“Good morning, Mr. Sileo.”
“You ready for a good day’s work?”
“I’m always ready to work, Mr. Sileo. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to Mr. Bock yet. You told me you’d point him out.”
“Anyone here could do that.”
“There’s a lot of people here. I didn’t expect to see so many.”
“If you get here early, you get the best shit. And if you come late, you get what’s left a hell of a lot cheaper. See that fucker sleeping in the back of the Ford pickup?” Sileo pointed. “He drives all the way down here from Sarasota once a week, waits until nine or ten, and then loads up on what’s left at rock-bottom prices. He has his own little grocery store up there in Sarasota, and he cleans up. I could buy the same way, ’cause I’m right here in town, but I’d rather be successful selling good food at reasonable prices.”
“Sure,” Hoke said, remembering that he had worked for less than a dollar an hour for this cheap Levantine bastard. “How do I find Mr. Bock?”
“He’s in a tent on the other side near the coffee stall. He’ll have a half dozen Haitians with him probably. I’ll wait here for you, and you can ride back to the cafeteria with me.”
“Don’t wait. If Bock doesn’t hire me, I’ll work for someone else. I can’t work for ten bucks a day.”
“I’ll pay you twelve.”
“Give Marilyn my love.”
Hoke got another cup of coffee before he went to the tent that the coffee lady pointed out as Mr. Bock’s. Hoke realized that he was acting much too arrogantly for a man who was supposed to be a mendicant fruit tramp. He looked the part, but he still didn’t feel like a migrant worker. After all, he was a detective-sergeant earning thirty-six thousand dollars a year. The farmers here were living marginally, and except, perhaps, for a few chefs from the better hotels in Naples and Marco Island, who were buying produce, Hoke probably had a higher annual income than anyone else in Immokalee.
The tent was a pyramidal army surplus top. All four sides were rolled up to waist level. Tiny Bock sat inside at a card table on a folding metal chair. He had a clipboard and a stack of vouchers on the table, the latter weighted down with a small chunk of brain coral. Bock wore a Red Man gimme cap, a blue work shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, creaseless corduroy trousers, and lace-up work shoes. His bare arms were muscular, and there was a blue rose tattooed on his left wrist. The forefinger of his left hand was missing down to the second knuckle. His thick eyebrows were gray and black and formed an almost straight line above his dark brown eyes. His tanned face was crisscrossed with hundreds of tiny fine lines. There was a sun cancer the size of a half-dollar on his right cheek, bordered by a quarter-inch hedge of gray stubble. He had a slight paunch, but it looked hard. He was probably a few years older than he looked, but he could pass for fifty-five.
Hoke rapped the doorway post but didn’t enter the tent. “Mr. Bock?”
“The load’s been sold,” Bock said, without looking up.
“I’m not buying, sir. I’m looking for work, and I was told you needed a crew chief.”
“Who told you that?” Bock looked at Hoke but raised his eyes without lifting his head.
“Mr. Sileo told me, down at the Cafeteria. I was a crew chief down in the Redland, working tomatoes.”
“Why’d you leave? There’s plenty of tomatoes left down there in South Dade.”
“I was fired. I got into a little fight in Florida City.”
“What happened to your teeth?”
“I had a set, but they were lost during the fight. When I got out of jail, I went back to the bar, but nobody’d seen them. Somebody probably found and pawned ’em, I guess.”
“Follow me.”
When he got to his feet, Bock was a much bigger man than Hoke had thought he was when he had been sitting. His thighs were so large they stretched his corduroys tightly, and Hoke figured that he was at least two hundred and forty pounds. Hoke followed Bock to the far edge of the lot, where five black men were unloading a semitrailer of watermelons and loading them onto another trailer. The two trailers were about fifteen or twenty feet apart. There was a man on each truck, and three men were on the ground passing the melons. The men were talking in Creole, and one man was laughing. But as Bock and Hoke approached, they fell silent. The pace of the work did not speed up, however.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Bock said, looking at Hoke with narrowed eyes.
Hoke scratched his neck. A rash had developed at the bottom of his beard, and scratching and perspiration had made his neck a little raw.
“The three men on the ground are all facing us,” Hoke said. “If the guy in the middle turned around the other way, it would be easier to pass the melons. But that’s not all that’s wrong. If the trailers were backed up bed to bed, you wouldn’t need anyone on the ground. Two men could transfer the melons instead of five.”
“Then what would you do with the other three men? Have them stand around with their fingers up their ass?”
“I’d give ’em some other work to do.”
“You’re talking logic, but what we’re dealing with here is Haitians. Two Mexicans could do it your way, but two Haitians would take all day to do it. If I made the man in the middle turn around, the other two would think he had an easier job than they did, and they’d squabble about taking turns in the middle. That would add at least another half hour to unloading the truck. D’you see what I mean?”
