Free The Disposable Man by Archer Mayor Page B

But that’s not really the point. See, these trees aren’t like most. They’re distinctively sexed. Male trees are separate from female trees.”
    I began to smile, despite my impatience, and decided to leave him alone.
    “When I was going through the trunk of the rental car,” he continued, “I collected what turned out to be a tiny sample of flesh from a ginkgo seed, which is unique to the female. It was gooey and didn’t smell too good. I didn’t know what it was then, of course, except that it was some sort of plant, but after the leaf was identified, I drove it up to the lab yesterday afternoon, just before quitting time, and they confirmed it.”
    “Which leads us where?” I asked belatedly, realizing he’d come to an end.
    “I don’t know yet, but if we could locate all the female ginkgo trees in the immediate area, it might give us a location.” He hesitated a moment. “Of course, that could be easier said than done. I was going to start calling a few local naturalists, botanists, and the like. See what I could find.”
    I raised a finger. “I have a better idea. Come with me.”
    · · ·
    Newfane, Vermont, is about twelve miles northwest of Brattleboro on Route 30, a broad, beautiful, winding road that follows the meandering West River up the valley toward the ski slopes of the southern Green Mountains. During foliage season, every October, the road fills with out-of-state cars and buses “from away,” crowded with tourists soaking in the idyllic mixture of hills, trees, and sun-dappled water. Most of these people make a stop at Newfane village—to shop, take pictures, gather leaves, and walk around a quaint clutter of ancient white clapboard buildings bordering a huge green commons complete with church, courthouse, and meeting hall.
    This, over time, has helped transform Route 30 into one of the major non-interstate arteries into the state’s center, and make Newfane a stepping-off point to many inland destinations. Which is why I immediately drove J.P. up there.
    Just south of the village proper, across from Rick’s Tavern, was the Newfane Greenhouse, one of the best nurseries in the area and—what interested me most at the moment—a favorite destination for the upwardly mobile. I was counting on the ginkgo’s rarity to translate into an appropriately high price tag—and on the greenhouse’s staff to know who could afford one. J.P.’s notion of chasing down naturalists hadn’t been bad, but no one I’d ever met in that line had ever had two dimes to rub together. I was hoping the ginkgo was less a natural phenomenon and more an upper-class commodity.
    It wasn’t too busy when we arrived. The summer was winding down, and while I was still impressed by the activity in the parking lot, it was still less than half-full.
    J.P. and I got out of the car, looking out of place in our coats and ties, and walked into the only building that wasn’t a plastic-sheeted greenhouse. A young man greeted us from behind the service counter. “You need any help?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “We’re looking for some information about a really rare tree—a ginkgo. You know anything about them?”
    He pulled a face and shook his head, smiling. “I can handle the run-of-the-mill stuff, but that sounds more like Jay’s department. Hang on a sec.”
    He reached under the counter and retrieved a portable radio. “Jay?” he said after keying the mike.
    “Yeah,” came the answer after a pause.
    “I got two gentlemen here asking about ginkgo trees.”
    “Be right there.”
    The young man replaced the radio with a laugh. “You must’ve pushed a button with that one. He’s knee-deep in mud, working out back.”
    A woman approached with a tray full of small plants, and we faded back so the clerk could work the cash register. A few minutes later, an impressively tall, skinny man wearing a baseball cap and an open face ambled into the building, rubbing his hands on a mud-encrusted pair of khakis.
    He smiled