Bay Area Therapeutics occupied a converted warehouse on Washington Street, a block and a half in either direction from the old morgue building and from Jack London Square. Before leaving work I called and secured permission from Scott Silber’s chief of staff to come by.
I took side streets. Traffic lights vibrated in the wind and signs ricked spasmodically. In the residential neighborhoods everyone had hunkered down for the evening, but the markets along 8th and 9th in Chinatown did a brisk trade. Masked shoppers shouldered twenty-five-pound sacks of rice up the sidewalk, the stream parting and rejoining around an elderly man glacially advancing a wire cart bricked solid with toilet paper.
I parked beneath a snapping banner that invited me to DINE PLAY SHOP STAY. The area had long served the adjacent Port of Oakland. Growing up, Luke and I referred to it as POO, because of the acronym and because you could smell it from the freeway.
Gentrification had sanded down some of the rough edges. Not all. A few edges you kept for character. The eye relished the reclaimed waterfront with its gastropubs and bowling alley and purveyor of artisanal beef; the nose wrinkled at stagnant brine and bunker fuel.
That evening’s special was Added Smoke.
The grid functioned this far west. I could hear the thud of bass as I passed the CrossFit box Luke frequented after work. Along with reforming his character, he’d devoted serious effort to reshaping his body. No longer did people confuse us from behind.
In a fit of brotherly insanity I’d once agreed to join him. For twenty interminable minutes I climbed a rope and stepped up onto a high wooden box and flung kettlebells. The wall timer hit zero and I puddled on the rubber mats, knee screaming.
Luke lay beside me.
Pain is weakness leaving the body he said.
Pain is pain paining the pain I said.
Feels good when it’s over.
You could also try not making yourself feel horrible to begin with.
He laughed and bumped me with his elbow. How I do.
In retrospect the remark felt telling. We’d seldom discussed his years in prison and never the crime that put him there. His outwardly easygoing manner could lead you to conclude that he had shed any lingering sense of remorse.
Amy, again, had seen deeper, identifying a masochistic streak in Luke’s character—the need to test, limit, and punish himself. He’d become, successively, a vegetarian, a vegan, and a paleo vegan. Pretty much he ate cashews. As a recovering addict, he’d placed himself in an awkward position by working where he did. He didn’t exercise so much as scourge his body and, by extension, his soul.
I came to the warehouse. No signage out front. I rang a buzzer set into the brick and a voice instructed me to show my ID to the camera eye. I started to reach for my badge, swapped it for my driver’s license.
The woman who opened the door was in her mid-twenties, with pixieish features and a persecuted, watchful expression.
“Evelyn Girgis,” she said.
She handed me a timestamped visitor sticker and escorted me over the main floor, a warren of communal desks and freestanding glass conference rooms beneath exposed ductwork. At quarter to six the pace of activity was strong. I said as much to Evelyn, who shrugged.
“Scott’s almost always the last to leave,” she said.
“I appreciate his seeing me on short notice.”
Her smile implied that she’d made an effort to prevent this meeting from taking place.
Among the employees, a few blatant stoner types stood out. The majority were Silicon Valley technocrats, extruded by the same die that made worker bees for every Bay Area start-up. Mostly white, mostly young, full of energy and FOMO. Dreamers for whom hope was spelled with an I and a P and an O.
The place was set up for their gratification, with bike racks, videogame cabinets, and branded swag from the annual retreat. The kitchen offered electrolyte water and healthy snacking choices. Dogs wandered or snoozed underfoot.
The most significant difference between this and most workplaces within a thirty-mile radius was literally in the air—a resinous funk emanating from dozens upon dozens of marijuana plants. They replaced standard office greenery, livening up dead spots and nodding beside the recycling bins in decorative planters, thrusting forth lush masses of leaves and glistening alien cones of orange and purple. Staked placards identified the strains.
I’m no stoner, but I live where I live. OG Kush and Cheesequake I recognized. The unfamiliar ones had me stifling a smile. Purple Monkey Balls. Bob Saget. Alaskan Thunderfuck. Dank Ewe. They exuded melon and pepper, skunk and tangerine. And just plain weed.
High along a brick wall ran a series of eight-foot-tall signs bearing the slogan I AM CANNABIS. Soft-focus portraits accompanied testimonials to the plant’s manifold benefits: medicinal, social, economic. The subjects represented a wide slice of humanity. A firefighter with a herniated disk. A female veteran with colon cancer. A man with debilitating OCD. A man who had served a lengthy prison sentence under the old drug laws. A fieldworker. A minister.
