A Nation of Mystics/ Book Two: The Tribe

By Pamela Johnson

In Book Two of A Nation of Mystics, author Pamela Johnson resumes her skillful exploration of the late-1960s and the counterculture through the eyes of a communal family, following the strengthening relationships of the tribe as they search for enlightenment through mind-expanding hallucinogens and work for political change.

Christian Brooks, now twenty-one years old, expands his underground activities by moving into Europe to acquire chemicals for his high-yielding LSD lab in Los Angeles. Kathleen Murray struggles to develop her own business in a male-dominated world, searching for a balance between spiritual enlightenment and money, while trying to find a way to resolve binding love and independence. Forced to leave the Bay Area, Myles Corbet becomes an undercover agent working for Interpol in Germany and Amsterdam. Using all the botanical talent of his young life, Jerry learns to produce the beautiful and vision-manifesting mushrooms of the Mazatec shamans of Oaxaca. Supervisor Dolph Bremer, more frustrated and therefore more ruthless, turns his police investigations on Lance Bormann, attorney, as he contemplates a way to pay Bormann back for his successes in the courtroom.

The different threads of the family’s conflicts, acquired knowledge, and personal resolutions finally intersect in the building of a community park on university land in Berkeley. As the youth movement pits itself against the establishment, the conflicts ultimately explode in tear gas and gunfire over the idealism of People’s Park.

Although set in the 1960s, Book Two: The Tribe addresses questions that continue to be relevant today—what constitutes true crime, police reaction to civil disobedience, the nature of religious freedom, and needless violence when legal access to sacramental hallucinogens, money, and spirituality collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela Johnson
• Release date: Sep 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9780998117140

Pamela Johnson

Pamela Johnson, a former Senior Editor of Essence magazine and now a frequent contributor, is a graduate of Stanford University.

Book preview

KATHLEEN MURRAY

TUCSON, ARIZONA, TO BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

JANUARY 1968

Even in the cold of January, Kathleen Murray loved the desert. The high peaks that rose roughly from dry rolling hills; tall saguaro cactuses, green sentries by day and silver monoliths in moonlight; the quick rabbits with white tails; flocks of bright red cardinals; anxious roadrunners dashing across tar and gravel roads; the crying howl of the coyotes piercing the night.

And then there was the hawk, the bird that called to her spirit, because in the bird she saw grace, perfection of form, and freedom as it circled high above the earth.

She was beginning to understand that she liked many places—the beautiful, old city of New Orleans, where she’d been born and raised; cool summers in the San Francisco Bay; the bookstores of Berkeley; the winter green hills of Marin County; the rough coastline of Big Sur; and tonight, the desert south of Tucson, with its star-filled sky so large that she was once again a tiny speck in the universe, overwhelmed by the vastness of creation and humbled by the tiny thread she wove in this life.

As she walked the moonlit road in solitude, the desert was cold, but she was in no hurry to return to the warmth of the fireplace. This was a new year—1968—and with the turning of the earth, there were infinite new possibilities. The original plan had been to see how California could mobilize thousands to political action, and Kathy had thought to take those ideas back with her to LSU. Instead, she had discovered a new kind of politics, one of spiritual revolution through psychedelic awareness. For the moment, she was deeply involved in bringing kilos of marijuana to the San Francisco Bay from the old barn on this ranch near the Mexican border.

Overhead, a shooting star exploded across the sky.

A good omen, she thought.

In the first week of January, she’d bought a Volkswagen van in California. Running suitcases of keys through the San Francisco airport was becoming risky. That she’d managed this long without getting caught was a miracle. With wheels, she could drive on a regular basis without attracting attention—and she could carry a larger load. Like the hawk she admired, she was between worlds—a part of the Fairfax house in Marin County and also a part of the Tucson ranch and its family. The road between the two was fairly straight, from Richard and Alex to Larry and Jose.

