Security at Happy Valley

 

With a marijuana plantation as large as ours came a lot of risk, and security at Happy Valley was a big concern for the Happy Valley Hui, same as it was for all pakalolo growers. Ripoffs were rife and narcs were on the loose. So were pigs of the wilder persuasion. Bottom line, my partner Ray decided we needed security at Happy Valley. . .and lots of it. Read today’s excerpt from Maui Wowee and see what I mean.

With a couple thousand stunt plants in flower, we were stoked. Looked like we’d pay off our initial investment; even receive a nice bonus for our good deeds. In Kona, I’d averaged a quarter pound on plants I picked in the spring. But Kona had a sunny winter, just the opposite of the rest of Hawaii, and I wasn’t sure what to expect in rain-soaked Happy Valley. A quarter a pound average here would yield five hundred pounds. A huge crop at the time, even for long season. I’d tried a few times, but the only one I knew who’d successfully pulled off multi-hundred pound crops was the Duke, and it looked like this year I’d finally surpass him. King Mike? That had a nice ring. Emperor Mike? Even better.

Not that I was power mad or an egomaniac, but I wanted bragging rights. We’d aimed high. And why not? We had the perfect place. Sort of. More sun would’ve been nice. Less centipedes? Also, nice. Same with the other varmints and the mildew, and, well, you get the idea. Happy Valley in winter wasn’t the most cheerful place to live, but with two locked gates protecting entry, no unwanted visitors showed up. That right there was worth a big smile. But first, enjoy this shot of the security at Happy Valley.

Featured: Adolph, Happy Valley’s Chief of Security, at play. Imagine when he was angry.

 

 

Of course, we never knew when that might change. Weird stuff happened to marijuana growers. For safety’s sake, and ‘cause he had a dozen attack-trained pets, the militant Ray came up with a plan. Naturally it involved the dogs, a dozen of them, but also us walking around with rifles, patrolling the grounds. A pacifist, I didn’t care for the plan. I couldn’t picture myself blowing someone away over herb, but Ray, having spent his rebellious student days blowing up military academies, not to mention a few years as an attorney, had no qualms. He’d learned his share of battle tactics, and insisted on readiness.

First, a word about Ray’s dogs. He’d imported (well, smuggled) the first white German shepherds to the Islands, scoring them from his pal Rutger, a mercenary/gun runner/drug smuggler he knew from school days. Rutger, from a prominent family of South African fascists, had spent a few years training dogs in the art of attack and bigotry for the South African military and offered to trade Ray two pups (Adolph and Eva) for some pakalolo.

When I’d first met Ray and his dogs I’d asked, “Adolph and Eva? Isn’t that a bit, you know, racist?”

“Hitler spelled his name with an f.”

“Still.”

“What would you name him?” he asked, pointing at Adolph’s tidy brown mustache. “Despite their names, my dogs aren’t bigots.”

“No?”

“Although they do love ethnic food.”

Let’s just say, I was glad I tasted bland. Not that I didn’t attract my share of cannibals. Ray loved those dogs, so when he stationed them at strategic posts around the property they enjoyed deluxe accommodations. We cleared long runs through the jungle and hung overhead wire. Attaching leads to those, the dogs could run a hundred feet or so. Even with the home team’s trucks, they raised a racket. And when they did, it sounded like the dogs of war were coming to get ya. Anyone who didn’t know them well would shit their pants. Then, embarrassed and uncomfortable, quickly drive away. Or so I hoped, because I did not want to shoot anybody.

Each station had a camouflaged shelter built off the ground. Its walls and roof were made of visqueen that we’d coated with black, green, and brown spray paint. With a sheet of foam-covered plywood raised three feet off the ground, a sleeping bag, a mosquito net, and a kerosene lantern, it wasn’t a bad place for a grower driven crazy by peacocks on his roof to spend a night–let alone a doggy resting between patrols. It was certainly quieter than the house. We had a half dozen of these stations scattered around and changed the furry guards often so they wouldn’t get lonely. On clear nights, I’d sometimes camp in one of the shelters with Rocky. Me reading by Coleman lantern, Rocky looking at me, probably thinking, “What a nerd.” Out there, miles from the closest neighbors, we loved the solace. Not that we were alone. The rainforest at night was alive with the sounds of scurrying feet. Many, many hundreds of them at a time. Given what was down there? Rocky appreciated distance from the ground as much as I did.

Hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Be warned, Maui Wowee is due to launch in mid-September. I hope you’re ready. Meanwhile, if you haven’t read any of my other books, you can find them all on Amazon and the other booksellers.

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