Winter Counts(22)

After a few miles, we saw what looked like a budget motel, the Getaway Motor Lodge. The name suited me, as did the prices. The clerk asked whether we wanted a smoking or nonsmoking room. I realized we hadn’t discussed the sleeping situation—one room or two. I started to ask Marie what she wanted to do, but she said, “Two rooms, nonsmoking.” I guess that was settled.

After I brought my bag inside, I called Tommy back at the rez. He answered right away.

“Yo Virg, where you at?”

“Just got into Denver, we drove through Pine Ridge and Nebraska. Made good time, just stopped once. Hey, you ever seen that Carhenge thing? In Alliance?”

“Yeah, saw that mofo a while back. Some crazy-ass shit. Them cars freaked my head out, I was trippin’ for sure. What you think?”

I paused. “We didn’t stay long,” I said. “It was pretty weird.”

“Aight,” he said. “So, I hear Marie came along?”

“She kind of insisted.”

He chuckled. “You two gonna light the campfire again? Damn straight.”

“Nothing is gonna happen with us. I’m here to find that asshole Rick Crow.”

“I know she moved her shit out of the tipi—Indian divorce—but there ain’t no rule that she can’t move back in, know what I’m saying?”

“That ended a long time ago,” I said. “She’s probably going off to medical school in a few months anyway. Look, I’m calling about something else. I need you to go out and check on Nathan at my auntie’s place. Make sure he’s not doing nothing wrong, see if he needs anything. You do that for me?”

“I’m your boy! Head out there tomorrow, check him out. All my relations, right?”

“Call me if you see anything strange. Thanks, man, I owe you.”

“Toksa, homes.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Marie and I grabbed some coffee in the motel’s lobby and discussed our plan for the day, then she took a break to call her dad. I wondered how much Ben was telling her, whether he was keeping silent about the fact that he was the one who’d hired me. In any case, before we made any contact with Rick Crow, I needed to get as much intel as I could. I decided to check out Martin Angel and the Wellness Relief Center, see what I could find out there. I asked Marie if Rick had ever mentioned it, but she said no. Still, I needed to visit the place, ask some questions.

Marie and I drove down Colfax Avenue to Federal Boulevard, watching the neighborhood change from little shops and breweries to taquerias, Mexican grocery stores, and, surprisingly, Vietnamese restaurants. I figured out from the signs that pho was a Vietnamese soup and apparently very popular here, as there were at least twenty cafés selling it in a six-block area. Pho Noodle House, Pho 77, Pho Chim U’ng. We also saw an increasing number of cannabis dispensaries, judging from the logos and names on the signs: Frosted Leaf, High Altitude, Green Solution. Finally we found the shop we were looking for, tucked back into a little strip mall. Wellness Relief Center. I could certainly use some relief and wouldn’t mind some wellness, but I doubted they sold the type I was looking for.

Before we could enter the store, we had to show our IDs at a little window at the front of the shop. Once the clerks verified that we were over twenty-one, they ushered us into the main area of the store. I’d never been in one of these dispensaries before, but of course I’d heard about them. There were three sizable display cases with a variety of marijuana strains in glass jars. On the wall were shelves with a large number of candy bars, cakes, and drinks, all infused, apparently, with cannabis. In a much smaller case, there were a number of waxes and oils in tiny jars.

It was surprising. I’d expected a small dingy space that replicated a seedy drug dealer’s apartment; I didn’t anticipate this bright and well-designed store. And the smell. The skunky but sweet aroma was overwhelming, like being trapped in a marijuana rain forest. I looked more closely at the containers with the marijuana buds and flowers. Each of them was labeled with a name: Bubba Kush, God Bud, Spyder Bite, Bone Games, Ghost OG, Medicine Man, Juanita la Lagrimosa.

A white guy with long brown dreadlocks wearing a Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt was standing behind the counter.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“No, just looking.”

He motioned to the glass cases. “The indicas are over there, the hybrids in the middle, and the sativas right here. Concentrates are back there; some killer shatter just came in, full nug run, no trim. You should check it out.”

“Are you the owner?” I asked.

“No, I’m the doctor.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Dr. Maximilian Pratt, doctor of entheogenics.”

Was he kidding? I looked over at Marie to gauge her reaction.

“What’s that? Entheo—what?” she asked, her eyebrows arched.

“It’s the science of psychedelic therapy and spiritual development,” he said haughtily.

Marie and I glanced at each other. I decided to go first. “What’s psychedelic therapy?”

“I help people suffering from depression, emotional PTSD, or spiritual ennui by administering microdoses of cannabis, LSD, and MDMA. Once they ingest the medicine, we work on their loop thinking, toxic patterns, and repetitive scenetics.”

Marie said, “What are, uh, scenetics?”