In the morning, she would leave this place and begin a new journey on her own. The thought of leaving Larry after spending months with him through a hepatitis illness and hospitalization, holidays, and trips of discovery, had caused her to consider long and hard. Once she was gone, the threesome with Carolyn would dissolve. Larry would turn to Carolyn to live in the day to day that ranch life demanded, while she would be on the road, facing a new horizon each morning. When Larry had asked her to stay and become his partner, saying again that he’d work something out with Carolyn, she’d learned something else about herself. She wanted to remain the hawk—graceful, in balance with air and earth, and free.

Kathy, Larry called to her the next morning, come out to the barn and take a look at the van. We’ve finished loading up.

What do you think? Jose asked. I opened the panels in the rear, stuffed them with kilos, then repaneled. No one looking in here will be able to tell you’re carrying.

Is there anything I can do about the smell?

Jose shook his head. "Not a whole lot. We’re going to have to come up with a better way to wrap the product. Someone was telling me about something called shrink wrapping."

It’ll be alright, Larry told her. We bought the car secondhand in Berkeley for the license plates. At the California Agricultural Inspection Station, just get in the free lane of local returning traffic.

I couldn’t get everything in the panels, Jose said. Some of it had to go into these two trunks, but we’ve made you a bed to cover them. You’re going to want to sleep sometime anyway. It’s at least a good two-day ride.

How many are here? she asked.

Two hundred. All primo weed. Larry put his arm around her shoulders. You know what you need? A partner. Someone to help with the driving.

Kathy nodded, fighting a sudden, hot stinging in her eyes, clinging to Larry and thinking herself silly to cry.

He touched her face. You know I’m sorry to see you go.

I love you, Larry. But I have to do this.

He sighed. If you can do a trip like this every week or two, you’ll make us all rich.

She shook her head. It’s not for the money.

I know. But we’re thinking about buying this place.

She started the engine and pulled out of the barn, slowly moving down the driveway and toward the gate. She had not answered Jose’s look, the knowing in his eyes, his awareness that she was moving away without Larry.

At the gate, she looked up into the rearview mirror, only to see Larry and Jose get smaller as she turned onto the main road.

The trip back to the Bay went smoothly, even though it had begun to rain as she neared the California coastline. Before long, she was crossing the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, making her way across a cloud-laced span, driving the bay coastline, and finally, through the green valleys of Marin. When she reached the house in Fairfax, she waited while Richard opened the garage door. She slowly pulled the van forward, stopping when he raised a hand to let her know the door could be closed.

Made it, she thought with a sigh of relief, jumping from the cab.

A year ago, Richard would have been considered outrageous—long, straight brown hair and a colorful scarf about his head, a billowing shirt, striped pants, boots, and an earring—a pirate. A year ago, he had been part of the Haight-Ashbury street scene—the Summer of Love—one of tens of thousands of the young who had ventured to San Francisco to wear flowers in their hair. She regarded him now, no longer so outrageous—soft boots, tan, bell-bottomed cords held up by a belt, and a collared cotton shirt. He was clean-shaven with a neat mustache and a hair tie holding back his hair.

We can sell this in no time at all! he announced gleefully, pulling open the sliding side of the van. Merlin, grab that corner of the bed and let’s see what’s in the trunks underneath.

Merlin, on the other hand, Kathy observed, was still pretty out there. He had been a big part of the original Ashbury Street commune, and Kathy couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t look stoned. As he opened the trunks and began to stack bricks against the side of the garage wall, she watched him—bright red bell-bottomed pants with a scarf looped around his waist, a shirt that his old lady Greta had made for him on her very productive sewing machine, wavy, sandy-blond hair flowing around his shoulders, a darker beard and mustache. Every so often, he would raise a kilo to his nose and sniff, grinning up at her, blue eyes sparkling behind round, John Lennon wire-rimmed glasses.

Marcie, Richard asked, can you find a screwdriver so we can open these panels?

There’s two hundred. Kathy told him. But I’ll need fifty for some friends in Berkeley.

