The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [93]
“They were in full bloom, budding with big canes coming off the tops. It smelled sweet, like flowers. I never thought weed could smell so good.” The walls of the chamber were lined with silver reflective material, while long, fluorescent grow lights hung from the dugout roof. Art counted thirty-six plants.
“This is what I do,” Senior said with a smile, then explained that, fifteen years earlier, he’d hooked up with an “old-timer” who taught him everything he knew about indoor marijuana cultivation—hydroponics, cloning, you name it. He’d been growing ever since, selling most of his harvest to a friend of his who lived down the highway in the town of Wasilla, which would later gain notoriety for its then-mayor, Sarah Palin. To power his grow room, he had surreptitiously spliced into the Matanuska Electric Association power line that ran along the highway.
The weed wasn’t his only product, Senior explained. By feigning various ailments, Anice had obtained prescription pads from numerous area doctors. She and Senior were forging scripts for large amounts of the powerful painkiller OxyContin, then selling the pills on the side for a tidy profit. Art was almost relieved to learn that his father was still a crook. He’d found it hard to believe that his dad had stayed clean all these years, and at least his old man was finally beginning to go tit for tat with him when it came to honesty. It also gave them something in common.
They were more alike than either of them knew. Senior held back from telling Art that in 1992 he’d been convicted for assaulting and robbing a man of his cash and marijuana, the latter of which is legal in Alaska in quantities of less than an ounce. The crime had been part of a drug deal gone wrong involving two other men who had done the actual assaulting and robbing, but Senior had been the only one the victim knew and had taken the heat. He’d served five years in prison and was still on probation.
For his part, Art neglected to mention a word about the House of Blues arrest, or that there was fifty thousand dollars in counterfeit sitting in Senior’s trailer.
OVER THE NEXT THREE WEEKS Art reunited with his stepsiblings, Larry and Chrissy, both of whom had stayed in Alaska. Chrissy was married and living in Anchorage. Unlike the bossy little girl in Art’s memory, she was buoyant and friendly, and took to Art the moment she saw him again. To Art’s surprise, she cried when she saw him, and confessed that she had always felt terrible about Senior leaving his children behind, especially him. “You got a raw deal,” she told him. “If I could go back in time to when we were kids, I would have grabbed you up in my arms, run away with you, and raised you myself. You were so special.”
Larry was also excited to see Art, and so unrecognizable from the jock that Art remembered that it freaked him out. He’d become even more Alaskan than Senior, with hair down to his shoulders and a Grizzly Adams beard. He had a girlfriend who looked as wild as he did, and her hair reached her knees. They would sometimes spend months by themselves in the mountains, hunting and fishing and exploring. Both were inordinately quiet and soft spoken, as if the solitude of the bush had permanently impressed them.
For the first time in years, Art began to feel like he was part of his father’s family again. He never tired of learning new things about his dad, or being surprised by him. Senior had a mechanic’s garage behind the house, and when Art saw the five cars inside he was speechless. The centerpiece was a white 1967 Mustang Fastback, a car prized by collectors. There was also a Camaro, a Chevelle, a 1979 Trans Am, and an old four-door yellow Caddy. Even though Art was a Mustang man, it was the Trans Am he fell in love with. Depending on the angle you looked at it, it was either purple or black. His father had also discovered the wonders of color-shifting paint.
“It’s yours,” his