I’d slowed to read. The content was engaging, the execution stylish and empathic.
Evelyn Girgis said, “Part of a campaign we created for our expo booth last year.”
“Nice work.”
“Luke’s idea, actually.”
“Really?”
Another thin smile. She checked her phone. “Scott’s ready for you.”
I followed her up a floating staircase toward a glassed-in pod elevated on I-beams and overlooking the main floor like an aerie. There was no desk. The computer and keyboard mounted to a rolling stand, similar to those found on hospital wards but made of bleached wood and designed by Scandinavians. An altar table displayed twenty-odd bonsai marijuana trees under bell jars. Cucumber slices floated in a jug of ice water beside a stack of compostable cups.
Scott Silber lolled in a bamboo papasan, boat shoes kicked off, talking to the ceiling.
He held up a finger. Evelyn froze on the top step.
He finished his call, plucked out his earbuds, and gestured permission.
Evelyn unfroze and held the pod door for me.
Scott bounded forward to give me a pound hug. “Bro…Thanks, Evvie.”
She withdrew and shut the door, zeroing out the ambient noise.
“Please please please,” Scott said, reseating himself. “Shit, man. What’s it been?”
I took a slingback chair. “Not since Luke’s wedding, I think.”
“Right. Right. You look good.”
“You too.” I meant it. Scott had hardly changed since high school. Same curly black hair, three-day beard, Mick Jagger lips. Gone were the FUBU denim and Wu-Tang hoodies; navy slacks and a pink button-down open at the neck probably made it easier to raise capital.
“Yeah, well, I gotta keep up with all these fucking kids I work with. On that note: You got a family.”
“A daughter.”
“Pssh.”
“We’re expecting again.”
“Psssh. Respect. Luke told me about your little girl. He said she’s a genius. I expect nothing less, you guys come from brains.”
By “you guys” I didn’t know if he meant me and Amy, or me and Luke. “And? What’s your deal, Mr. Silber?”
Sheepishly he held up his left hand, wiggling the bare ring finger. “Did my mom send you? For real, though, that’s dope. You guys must be busy as shit.”
“Coming from you, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“I know, right? Wild. I knew we had something special but I never imagined it’d blow up like this. You have a dream, and for a long time that’s all it is, a picture in your mind. Then you wake up and there’s all these people, it’s this giant organism taking on a life of its own. Five years ago you told me I’d be in this position…” He shook his head. “Dreams have a life of their own, too.”
His speech had the practiced quality of an investor pitch. He dropped the starry-eyed act and grinned. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t fun as fuck.”
“I saw Luke’s posters. Very compelling.”
“Oh my God, we are so lucky to have him. He’s such a huge value-add.” Scott clapped and sanded his palms. “So what’s up? If you’re going to ask about throwing in, I’m straight up gonna have to disappoint you. At present we’re fully subscribed.”
In the company’s early days my brother had approached me, asking me to act as his proxy investor. When I refused, he enlisted our mom.
I glanced at the hive of commerce beyond the pod walls and wondered how much their shares were worth today. It made me question why he’d need to sell his car. “No worries. But it’s not that.”
“Okay. So what’s up, man?”
“I’m having trouble getting in touch with Luke. Has he come into the office today?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen him.”
“Is there a way to find out?”
“I can ask downstairs to check if he’s used his keycard.”
“You mind?”
“Not at all.” Scott took his earbuds from his breast pocket and inserted them. “ ‘Call Evelyn Girgis…’ Yo, Evvie. Real quick do me a solid: See if Luke’s scanned in today. Thanks.”
He took out the earbuds. “Everything cool? You look kinda stressed.”
“I’d feel better if I could talk to him.”
“Did you ask Andrea?”
“She said he took off sometime on Sunday but hasn’t heard from him since. She thought he might be on a work trip. She mentioned you ask him to travel on occasion.”
“Time to time. He’s amazing in a room. Get him in front of buyers, it’s practically a lock.”
“But not in the last few days.”
“Yeesh…Honestly, bro? I don’t remember. We have two hundred seventy-seven employees. Even if I wanted to micromanage them, I couldn’t.” He wiggled his fingers. “You have to let the baby birds fly.”
“If he did leave, he’d put it on his work calendar.”
“Yeah, I assume.”
“I’d like to have a look at it. The rest of his accounts, too.”
Scott arched his eyebrows. “For real?”
“Unless you can reach him.”
Holding his gaze on me, he reinserted the earbuds. “ ‘Call Luke Edison.’ ”
I counted the length of five rings, watched him listen to the silent words.
You’ve reached Luke Edison at Bay Area Therapeutics. Sorry I’m unavailable at the moment….