Aw, c’mon, Kathy. You can’t do that to me. You’ll screw up my exclusive. You know what happens when things get split up. Everybody thinks there’s a lot of shit out there, and they just lay back waiting for the price to go down. It’ll take me longer to move it, and I don’t want it sitting around here too long.

Can’t the profits be shared? she wondered. Arguing with Richard about stash and money tore at her. He was family. But other people had families, too. More of her friends had babies on the way.

These people don’t have the same market you do, she answered, a hint of pleading in her voice.

The scene’s pretty small. What do you say? Can I have it?

Oh … I suppose so. This time. Richard, you do this deliberately, don’t you? You know I hate hassling over money.

Thanks. I mean it.

Marcie took her hand. Come on inside. Let these guys unload. You look like you could use a cup of tea and something to eat.

In the dining room, Kathy stopped to look through the sliding glass doors. The rain was lessening—just a drizzle now, more mist than rain. Across the valley, rolling white fog from the coast dropped over the hills. Above, the sky was a mixture of shades of gray. The wind was blowing cold, and thin wisps from the fog bank drifted across the hills. She shivered, grateful for the warmth of the house and the steady fire that burned in the living room fireplace.

Standing before the hearth, she noted the new pillows sewn from paisley fabrics spread on the rug. The room was a patchwork of hues and textures, the room vibrant, contrasting wildly with the subdued colors of the hills outside. Tibetan thangkas hung from cords with frames of brilliant brocade, one thangka of the Buddha painted in gold, the other of Green Tara, Bodhisattva of compassion. Posters of framed psychedelic art lay against the white walls, no longer thumbtacked to the wall as they had been in the Ashbury Street house. The air smelled of incense and pot. The plants she had bought at Christmas—a Boston fern, a Schefflera, a huge asparagus fern—all were growing large and healthy.

The plants are thriving, Kathy said, reaching out to touch the leaves of the fern.

Merlin’s been caring for them, Marcie nodded. You should see the backyard. Even in this cold and rain, he’s got vegetables growing. Come on into the kitchen.

Where’s Greta? Kathy asked, following Marcie and sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of the lentil soup steaming on the stove.

Food shopping. But it’s a drive. We could really use a natural food store in town.

Rubbing a hand along Marcie’s belly, Kathy smiled. I can’t believe how much the baby’s grown in just the few weeks I’ve been away.

Marcie closed her eyes and held Kathy’s hand over the child, the women sensitive to this intimate bonding. This is your godchild, you know.

For a long, quiet moment, Kathy stood there, sending a warm glow into the baby. I know, she said softly. Have you and Richard made any decisions about the birth?

Marcie smiled, the deep blue in her eyes lit with happiness. Oh, yes. She twisted the dark hair that hung to her waist into a braid, and turned to the kettle sitting on the stove. "We’re definitely having a home birth. I’m not doing the hospital trip with its cold metal stirrups. And I’m not going to submit to forced labor to accommodate a doctor’s schedule. Do you know how unclean hospitals are? The risk of Staph infection. No, instead, we’ve chosen a midwife. This birth will definitely be natural and the baby will come when he’s ready. He’ll be born right into Richard’s hands."

He?

Well, maybe, Marcie grinned.

What about your Mom? Have you told her about the baby yet?

Marcie turned up the fire underneath the kettle, avoiding Kathy’s eyes.

You have, haven’t you?

Actually … we’ve been talking quite a lot. Mom’s relieved to know Richard and I are getting married. And before the baby comes. She rolled her eyes and giggled. As if it matters. Then, she sheepishly added, We’ve been talking a lot about you, too. She’s … um … right on the phone afterward to your folks.

Kathy sat up straighter. What are they talking about?

Do you really want to hear it?

Resigned, sighing heavily, Kathy took a joint from her pocket. Yeah, I need to know.

