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Mark Haskell Smith's Baked: A Novel PDF

By Mark Haskell Smith

Miro Basinas is an experimental botanist who sells his rarefied product to a discerning customers. basically Miro’s no longer starting to be heirloom tomatoes or making natural wine—he’s growing to be weed. And while Miro hits the large time via successful Amsterdam’s famed hashish Cup, cannasseurs and ganjaficionados aren’t the single those that need a piece of him and his awesome pot that tastes like mangoes.

A wickedly humorous crime novel, Baked opens with a bang as Miro is scale down by means of a bullet. A mild-mannered hipster who doesn’t recognize first thing approximately revenge—or even who shot him—Miro is quickly on a quest to get well his prize invention and to safe his position because the Floyd Zaiger (creator of the pluot) of weed. It’s a trip full of a scrumptious solid of characters, together with a string-theory obsessed cop, a kinky paramedic, a Mormon missionary suffering to maintain his “sap” below keep watch over in a urban that's the personification of intercourse, a half-Irish-half-Salvadoran drug broker and his dim-witted affiliates, a cougar starlet, and an entrepreneur who desires to flip his clinical marijuana Compassion facilities into the Starbucks of pot. Baked is a hilarious, rip-roaring romp from a skilled, completely unique novelist.

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He unpacked, showered, and went to the window to look at the sunset. It was the sort of sunset a hero would ride off into, leaving a slender blonde to bite back tears while calling after him, ‘‘I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. ’’ Stop it, he told himself. Stay with reality. You’ve flown a couple of thousand miles to kill a man you never met. Just get it done. The sunset can wait. He hadn’t met the man, but he knew his name. Even if he wasn’t sure how to pronounce it. The man in White Plains had handed Keller an index card with two lines of block capitals handprinted.

The lights were low. There was sawdust on the floor and the heads of dead animals on the walls. The clientele was exclusively male, and for a moment this gave Keller pause. There were gay bars in New York that tried hard to look like this place, though it was hard for Keller to imagine why. But Joe’s, he realized, was not a gay bar, not in any sense of the word. He sat on a wobbly stool and ordered a beer. The other drinkers left him alone, even as they left each other alone. The jukebox played intermittently, with men dropping in quarters when they could no longer bear the silence.

About a third of the book’s listings were like that. Keller wondered why. Did these people assume everybody knew where they lived in 28 L A W R E N C E B L O C K a town this size? Or were they saddle tramps with cellular phones and no fixed abode? Probably rural, he decided. Lived out of town on some unnamed road, picked up their mail at the post office, so why list an address in the phone book? Great. His quarry lived in the boondocks outside of a town that wasn’t big enough to have boondocks, and Keller didn’t even have an address for him.

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