Have a blessed day.
“Yo yo, Dookie,” Scott said. “Checking in. Hit me up when you got a sec. Love you tons.”
He disconnected. “Look. It’s no big deal. How often do you pick up your phone?”
“When was the last time he called you?”
He worked his cell out of his pocket. The slacks were tailored and it took a while.
“…Thursday. Around two p.m.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe.”
“Did he leave a voicemail?”
“Nobody who knows me does. They know I’m not going to listen to it.”
“When’s the most recent text?”
He thumbed. “Saturday. Ten in the morning.”
“What does he say?”
“It’s work stuff. It’s not going to mean anything to you.”
“Humor me.”
He read: “ ‘KPL passed on piece about sales dip in Oregon cause they think it’s old news. Will circle back.’ ” A mocking smile. “Did you get any of that?”
“Try texting him now. Ask him to call you.”
He sighed. He thumbed, tapped, and set the phone on the floor. “Listen, Clay—”
“When was his last email?”
“We really need to do this?”
“Not if you let me look at his account.”
“You understand I can’t just do that. He’s entitled to privacy.”
“I agree. Can we also agree not to put that ahead of his welfare?”
“His welf—what’s that even mean?”
I’d run and rerun so many disaster scenarios that I had a hard time picking just one. And I could see why Scott found my persistence confusing. I knew about the Camaro. He didn’t.
I said, “If you had reason to believe that he was in trouble, you’d agree that takes priority.”
“Sure. But I don’t have reason to believe that.” He laced his fingers behind his head. “Go ahead. Persuade me.”
“Nobody’s heard from him in more than a day.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t think that’s a problem?”
“Andrea’s not worried, I don’t know why we should be.”
“She doesn’t know the old Luke. She never met him.”
“Yeah. Cause it’s the old Luke.”
“Something weird is going on, Scott. Whether you believe me or not is up to you.”
“I get that you’re wound up. But can we be, like, parsimonious? Worst case he took off for a few days to clear his head.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.” His shoulders bunched. “Dude. Why are you coming at me like this?”
“I’m worried about him.”
“Let’s just breathe, please, okay? Here,” he said, standing, “let me get you some water. Or you want a gummy?”
“Who at the company would know where he is? He must report to someone.”
“Technically, I guess, yeah.”
“Who?”
“The CMO.”
“Can you ask him?”
“Her,” he said pointedly. He sat and touched his headset. “ ‘Call Tanisha Dubuque.’ Hey, T. Yeah. Sorry to bug you. Real quick: Have you spoken to Luke lately? Yeah. No. Do you know if he’s on the road…? Okay. No no no. No need. Thanks, T.”
“What did she say?”
“Look, he reports to her. But that’s not…I mean, we have—it’s more of a flat hierarchy.”
Said the CEO in the glass watchtower.
“What’s he doing, day-to-day?” I asked.
“That’s what I mean. We’re fluid. It changes, day to day. I don’t believe in fitting the person to the task. You fit the task to the person. Luke…He’s a Swiss Army knife, you know? A free safety.”
“Who does he interact with?”
“How do you mean.”
“Does he deal with people on the black market?”
His lips tightened but his voice remained soft. “Look. Clay. When you called, I dropped everything and carved out time. But this is not cool.”
“I’m asking a question.”
“It’s not a cool question, the way you’re asking it. So I suggest you check yourself and whatever preconceived notions you have about what we do here. This is a legal enterprise.”
“Not saying otherwise. But don’t you sometimes have to expand your sources?”
“That’s the way the supply chain operates. We couldn’t meet demand otherwise.”
“What if Luke got involved with one of those people?”
“ ‘Involved’?” He sputtered a laugh. “Bro. Please. ‘Those peop…’ You know who ‘those people’ are? OG hippies who haven’t stepped foot out of Mendocino in fifty fucking years. They got kids older than us. Their kids have kids. It ain’t MS-13. You’re using an obsolete framework. It’s not twenty fifteen, we’re not schlepping around Hefty bags of cash. Luke doesn’t handle that shit anyway.”
“What does he handle?”
“Other shit. This”—Scott waved at the office floor—“is not one business. It’s businesses. We have extracts. We have edibles, infusions, flower. That’s the plant-touching side. We also have lifestyle consulting, corporate consulting, brand consulting, event planning. Everything’s siloed, legally. Luke’s strictly non-touching. And FYI, that was his choice. He didn’t want his record causing issues. I told him don’t trip but he insisted.”
“You’ve got weed growing everywhere.”