Well, in the first place, they think you’re doing a lot of drugs. And before you ask me which ones, you know they wouldn’t know enough to make any distinctions. She began slicing cheese and fruit and some of the fresh bread she had just baked. Here, she handed Kathy a piece of cheese. Eat something.

What else are they saying?

Well, your father was all worked up because he thinks the reason you won’t give them any way to contact you is because you’re pregnant. My mom calmed them down about that one. But they still can’t understand why you won’t come home.

Marcie, maybe … maybe I’ll write. I’m not calling them again. It’s too emotional. She lit the joint, blowing a cloud of smoke into the room. "My father has a way of seeing the world in black and white. Literally. He’s not happy about desegregation. But then, he also sees every non-conservative political action as communism. ‘Capitalism or Communism,’ he’s always crying. ‘Take your pick.’ I mean, how hard is it to understand that you can have a free society and one where everyone has access to opportunity—education, medical care, food, housing. I’ve tried talking to them, over and over. I could talk myself blue and they wouldn’t understand."

Mom’s coming out after the baby’s born.

Stunned, Kathy’s eyes widened, and at first, she could find nothing to say. Are you kidding?

I think it’ll be alright once she meets Richard and sees how good he is to me. The only problem’s his work, but I think I’ve got that figured out. I told her he was in the import business. And, after all, he is! Marcie’s eyes twinkled as she poked at the Mexican kilo Kathy had carried in and set on the table. I’m sure she expects him to be kind of kinky, so she might even be pleased with what she sees.

It’d be pretty hard not to like Richard. Kathy tapped ash into an ashtray. What about Richard’s parents?

Sore subject with Richard. His dad’s pretty pissed that he quit school and didn’t show up for his draft physical. The blue of Marcie’s eyes deepened, and her body visibly shuddered. Can you imagine Richard in Vietnam? Carrying a gun?

Kathy, high and thinking, simply stared at the plate of snacks Marcie placed in front of her. You know, she finally said softly, you’ve done something really remarkable. Making this bridge between generations.

Marcie poured boiling water into the teapot and sat down next to Kathy to wait while the tea steeped. She placed her hand over Kathy’s. I’ve learned something in the last months. I’m not just mother to this baby … but to Richard, to the members of this house, really, to all those I touch.

She squeezed Kathy’s hand. Remember what I told you on my first acid trip. I was thinking about it the other day. I told you that it seemed as if a passageway had opened between my legs and I was at the center of all things, the Mother, caring. My job, I know, is not simply to carry life, but to nourish it.

On the morning after returning to the Bay, Kathy headed toward Berkeley in the emptied van. Berkeley, in many ways, was more interesting to her than the Haight. It was late January, and students were just returning to school and the new quarter. Telegraph Avenue vibrated as if motivated by a tangible sense of purpose. Yesterday’s rain had finally stopped, and she walked briskly through a shining winter day, wrapped in a warm wool poncho. She wore comfortable suede ankle boots, jeans, a silver concho belt, and a white embroidered shirt. Her dark hair was loose, grown several inches down her back in the last year, blowing in the light breeze. Her smile was a bright blur in the glass of the shop windows she passed.

First stop, Moe’s Books, with its rows of used books, political announcements on the walls, and Moe himself, wired on coffee, a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. Her heart quickened as she regarded the leaflets taped to the glass windows. The excitement, far-reaching goals, all the political activity at LSU came rushing back—the fear and danger of demonstrations, the commitment to a just and integrated racial society, the morality of ending war …

Kathy, is that you?

Andy?

Yeah. We smoked that doobie in Buena Vista Park.

Kathy did indeed remember Andy. On an afternoon last summer, they had sat on the grass with a group of others in the small park on the fringe of the Haight. Even stoned, Andy had delivered a long diatribe on the differences between San Francisco hippies and Berkeley activists—between those who wanted to drop out and create their own reality and those who believed that to change the world, you had to be part of it and work for transformation. He wasn’t particularly fond of hippies, if she recalled correctly.

