years, pulling the dog walk routine in upper-middle class neighborhoods and communities, until Sheryl got suspicious and started asking too many questions. She’d seen an article entitled Beware of Dog Walkers You Don’t Know in the Homes section of the LA Times. She wanted to know why Mouse was so keen on walking her dogs. How come he always had a pocket full of money but never went to work. Said she was going to call the cops.

Mouse and Luzon decided it was time to change direction. Sheryl might be bluffing, but Mouse didn’t want to chance it. They’d been careful not to get greedy or hit the same neighborhood more than twice. Knocking over a house or two a month was the limit. Sometimes they scored big, other times not so much. Top net was 43K.

They were sitting on the deck outside of Hennessey’s Tavern in Hermosa Beach. The Santa Ana winds scoured out the smog, leaving a clear day to watch the sun set against sailboats cruising alongside a cloudbank on the horizon.

Luzon kicked back his chair and put his feet on the railing. Dude, I’m going to chill for awhile. Think I’ll go back over to Arizona. He pushed out of his chair and walked away.

Mouse didn’t hear from him for over