“For decoration. That’s not product. You know how often we have to replace those motherfuckers? They’re not happy in here. They need sunlight. They need warmth. They die like it’s a horror movie. Fuck, bro. Luke doesn’t even like weed, it makes him puke.”
“What about other drugs?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“You know his history as well as I do.”
“Yeah, well, if he relapsed, I guess he decided not to share that with his boss.”
“You’re his friend,” I said.
He said nothing.
“Have you noticed any changes in his behavior?”
“No.”
“Has he asked to borrow money?”
“No.”
“Has he sold his shares?”
“He can’t. We’re not at that stage.”
“How much does he make?”
“For fuck’s sake, Clay. You want a job, fill out an application.” He paused, sliding his jaw. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you. Did you ever think about that?”
“That’s why I went to Andrea, and it’s why I’m talking to you.”
“Okay, then, maybe you want to take a moment to follow up and ask yourself why not. Here’s my theory: You’re kind of a dick to him. For real, what do you have against him?”
“Nothing. If I did I wouldn’t be looking for him.”
“All I hear is you making one assumption after another.”
“About what.”
“About me. About my business. Him, what he does, who he is. He doesn’t want to talk to you? I don’t blame him. Know what,” Scott said, “I don’t blame you, either. You’re a cop. You think like a cop. It’s good or it’s bad. News flash: Life ain’t like that. Human beings aren’t like that.”
“I’m talking about one specific human being,” I said.
“Your brother fucked up, big-time. And he knows that. Believe me. He paid his debt to society. Now he’s out here trying to make it right and improve the world and all you can think is oh, he’s getting high or oh, he’s involved with ‘bad people.’ ”
My temper was starting to slip. “ ‘Improve the world.’ ”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You saw the posters. Did you read them?”
“I did.”
“Then you should know. This isn’t about getting idiots high. It’s about helping individuals who are sick. Who are in pain. It’s about using a natural product, a beautiful gift from Mother Nature, to help wean people off truly toxic shit pushed by Big Pharma. It’s about supporting independent farmers, and independent business, and starting to undo some of the damage done to communities of color who’ve been fucking decimated by the War on Drugs and the prison industrial complex. That’s what I believe in: restorative justice. It’s what your brother believes in. So you ask me if he’s improving the world? I say yes. At least, he’s trying, which is more than most people can say. Shit,” he said, clawing at his stubble, “I don’t know what I’m expecting you to say. You’re part of the system that created this whole fucked-up situation in the first place.”
“None of that has anything to do with Luke.”
“Of course it does. It informs your entire mindset. You’re going on about the ‘old Luke’ cause that’s all you can see. You don’t get an answer to a text and instead of taking a good hard look in the mirror you start jumping to all these batshit conclusions. I mean, listen to yourself.”
His phone twitched on the floor. He stuck in his earbuds. “Yeah what’s up. Okay…He last scanned in on Friday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Evvie, did you…Three twenty-five. Shit. I know. I know. Tell them two minutes. And can you come up, please? My friend needs to be shown out. Thanks.”
He disconnected and took several cleansing breaths. “All right. I don’t want to cut this short, because I hear you, and I totally empathize with how you’re feeling. I have to jump on a call now. Let’s not leave our shit in a state of tension. That’s not good for anyone. As soon I hear from him, I’ll ask him to reach out to you. Okay?” He stood and put out a hand. “Can we…?”
“I need to see his accounts.”
“Dude. Come on. We just did this.”
“Maybe you’re right. I’m overreacting. But ask yourself what happens if I’m right, and he needs our help and I came to you and you screwed around. What’s that going to feel like for you?”
Evelyn came up the steps. Scott gestured for her to wait. The vitality had gone out of him. I noticed now the furrows in his forehead, the slack beneath his chin.
“Who’s asking?” he said. “Clay his brother or Clay the cop?”
“Who’s asking me? Scott the CEO or Scott his friend?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Man, fuck you.”
I said nothing.
He beckoned Evelyn in. “Evvie, please ask the powers-that-be to grant my friend here temporary permissions for Luke’s data.”
She blinked. “Which permiss—”
“His calendar.”
“Email, too,” I said.
Scott pursed his lips and nodded.
I stood up. “Thank you. One more thing. Did he ever talk to you about his car?”
“His—which car.”
“The Camaro. Did he ever talk about selling it?”
“Not that I can recall. Now, if you don’t mind…” He started working in his earbuds.
Evelyn said, “Um, Scott. Should I—”
“Just—handle it, please,” he said. He turned away and activated his call.
“Lo siento, peeps,” he said. “You have my undivided attention.”