And a kilo, Kathy said quietly under her breath. Didn’t we exchange some money for some smoke? What are you doing these days?

Going to school. Poly-sci. Do you have time for coffee? He nodded toward the Caffe Mediterraneum across the street.

Andy took a tray carrying a cappuccino and a pot of tea to a round marble table near the back wall, and Kathy followed. Around them, conversations rose in the air, intense, in different languages, speakers leaning forward and focused on the topic. At other tables, lone students sat reading, a tall latte placed to the side, sometimes yellow highlighters striking across the words of a page. Kathy studied the book covers as she passed—a math textbook, a bound copy of stapled academic articles, a book of Rimbaud poetry, a young woman making her way through Madame Bovary, another, The Canterbury Tales—and she knew a sudden longing to read, to discuss, to once again be a part of a class.

So, how are you? Andy asked, pulling the wooden chair closer to the table. Are you still living in the Haight?

Kathy took a good look at him. Still the same—moderately long, curly, brown hair, thick, dark mustache, black-framed, round glasses, about six feet tall. He looked like a young Leon Trotsky.

I have a room in a house in Marin, she told him. And I’m moving around quite a lot. Sometimes, home’s my VW bus.

A lot of people have left the Haight. You still selling tabs?

No, she laughed, not really. Kilos. You remember the tabs?

For a few weeks last summer, she had roamed Haight Street with a small plastic bag of biconvex white tablets—smooth, brilliant LSD dubbed White Lightning.

You had twenty tabs in a bag and were selling twos and fours. I bought four. Good acid. Things seem to be slow with acid these days.

Kathy’s voice lowered. That’s because they popped Owsley right before Christmas. Got his lab in Orinda. Lots of crystal, I’m told. Enough for about 250,000 doses.

Owsley went down?

Not only was Owsley the best of the underground chemists, but he was also sound manager for the Grateful Dead.

So … and Andy’s words became tinged with anger, they’re beginning to put the leaders away. Doing it with the law. Two years ago, they busted Timothy Leary with a half-ounce of marijuana coming across the border in Texas. The Texas court sentenced him to thirty years and thirty thousand dollars. Nothing mattered about his vision for the future—or his politics—just that he had a bit of plant in his pocket. Or, rather, his daughter did. He claimed possession, and they convicted him under the 1937 Marijuana Tax Act.

But he’s not in jail, is he? Surely she should know this. She had to start stepping back into the world.

He’s out on appeal. According to the law, he didn’t pay a tax on the marijuana. Andy laughed, sarcasm thick in his voice. "As if he’s supposed to tell a federal agent he has illegal marijuana so he can pay the tax. What’s at issue are his Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination. He’s taking it to the Supreme Court."

Kathy leaned back in the chair and, not for the first time, thought about possibilities in the law. Sure, there were unjust laws. But laws also defined standards for a human society, ethics, an underlying written morality. She had begun to imagine that if you were smart enough, or lucky enough, laws could be created that helped people—good laws against discrimination, unjust war, enforced poverty, freedom of religion—even if your perception of God was based on symbiosis with a plant.

So what’s the acid scene going to do with Owsley out of the picture? Andy asked.

There are others.

Kathy poured tea into her cup, pondering Richard’s announcement last night. He had told the family that he wanted to try to fill the void Owsley’s arrest had created. He was looking for both a chemist and base—ET, ergotamine tartrate. With ergotamine, a good chemist could make lysergic acid, a main component of LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide.

So, what’s happening with the antiwar movement in Berkeley? she asked.

Quite a bit. Andy’s face fell, the flash of anger back. Johnson’s Operation Rolling Thunder is still bombing North Vietnam. To date, they’ve dropped more tonnage than in all of World War II. And they’re still using chemical weapons. Nasty stuff. Napalm. And Agent Orange. All being produced by Monsanto and Dow Chemical.

Agent Orange?