“Not exactly.”
“Neither does the State Agricultural Commission. Two white men, or two Mexicans, can outwork five Haitians. And that’s why I pay these five bastards only as much as I would pay two Mexicans. Besides that, Mexicans wouldn’t break melons accidentally on purpose so they could eat one.”
“What’s the right answer then?” Hoke said.
“There isn’t any right answer, and there ain’t gonna be. Things are gonna get worse, not better. With the new immigration law, the supply of illegal Mexicans will dry up to a trickle. These Haitians will become legal residents, and they’ll demand a minimum wage. If I don’t pay it, the Labor Board’ll fine my ass. If I hire the few illegal Mexicans who sneak through the net, I’ll be fined or sent to jail. So next year my watermelons’ll probably rot in the fields. Over in Miami fine restaurants put a three-inch slice of watermelon on a plate with a hamburger, and then they can charge six ninety-five for a dollar-and-a-half burger. But I can’t get three bucks for a thirty-pound melon. I need a man who knows how to work Haitians. You ever hear of Emperor Henri Christophe?”
“In Haiti? Yes, sir, I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know much of anything about him.”
“He’s the man who built the citadel on the mountaintop above Cap Haitien. Big square stones weighing hundreds of pounds were pushed by hand up the mountain trail. When fifty men couldn’t move one of them big stones, Christophe would remove ten men and kill them. The remaining forty then found out that they could push the stone with no trouble at all. See what I mean?”
“Yes, sir. I see what you mean. But Florida ain’t Haiti.”
“That’s right, and that’s too fucking bad. My foreman does the hiring, not me. If you want to talk to him, you can ride back to my farm when the truck’s unloaded. You can either help ’em unload now or stand around and watch ’em. I don’t give a shit what you do.”
Tiny Bock returned to his tent. Hoke watched the Haitians work, not knowing what else to do. The man in the middle dropped a melon, and it broke into three large pieces. The two men in the trailers jumped down. The Haitians divided the broken melon. One of them offered Hoke a small piece.
“Guette mama!” Hoke said, grinning.
All five of the men laughed, and they ate their pieces of watermelon. When the melon was gone, they tossed the rinds aside and went back to work. Hoke found that it was boring to stand there and watch, so he went back to the coffee stall for another cup of coffee. He sat on an overturned crate where he could see the two trailers. Whe
n the job was finished, about forty-five minutes later, the sun was coming up across the Everglades, and the cloudless sky was the color of steel.
When Bock left the tent, Hoke joined him at the truck.
“Get in the back,” Bock said.
Hoke climbed into the back of the trailer with the five Haitians, and Bock drove away from the market.
Bock’s farm was about ten miles away. After Bock crossed the wooden bridge over the canal, he drove down a twisting gravel road for almost a mile before he pulled into the farmyard. A sagging barbed-wire fence surrounded the vast yard. Beyond the fence, a field of skeletons, with little round knobs on the ends of the stems, stretched out for a hundred yards or more to the Glades. Brussels sprouts—as ugly in their natural state as they were in a bowl, Hoke thought.
There was a one-story concrete brick house with a wooden veranda in front, a barn, three rusting trailer homes behind the barn, and a dented yellow school bus. A few oaks, twenty feet tall, shaded the bus and trailers. A black Ford pickup was parked on the right side of the house. Instead of a license plate, a piece of cardboard, with “Lost Tag” written on it in black ink, was Scotch-taped to the rear window. This was an old trick. In Miami, unless a man got stopped for a violation, he could drive around with a homemade “Lost Tag” sign for years without buying a license tag.
Two pit dogs, with clipped ears and tails, were chained to a column of the veranda. Their chains were long enough to reach the porch and the doorway. The dogs stared stupidly at the semi, but they didn’t bark. There were three loose goats in the yard. A black-and-white nanny bleated as she came over to Tiny Bock and rubbed against his leg when he climbed down from the cab of the truck. The Haitians jumped down, went over to the trailers behind the barn, and entered the one in the middle. Hoke dismounted and rolled a cigarette. He lighted it and joined Bock. Bock patted the nanny goat on the head. She bleated again and then trotted over to a wooden box and climbed on top of it. Her udder was full, and she wanted to be milked, Hoke thought; but he didn’t see any kids around the yard.
A man came out of the house and crossed toward them. He said something to the dogs, and they both went under the veranda and crouched on their bellies in the dirt. The man was almost as big as Bock, with long black hair that reached his shoulders. He wore a yellow bandanna headband, a white Orioles baseball shirt, low-slung jeans, and pointed cowboy boots. His hand-tooled leather belt had a silver buckle in the shape of a horseshoe. There was a wide scar on the left side of his face that went through his eyebrow and ended at his chin. His left eye was missing, and the skin had been gathered and sewn over the socket, leaving a star-shaped scar. His face was slightly darker than his brown arms, but he looked more like an Indian than he did a Mexican, Hoke thought.
