The bud of sinsemilla was long and green and graceful as a Russian ballerina. Its crystallized resins sparkled like tiny diamonds and stuck to Brian Goodpasture’s fingers as he held it to the light and inhaled its minty perfume.   He had cloned the sproutlings from choice stock, cradled them in crèches of peat moss and potting soil, nursed them in a hydroponic solution of nutrients formulated to promote a short growing cycle, robust flowers, and his signature joyful Goodpasture high.  Discerning buyers had been clamoring for weeks to purchase his new crop of “orchids” sight unseen; such was the reputation of the brilliant young horticulturist.  But this planting was not for sale.

He snipped off a tiny quarter-moon-shaped piece and placed it into the stone pipe his mother had passed down to him, given to her one starry night in a meadow outside of Woodstock by the replacement drummer for a band that had once opened for Country Joe and the Fish.  This would be the first pipeful of the new batch that Goodpasture would smoke.  He lit a match and let it flare a few moments to burn off the phosphorus and sulfur, then placed the pipe to his lips and toked long and slow.  The oxygenated smoke passed cleanly through the wire screen, up along the smooth stone walls of the pipe and into his lungs. 

Instantly a feeling of well-being infused his senses.  He noticed the banana trees dancing in the wind, their jagged leaf tips catching the points of sunlight that leaped from leaf to leaf like balls of mercury.  Yes, this crop will do very well, he thought.  He could visualize the faces of the patients at Dr. Alton Schwimmer’s hospice when he arrived with full stockings on Christmas Day.  They loved him there.  He broke the law for them.  They called him Robin Hoodpasture.

He brought his shears and sealing apparatus up to the drying shed on the tiered hillside behind his Topanga Canyon home.  The house had been built in the 1920s for the Santa Monica Chief of Police who had commandeered telephone poles and railroad ties and had them pounded into the bedrock as foundations.  Goodpasture spun the tumbler of the combination lock and punched in the eight-digit security code.  He waited for the electronic response and punched in a four-digit reply.  He rolled up the corrugated-steel safety cage and braced himself for the deluge of redolence that would envelop him from the two hundred plants he had hung upside down on the rafters to dry.

**

The thieves had left the room spotless.  Not a leaf remained of the two hundred plants.  Not a bud, not a stem, not a mote of resin.  Nothing.  Except the inert body of the eighty-year-old woman, lying inert over her walker with a pleasant smile on her face. “Why would anyone need to kill Mrs. Rasky?” Goodpasture lamented.  She was going to die soon enough anyway.”

 

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"Just when you thought you'd seen everything in detective fiction, along comes  P.I. Harry Stein, a shambling, abstaining dope connoisseur, trying to make a living and be a good father against the oddest of odds.  This book is so funny, surprising, and compelling that, dare I say it, it practically gets you high.  It's Hal Ackerman's first in what is sure to be a sensational series of Stein mysteries."
—John Lithgow

"The venerable Hal Ackerman's Stein, Stoned is a knowing romp with enough nostalgia to make us all sigh for the noir of yesteryear and enough attitude to show that this terrific writer has all of his chops.  This is great fun -- a grab your hat pace even though we no longer wear the hats -- and along the sweet twists and turns as well comes that old thing: the human heart."
—Ron Carlson, author of The Signal

"Smart, witty, and wonderfully observed.  But what really raises Stein,Stoned above the run-of-the-mill mysteries is the character of Harry Stein.  Hal Ackerman has created a poignant, middle-aged Jewish hero worthy of Saul Bellow."
—Loraine Despres, The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc

"Riding along with Stein is like sprinting barefoot across the forest floor; there are twigs and brambles, poison oak and bear traps, and even the map may be lying to you.  For Hal Ackerman, the real national pastimes are marijuana and murder, and he has turned the detective genre on its head and blown smoke in its face.  This book does for the pot trade what Melville did for whaling."
—Nicholas Griffin, screenwriter of Matchstick Men

"I can’t escape an abiding belief that Raymond Chandler and Damon Runyon are back in the writing business, sharing the pseudonym – Hal Ackerman. Stein, Stoned (Ackerman’s first book but definitely not his last), is an idiosyncratic mystery with more surprising twists and turns than an episode of Dancing with the Stars. And in Harry Stein (who seldom responds to or uses his first name), Ackerman has created a P.I. with an allegiance to the sixties (after all, he was a marijuana maven) who effortlessly links past and present brilliantly and satirically. Plus, Stein is the only detective I know who functions in current fiction as a DWF (Detective with Family). In a highly imaginative story of corporate malfeasance and murder, Stein spends equal time solving the mystery and resolving his relationship with his teenage daughter. All in all, a must read… from a writer capable of perfect prose and rollicking humor. "
—Leonard B. Stern, Creator and Executive Producer of McMillan and Wife, Get Smart and Co-Creator of Mad Libs

"With quirky characters, highly amusing dialogue, and an intricate web of clues, spies, old friends, new enemies and mischief, Ackerman's debut novel pulses with real life.  The author's pleasure in reminiscing about the sixties is contagious; and mystery fans should delight in Harry Stein, an aging hippie, now an unlikely detective, as he stumbles through solving his first murder in this entertaining read."
—Michele Samit, author of No Sanctuary, and the screenwriter of Uncaged Heart, Lethal Vows, and Maternal Instincts

"Lengendary 60's "hempecurian" Harry Stein and champion young pot cultivator Brian Goodpasture take you on an exotic trip to recover a stolen medical crop grown to relieve hospice patients. This exciting trip leads from the backwaters of Los Angeles to the cafes of Amsterdam's Cannabis Cup competition. Hal Ackerman writes with the pen of one who has been in the thick of the drug war. His screenwriting skills are very apparent in this novel. You will visually see it, smell it, taste it. Hempsters!  It is a trip you won't want to miss."
—Richard M. Davis, Curator USA Hemp Museum
(http://www.hempmuseum.org)

 

 

 

 

  
 
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