It’s a variety of toxins mixed with jet fuel. They’re spraying it on forests and it just kills everything. The idea is to do away with tropical tree cover so the Vietcong can’t hide in it. But they’re also spraying villages and farm fields. If you can’t grow anything, then you cut off the enemy’s food supplies, right? Only they don’t seem to get it that the farmers and their families also need to eat. Where do they go once their traditional villages and fields are destroyed? How can they feed themselves or their families?

Andy stared at his untouched coffee. And then there’s napalm. Now that’s an ingenious piece of work. Two acids mixed with gasoline so that it sprays easily, covers the skin, and burns the shit out of anything it touches. Wait until the number of birth defects begins to be recorded in the aftermath of all this—

Kathy involuntarily wrapped her arms around her body.

—and to top it all off, we’re beginning to hear reports that the US has been bombing Laos daily for three years without telling the American public.

That’s … that’s impossible! she cried incredulously. Secretly? How can they do that? How can they expand the war without a congressional vote?

National security, of course. I’ve been going out to protest at the Concord Naval Weapons Station. Ninety percent of the munitions for Vietnam are shipped from there. A lot of our activity’s been centered around blockading the napalm trucks. On a single day, I counted eight explosives trucks and seven napalm trucks. Each truck carrying thirty-six 750-pound bombs. There’s even rumors that nuclear weapons might have passed through last May. Huge trucks rolled in, labeled ‘Radioactive Materials.’

Maybe I should go out, Kathy thought. Join with the protesters. Could Larry and Richard wait while I took the time?

There’ve been a lot of arrests, Andy continued. And the judge trying the cases—Judge Renaghan, in Contra Costa County—insists that the morality of war is ‘irrelevant.’ He’s refused to allow testimony on international and moral law.

Kathy shook her head disbelievingly. But after World War II … the Nuremberg trials … we tried, convicted, and executed men for the crime of obeying orders to commit immoral acts against humanity.

Andy’s knuckles were white around his coffee cup as he brought it to his lips. Finally, he nodded. I’m becoming more and more convinced that to end the war, we’re going to have to resort to greater extremes.

Extremes? Kathy asked, suddenly wary. Like what?

"Like force. I’m just so sick of waiting while the bombs roll on out everyday. And I’m sick of all the lies they tell. The lies of a constructed language. In the name of ‘liberty,’ we’re ‘freeing’ the country from communist aggression. When in actuality, in the name of liberty, we’ve unleashed the awesome arsenal of the greatest military power in the world against villages. Against a nation engaged in a civil war to determine the kind of government it wants. A government that’s been struggling for independence since World War I. They tell us they’re bringing ‘peace’ to Indochina with our armies and bombs for the ‘security of the United States,’ when actually, each bomb, each bullet, brings us closer to nuclear war."

Kathy sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. Slightly high and sensitive, she had that particular psychedelic capacity for being in the moment, and at this moment, she knew the dreadful angst of men, women, and children, American, Vietnamese, and Laotian, who simply wanted a chance at life and family against overwhelming odds. While she was safe in a café in Berkeley, somewhere else in the world a village was going up in flames, a child was burned, a young revolutionary was executed on the street.

What’s your draft classification? she asked shakily.

At the moment, 2-S. I talked to this deserter at a Berkeley church the other night. Black dude on his way to Canada. Says his neighborhood’s been emptied of men his age. I’ve been putting people up in my apartment. Offering sanctuary.

Kathy reached into her bag and pulled out a lid. Andy, here, she said, passing it to him under the table. For everyone in your house.

What is it?

Something that gets people thinking.

This is thirty years in Texas, he grinned. You say you’re doing weed now?

Kilos. Need anything? It’s good shit. Nice weight, good smoke.

Could you do me ten?

That lid’s a sample. When do you find time to study?

When I can, he shrugged.

When do you want to do those kilos? Do you have the money for them today?

How much are they?

For ten … a hundred apiece. I’ll deliver them.

