ROLLICKING DOWN THE PCH in the Rambler convertible, I sense the significance of businessman diffidence: Ron says Mr. Billy was just a warning from The Man. It's not the acid they're after. As a matter of fact, they would be happy just to let us keep leaking the stuff into the consciousness called America as long as they get their cut--be it via tax or other payoff.
Rambler reels around the rocky convolutions of the highway with a repetitiveness the likes of which would wish to pitch us into surf. A-one, a-two, a-threeeeeeee! Trying to kill us, Ron? is what I think, unfazedly. Death is ever-present, and I'm as often surprised (sometimes simply in the stirring of dawn sunshine) by the constant tendency for life to catapult recklessly onward as by the not-infrequent perils that sneak up from before or behind.
"Built for speed, Tim," shouts Stark over the battering wind, as if describing my mind. I have had more than one telepathic inkling of what's going on behind those dark shades, so it's not unusual he should read mine. He turns to grin and in the glasses I see two languid smiles. One more wan than the other . . . troubled by all the uphill miles. The other enjoys the view. Weird. It's like seeing double, only with slight differences: a kids' illustrated game . . . "Can You Spot the 10 Omissions?" .
It was that bad Bahamian bank that will send Billy Hitchcock to the bench. There was never a question in anyone's mind that the glow must go on, even if the Brotherhood has to steal to get what's necessary for the lab. Ron takes a hit and passes me the fat spliff, ember glowing in the rushing wind of the Pacific. Salt odors commingle with the strong peanut shell scent of the Humboldt Gold to give the day a magical makeover. Mmmmm! My mind reels at the sensuous combination of sea and weed! Wish Rosemary were around for a roll in the sand.