Manny had a fire engine red Chevy pickup, one of the old models with bench seats and a gun rack. The rack was empty. Not even a gimme hat hanging from it.
“No rifle?”
He laughed and turned to put the sack with the letter jacket in the back half space.
“Good God, no! That’d be the fastest way for me to get shot around here. The growers who aren’t family are very suspicious of guys like me riding around, toting firearms, and driving pickup trucks. My dad might be one of the big land owners, but I’m just a lowly teacher.”
He gave me what he probably thought was a humble look, but it smacked more of teasing and flirting.
“So the cash crop isn’t almonds anymore?” I refused to pander to his twinkle.
“Never was a-monds, you know. Always was pot. Especially since it’s legal here in Californi
