Richmond didn’t like to fly on a good day. Nothing as heavy and awkward as an airplane should be able to stay up in the air, and it was only a matter of time before the one he boarded proved his point. But put a couple dozen rapidly wilting marijuana plants in his carry-on bag, and the anxiety would kill him long before the fiery crash over the Sierras. So at the last minute he had ignored Tom’s orders and shipped the plants back to Louisville in their turkey bags.
Fortunately, the pack-and-ship shop near the airport was staffed by college students who knew all about shipping live plants in unmarked boxes. Richmond didn’t even have to explain his problem; when he looked around the cramped store for a private place to pack the box, the kid behind the counter figured it out. “Use the printer cubicle,” he said. “Blow into the bag and then seal it up. Triple-wrap that shit. You need another bag?” And he pulled a box of turkey bags out from behind the counter and offered them, free of charge.
The package went off to a little-used maintenance yard in New Albany, which would not be impossible to trace to Sumner, but would at least require some effort. They kid assured Richmond that such a small quantity might be confiscated, but not investigated. So Richmond boarded his flight unencumbered by contraband and therefore slightly less afraid, and he made it the rest of the way home on the wings of three sleeping pills and just a little splash of jack and coke to wash them down.