31 KentFrom behind Jeff’s chair, Kent watched as the black-clad figures on the touch-screen methodically continued to move bags stuffed with cured m*******a.
Jeff’s gaze was glued to the hectic activity and he made no more comments.
The pile of black bags dwindled.
When only fifteen seconds remained, Jeff mashed a finger on the pause symbol.
“Did you see the tattoo on that dude’s wrist?” he asked.
The figure frozen on the screen had raised his arms above his head to pass a bag of pot to a partner standing on the truck bed. His right sleeve had slipped back, baring his forearm.
What appeared to be a red-yellow-and-green tattoo covered the visible skin.
“That dude visited the ranch,” Jeff said. “I remember admiring the Lorax in that design on his arm.”
Kent had noted the tattoo. The