Kathy watched as Andy computed quickly. She’d watched Richard and Alex break up a load of ten or twenty keys, knew Andy could sell half pounds for $50 each, making over $200 on each kilo. Andy needed a $1000 to make $2000—a thousand-dollar profit, tax-free. With the money, he could probably live for three months. Sure, it was somewhat risky: If anything happened to the pot, he’d lose everything he had, but a hundred dollars a key was a good price for a one-hundred-percent profit.

In that moment of silence, Kathy was also trying to determine her own position. She was really new at selling in quantity—and untried. She still hated talking about money, especially when the sacraments should be free. Maybe a hundred dollars was too high. She would be making $50 a kilo. But if Andy would buy from her at that price, it was a better deal than the $10 a key Richard offered.

I have a thousand dollars, Andy said at last. I might be able to do more when they’re gone.

Okay, she decided. I have to go back to Marin to pick them up. Let’s meet later.

Kathy parked outside the Fairfax house in the late afternoon and carried in the big suitcase she had taken from her van. The rain had started to lightly fall again; the sky was already turning dark. In the distance, grazing cows were fading specks of black and white against gray-green hills, white mist from the coastal range swirling around them.

Hey, Kathy cried at the kitchen door, where Marcie was already busy with dinner.

"Hey, yourself. You eating here tonight? I’m starting some dal for dinner. I just picked up some very groovy new spices."

I don’t think so. I have to go back to Berkeley. You remember Andy from the Haight? You know, he was doing a bit of acid. We had a long talk today about what’s going on out at Port Chicago. Anyway, I’m going to do him ten from that load later.

Uh-oh. Then you’d better get out to the garage and pick them up. Alex is in there boxing.

This won’t affect Richard’s market. I’m selling these to a guy at a price he’d pay way down the line.

In the garage, Alex was busy. Kathy stood at the door with Marcie and watched the way he moved, bent over, serious about what he was doing. He hadn’t changed much—handsome, well dressed. He and Richard had been partners for a lot longer than the months since they’d arrived on Haight Street; they had been friends since elementary school. Together, they’d put together a serious business. But while Richard had an awesome sense of humor and was open and social, Alex had treated Kathy to moments of pure vindictiveness. The fact that he wasn’t living in the house with the rest of the family members spoke volumes. Alex couldn’t compromise enough to be able to live communally; he was in a house of his own, alone with Honey.

Lately, though, she thought, he’s been a lot better. Probably due to his running the tabbing machine.

Whatever else Alex was, he knew machinery. His LSD tablets were distinctive—colorful, barrel-shaped, compact, and easy to ship.

How’s the new year goin’, Alex? she asked.

He turned, startled. Looks good. Slowly he smiled. This is nice smoke.

Something in his posture suggested to Kathy that he might be changing his opinion of her. His grin was easy, open, and—for once—real.

Maybe if I’d slept with him, she thought, just once. Then he could say he’d had me.

So you tried it.

Yeah. I’m … well … just surprised it’s so good. It was easy to sell.

Well, I need to keep fifty. See if I can spread it around in small lots.

Can’t, Kathy, Alex shrugged. These are promised.

Oh, come on, Alex, she laughed lightheartedly. You know as well as I do that’s the nature of these deals. They change from moment to moment. Besides, those are my keys. I can decide what I want to do with them. She put down the suitcase and opened it.

They’re not yours anymore. Bringing them here gave us control.

Now … wait a minute … Confused, she was coming out of the relaxed pot stupor. I live here, too, don’t I? I have a right to bring my stuff into the garage.

Alex … Marcie’s murmur held a plea.

Stay out of it, Marcie, Alex snapped. This is business.

He turned to Kathy. This is Richard’s house. He pays the rent. As a matter of fact, simply having you bringing your stuff here puts added pressure on us. We’re trying hard to keep our trip secure, and you’re going to bring the Man in the back door.

