He earned a business degree from a respected Southern California university (which he asked to remain unidentified; officials there confirmed the degree), and met a friend from Santa Cruz whose brother was a pothead. Making a couple of dope runs up there, he supplied his dorms when the rest of the region was going through a weed drought.
With capital from his dealing, he says, he started a car repo business while he was still in school and managed to buy two homes in the Inland Empire by the time he was 26. He kept his hand in the marijuana racket, and in the early 1990s, started working with a man who was importing 100-plus-pound shipments of Mexican and Canadian pot every few weeks.
Ricky helped distribute the drugs in addition to his legitimate jobs. He sold the repo business and started a heavy equipment rental firm, bought real estate and got into the mortgage game. But in 2002, he says, the cannabis importer lured him away from what he calls a six-figure job at an Orange County mortgage firm to work full time.
"I used to be a money-hungry yuppie, believe it or not. I drove a new BMW. My problem was how to deal with the money physically," he says.
Years of hard partying with booze and drugs culminated inheart failure in 2005. Then the weed importer's foreign supply dried up, he says. Ricky tried to regain his health, giving up heavy drinking and drugs other than marijuana, and set off on his own. He bought cannabis from growers in Humboldt County (and always grew some on his own) and sold it to dispensaries popping up around Los Angeles. In the new verbiage of the medical pot world, he was a "broker" or a "vendor."
He saw how the dispensaries sold his weed for more than twice what he paid, which showed him how lucrative the retail end could be. So with a partner, he opened his first shop in 2008 in Long Beach. He did well, but it closed in a year and a half due to new city rules and he started another, and then another, growing plants in his apartment to supplement the supply brought by other brokers and growers. The shops did well, and he says he felt pride bringing quality marijuana to people for low prices.
Despite the problems, he was in the sunlight for the first time in his marijuana career and enjoyed it. He had always known he could end up in prison, and he prepared for it mentally, but things seemed to be changing.
Then he got busted.
From a tip, police put his apartment under surveillance and noticed his Edison meter was spinning like a ballerina, a sure sign that grow lights were guzzling power. They served a search warrant last year, seized his plants and about $20,000, and charged him with drug possession and cultivation. He's preparing for trial now.
With the cities and the federal government cracking down, he closed his last shop in March.
He says he learned a lesson from his dispensary interlude, but it's not about staying away from pot. It's about thinking the government is ever going to accept the drug as legitimate.
"Everybody old school was amazed at first: You can have a store and advertise and be above board. But the reality is you can't do that. . . . Everyone is just registering for their own take-down."
Now his headquarters is his three-bedroom apartment, which is once again filled with pot plants. Young seedlings and clones sprout like little green starbursts all over his deck. His back bedrooms are jungles of various strains — Master OG, Blue Dream, Skywalker, Mad Man, Rigor Mortis — shimmering under blazing sodium lights. Branches of marijuana hang on lines over his own bed, drying.
Like many growers, he loves to show visitors his plants: "Smell that one. . . look at that bud. . . feel how gummy that is. . . Check out this picture from up north."
He takes a swim in the ocean and sits at his coffee table watching TV as he trims the buds to sell and texts his "girls" on where to deliver it.
He says he makes sure to deliver only to people with a doctor's recommendation for marijuana to comply with the medical marijuana laws, but keeps no paperwork. "A lot of the medical market is still underground because people don't want to be registered — nurses, teachers, firemen. They can get fired for using marijuana," he says.
Two young women do the smaller deliveries. Ricky does the larger transactions.
On this day, he is meeting a friend, a manager of a marine supply store whose mother is in a senior citizens' home. "They don't have a supply so he gives it to her and she distributes it," Ricky says. "He sells it to other people too."
He pulls up in front of a liquor store, next to a green sedan. "What's up brother," he says, as he gets out. "How you doing?"
"Hey bro," his friend says, slipping him an envelope with $3,000.
Ricky hands him the bag of bud, and they part, not much different than it would have gone down 30 years ago, except for a broader clientele.