Page 4 of It Takes a Thief

That hadn’t been a shocker. Nowadays a lot of people smoked marijuana, which stayed in one’s system thirty days. But the wide-ranging government piss tests had netted a buttload of other illegal substances, reducing our workforce by more than half. Three-quarters when you included all those guys who had spent the weekend in Vegas with some fentanyl.

I continued, “Tuzigoot will update us on the new workforce that the Cutlasses were kind enough to loan to us.”

Everyone chuckled, because I was being highly sarcastic. We just poached the laborers by offering them union wages, about five bucks more an hour than they were getting from the ballheaded Cutlasses. So we had to enroll them all as entry level apprentices in the union.

Tuzigoot said uncertainly, “Well, even after all that, we lost about one-fourth of them due to The Assassin of Youth, although they all swore they hadn’t smoked in over a month.”

Lytton, our local PhD and my half-brother, butted in with his knowledge. He owned a pot farm up the mountain, too. “There’s no typical window of detection. THC, CBD and other metabolites accumulate in fat deposits in the body. Then the molecules are slowly released in the body over time. If you’re a chronic user, it may take longer than a month to purge.”

Tuzigoot, our foreman, gave Lytton some copious side-eye. “Fat deposits?”

Lytton said, “Yeah. Hair tests have the longest detection window. That test can register levels of THC-COOH up to ninety days after you stop using.”

Tuzigoot chuckled nervously. “Well. Good thing the DOT doesn’t require hair tests.”

I looked at Tuzigoot askance. I thought he’d quit months ago in anticipation of this enormous fifty million job. I banged my gavel half-heartedly. “All right, Tuzigoot. Continue with your report.”

He cleared his throat. The giant Aztec chunk of man straightened his spine and intoned, “So far, so good in Phase I between Beaver Creek and Rim Rock. We’ve got the citizens clearing and grubbing, surveyors are setting grades, general mobilization with Gollywow in charge of the staging area in the old drive-in theater.”

“Drive-in theaters.” Wolf Glaser chuckled. “That used to be a euphemism for when people wanted to make out. ‘We went to the drive-in theater.’”

Our elder Duji corrected him. “That was the submarine races.”

Now everyone gave Duji copious side-eye. I said, “I hope you learned that from watching American Graffiti.”

Duji looked at the table. “Right. American Graffiti.” But I distinctly heard him mutter to Faux Pas next to him, “I used to believe my older brother Sal. I thought submarine races were a real thing.”

“In France,” Faux Pas said in his heavy, dramatic accent, “we would call it ‘whale watching.’”

I banged the gavel. “Order, guys. We’ve got a lot to get through. Tuzigoot, keep on.”

Tuzigoot did for a few minutes, and then Wolf Glaser said he had an agenda item. He stood, tall and proud, a frizzy-headed Jew taking over the entire chapel. As goofy as Wolf could be, he did get the job done, so people tended to listen to him. Even if we still weren’t used to him wearing a “Filthy Few” patch.

Wolf started out. “I happened to notice a fake news item about the Bare Bones on Facebook.”

Kneecap guffawed. “Facebook? What are you, ninety years old?”

Wolf glared at the even frizzier-headed former Prospect. “Oh, I suppose you Snapchat? Pout your lips and guzzle a banana for three seconds?”

Kneecap folded his arms gruffly and pouted. His face looked like a rotten apple. “Ten seconds.”

Wolf wiped his existence away with his palm. “Whatever. What disturbed me was the content of these stories, and where they might have come from.”

“What content?” I demanded. I wasn’t in the fucking mood. I don’t know why. Overwork or something. I’d been Prez for a few years, and it was a nonstop clusterfuck of activity, drama, and explosives—normally some of my favorite things. Lately, though, I’d just been… I don’t know. Burned out.

Wolf said, “Well, it’d be better if I showed you.”

“Who’s got a laptop?” shouted Sock Monkey, our current Prospect.

“They’re all outside,” Wolf pointed out.

I waved. “Go get one.”

While Wolf left the church, guys chatted. Knoxie asked Fox, “You going to that roller derby Slushy was talking about?”

“You mean tonight? Pippa wants to go to the flea market.”

“We’re doing Ultimate Frisbee right out here by the archery range,” said Roman.