Anger rose in Kathy, an ire she had not felt since the day in Jim’s apartment last spring, the afternoon he’d told her he was leaving for Mexico and she wasn’t welcome to follow. The time had come. Was she serious about taking control of her life? Or would she always be told what to do by men like Alex or Jim? Even Larry. Was she serious about dealing? And let’s face it—maybe things should be free, but you still had to pay for them in the real world. She needed a job.

I don’t have to live here, she told him. I can get a place of my own. Especially if it means trading my freedom for a bedroom.

A bedroom. Isn’t that where you conduct most of your business?

Alex! Marcie cried.

You’re going to try to tell me about business? Kathy’s voice was hard, pointed, her face red; a rush of heat rose from her toes to her mouth. Who do you think introduced you to your business? And she had. Without her introductions to key players on Haight Street, Alex and Richard would still be midlevel dealers rather than at the top of their game and getting better.

You fucking cunt, he threw back at her angrily. Richard and I worked every day from the first moment we hit Haight Street.

Well, so did I. Is that what irks you, Alex? Knowing a woman could do it, too?

Kathy, Marcie mumbled, maybe we should just wait for Rich …

Kathy was dizzy, yet her back was straight, her chin up, the voice not her own. As for bed-hopping. I’ve seen you at the Fillmore, Honey shoved off in some corner.

He lifted his fist, ready to swing. She could see the fury in his eyes. No woman was ever going to talk to him that way. He stood, shaking, with his arm raised, deciding. At the last minute, he turned away from her, his eyes glistening with tears of frustration.

Alex, I’m taking fifty keys. Kathy’s voice was shaking. Maybe you’d better be out of the garage by the time I get back. Marcie, help me get my trunk from the van.

Kathy took Marcie’s hand and was well outside before she stopped to feel the pain, the choked feeling in her throat, the lump in her stomach that made her feel as if she might vomit. Oh, Marcie! she cried. Did that really just happen?

He was … ready to hit you.

Come on. Come on. It’ll be alright. It’s my weed. I paid for it and brought it out. I want those fifty. There will be other loads. But right now, I need these to get my business started.

When they returned to the garage, Alex was gone. Kathy loaded forty keys inside two trunks. Ten went into the suitcase for Andy.

Marcie, Kathy was suddenly holding her tight, you know I can’t stay here anymore.

Marcie started to cry. I was afraid you’d say that. Please don’t let Alex drive you out. He can do it. He’s always wanted to. He’d drive me out too, if I let him.

He’s right about some things. Richard does pay the rent.

But you know he likes to do that. It’s … it’s his way of being both loving and controlling.

And I am putting added pressure on the scene here. You really don’t need the Man coming in your back door.

No one’s getting busted, Kathy.

It’s more than that. I just can’t live here. In Marin, I mean. It’s quiet. Spiritual. But I couldn’t live at the ranch, either. I need the stimulation that Berkeley gives me.

Tears were heavy on Marcie’s cheeks. You’ll keep in touch?

Kathy felt the desperation in Marcie’s tense body, saw the frightened look in her eyes.

Oh, Marcie, I’m part of your family. I’m going to be at the birth. Will you tell Richard I’ll give him a call for orders in a couple of days?

Marcie nodded.

Softly, her tone changing, Kathy asked, Are you going to be okay?

I don’t know, she whispered miserably, wiping her eyes. Alex is so unsettled.

Look. I’ll call tomorrow after you’ve had a chance to talk to Richard. And don’t worry about Alex. Richard will deal with him.

Reviews for A Nation of Mystics/ Book Two

[Selina Cooper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Book two of the trilogy. Well written. Very much enjoying the series. During the period of time covered by these historical novels I was in my early teens growing up in a relatively small town in NYS, but I have memories of many of the goings on during this time period.

Looking back as a mature woman of 64, I am able to view things from a different perspective than how I may have seen things back then, much of which didn’t really affect me because of my age and location. These books are important, enlightening and entertaining!