But Gimp was a businessman at heart. In grade ten, he had both the wit and the balls to turn his little grow-op into a “hypothetical” Junior Entrepreneur Club project, complete with a detailed business plan, thorough analysis of the competition, and a kick-ass marketing strategy. He didn’t win any prizes for it, but he managed to drum up a fair amount of non-hypothetical business. Within a year, he had a sizable stash of cash and contacts, and it was time to grow the business. So he ventured into The Jungle, already well known and much sought after. By the end of grade twelve, Willy Gimp had enough money to put himself through school to become a licensed mechanic. He bought his own garage and a three-room shack on the highway into Town, where he fixed cars, pumped gas, and moved massive quantities of pop, chips, and weed.

Ten years ago he got busted, charged with trafficking, and went to jail, where he was, of course, a model prisoner. He meditated and lifted weights. He studied environmental ecology, philosophy, and got a business degree. He made friends with everybody — the inmates, the guards, the janitors, the spiders in the corner of his cell. Willy Gimp emerged from the clink stronger and smarter and better connected. He got home, fixed up his little house and his garage, and went back to rebuilding his business.

And now, here he is sitting in a shitty old truck, having a little wake-n-bake at The Wharf.

I sneak down along the beach, making sure to stay out of range of the truck’s mirrors, which Willy Gimp is no doubt monitoring with due paranoia. Then I duck down low and creep right up alongside the passenger door. I pause for a moment, listening to the first few bars of The Doors’ “Hello, I Love You” swagger out the driver’s side window on a waft of pungent smoke, then rise sharply to rap my knuckles hard on the window and bark, “Out of the truck, Mr. Matthews” in my best cop voice.

Without flinching, without trying to hide the joint, without even taking his eyes off the copy of the newspaper that lies splayed across the steering wheel, Willy Gimp grunts loudly, “It’s legal. I got a medical licence. Ya can fuck off now, thanks.” He glances up, sees me, and everything turns on a dime. His bloodshot eyes brighten and widen. A laugh shakes through his shoulders, cracking his face into a crooked smile.

I ignore the quick flicker of orange fireworks that my eyes invent around his ears, and smile back.

“Ohferthalovagod, Crow! What’s goin’ on? Christ, get in the friggin’ truck and come have a puff with me, woman!” His spastic arm deftly swings the door open, and I climb in.

“Real cops don’t ever come to the passenger side window, eh. Or pop up like a friggin’ jack-in-the-box. I figured it was Shirl Short comin’ to hassle me. Lucky I didn’t chuck a piss jug at ya.”