Earl nodded, slowly, but he was still eyeing me warily. "I heard about that. On the radio."
"Yeah, well, it did kind of make the news. It was that guy with the petition, who talked to us the other day."
Earl downed some more beer. "Okay. I remember him. You found him?"
I nodded. "The cops say he was murdered. So they had a lot more questions for me, since I came across him when I was out for my walk."
Earl was shaking his head, like he wasn't listening to me. "Shit. Thank God it was about that and not me. I'm running a business over here and can't afford to have the cops finding out about it. So, why are you over here then, if it wasn't about me?"
"I just came over here to tell you about it. Thought you'd be interested. Looks like maybe I caught you at a bad time."
Earl took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He ran his hand lightly over the gun. "So, Zack. You gonna turn me in?"
"Jesus, Earl." I finally twisted off the cap of my own beer and had a swallow. "It's so fucking hot in here."
"There's a lot of humidity in a greenhouse kind of operation," he said matter-of-factly. "That's why I keep a lot of beer in the fridge. And bottled water, soft drinks, that kind of thing." He got out his cigarettes, some Winstons, tucked one between his lips and lit up. "I notice you didn't answer my question."
"What question?"
"About whether you're going to turn me in."
"Look, Earl, it's not like I'm worried about the pot, exactly. I mean, everyone's doing it, I gather, not that my own kids are."
"Of course," Earl said.
I ignored that. "What worries me is you're in a line of work that requires you to keep a gun around. That's not a good thing, Earl. Most people, unless they're cops, don't need to pack heat."
Earl said quietly, "Lots of people, not just cops, need guns."
"The thing is, are we going to be having midnight shootouts on the street here? Is everyone else in the neighborhood at risk of getting caught in the crossfire?"
He pursed his lips and tapped the barrel of the gun with his index finger. "It's just a bit of insurance," he said. "That's all. You don't have to be worried."
"I just don't like guns, is all."
"So if I tell you that you don't have anything to worry about because I've got a gun over here, are you going to turn me in?"
I breathed in deep through my nose, felt a trickle of sweat run down my forehead. "No," I said. "I'm not going to turn you in." And instantly wondered whether this was a promise I could keep. I decided to lighten things up. "I guess there's a lot of chips in the cupboard, in case you get the munchies, too."
Earl snorted. He waved his pack of Winstons. "This is the only thing I smoke," he said. "I'm trying to look after my health."
"I can see that," I said.
"Look at us. You're having a beer. I'm having a beer. I'm having a cigarette. The beer gives us pleasure, mellows us out, might even kill us if we abuse it. And this cigarette" - he waved it around with dramatic flourish - "will very likely mean the death of me someday."
"I feel you're making your way toward a point."
"All I'm doing downstairs is meeting a need. I'm providing a service. Just like," and he gestured toward me, "writing pornography, say."
"Earl, I don't write pornography. I write science fiction."
"But if you did write porn, it would be the same thing."
"But I don't, and it wouldn't be."
"Okay, but you're missing my point. People have needs, and no matter how many rules you pass, how many laws you make, they're going to have them met, one way or another. People are stressed out more now than ever before in the history of the human race. Pressures from work, pressures from home, we're trying to raise kids the same time as we're looking after elderly parents, we wake up every morning with something new that hurts that didn't hurt yesterday, like you're bleeding from the ass or you can't feel your toes, or maybe you're getting cancer." He waved his cigarette around, took another drag. "We don't know whether there's a hijacked jet out there with our name on it. Maybe the whole fucking world is going to blow up tomorrow. Some guy with a dirty bomb is gonna walk into the stock exchange. Who the fuck knows? People need some relief, and that's all I'm in the business of doing."
"Earl, your entire basement is a pot crop. If the cops find out, you're finished."
Earl grimaced, running a hand over his shaved scalp. "Life's a risk, right, Zack? Surely you understand that."
I said nothing. Most of my efforts of late had been directed toward minimizing risk. "How's it going so far?" I could imagine Sarah asking.
"Do you even live here?" I asked. "Do you own this house?"