“Chico,” Bock said, “this fucker here told me he wanted to be a crew chief. If you look at his hands, you can see he’s never worked a day in his life. He was willing to ride in back with the niggers instead of joinin’ me in the cab. Find out who he is and what he wants.”
The Mexican nodded and hit Hoke in the solar plexus with a right jab that didn’t travel more than eight inches. Hoke doubled over and fell to his knees. The cigarette flew from his lips, and Tiny Bock stepped on the cigarette before he crossed the yard to the house without looking back.
Hoke clutched his stomach with both hands and tried to regain his breath. The griping pain went all the way through to his spine. The Mexican kicked Hoke in the right side, and Hoke heard his ribs crack. A sharp, searing jab inside his gut made him yelp—just as his breath returned—and he felt as if his side had been pierced with a spear as the Mexican kicked him a second time in the same place. Hoke vomited then and his breakfast came up— coffee, Diet Coke, oatmeal, and bread chunks. Hoke was kneeling, with both hands on the ground supporting his upper body, and trying not to breathe. Even a shallow breath increased the pain in his side. The Mexican went behind Hoke and kicked him in the buttocks. Hoke’s arms gave way, and he sprawled in the dirt, his face in the pool of vomit. The Mexican then picked up Hoke’s feet and dragged him, face down, arms trailing, across the yard and into the barn.
On the near verge of passing out, Hoke thought: This son of a bitch is in trouble now, because I’m going to kill him!
11
THE MEXICAN BOCK HAD CALLED CHICO—NOT CICATRIZ— threw Hoke face down on a musty bale of alfalfa. The alfalfa was black with rot. It had been rained on, dried, rained on, and dried again and was so black and crumbly it looked as if it had been charred. The moldy dust made Hoke sneeze, and he felt as if knives were being jabbed into his side. Hoke rolled to his left to relieve the pressure on his right side. He couldn’t think clearly; everything had happened too fast. He knew that his ribs were either cracked or broken, and if they were broken, a jagged splinter could pierce his lungs. His arms dangled helplessly over the bale, and he was afraid to move. Hoke suppressed his desire to cough and took shallow breaths through his open mouth.
Chico removed Hoke’s belt and pulled his pants and Jockey shorts down to his ankles. Then he fastened the belt around Hoke’s ankles and made a couple of tight loops to hold it in place. He took Hoke’s wallet out of his trousers and went over to the dusty window a few feet away to examine the contents. In addition to the window, the barn had stabs of sunlight coming through cracks and holes in the roof.
Out of the corner of his left eye Hoke watched the Mexican read the letter from the wallet. His thick lips moved as he read.
“What’s your name?”
For a long moment Hoke couldn’t remember his assumed name. Before he could recall and say it, Chico, using his right fist as a club, brought his clenched fist down on the back of Hoke’s neck. A loose rusty wire on the bale of alfalfa pierced Hoke’s chin, and he began to bleed.
“Adam Jinks!” Hoke said, bracing for another rabbit punch. The pain from his bruised neck extended to his eyes, as if there were needles inside his head.
Chico dropped the wallet on the dirt floor, circled behind Hoke, bent down, and spread the cheeks of Hoke’s buttocks. “Jesus Marie!” Chico said. “You got the ugliest asshole I ever seen! I’ll have to pump it to get hard enough to fuck you.” He laughed and unbuckled his belt.
Hoke’s sphincter tightened, and he groaned. His scrotum tightened, and his balls became as hard as a classical Greek statue’s. The knowledge that this Mexican intended to cornhole him sent a surge of adrenaline through his body. With his right hand, Hoke broke off the piece of wire that had pierced his chin. It was about six inches in length. He bent it into the shape of a long U and placed it on his right middle finger with the prongs sticking out. He closed his fist. He had nothing else to work with, and he would have only one chance. Hoke pushed himself up from the bale and got shakily to his feet. He tottered, but he didn’t fall. He jumped up, with both feet together and turned in the air. Chico had unbuckled his belt and had pushed his jeans down well past his hips. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, and his dangling flaccid penis was much darker than the rest of his body. Chico held his waistband with his left hand and raised his right fist to club Hoke down again with a sidearm blow. When Chico was within striking range, Hoke jabbed the Mexican in his good eye with the stiff prongs of the wire and dodged the sidearm blow. In dodging, Hoke fell again. As fluid squirted onto his knuckles, Hoke knew that he had got him. Hoke got to his feet. The Mexican was screaming in a high, almost feminine voice and cupped his blinded eye with both hands. Hoke hopped to the opposite wall of the barn before bending down to unloosen the belt from his ankles. He kicked free of his pants and Jockey shorts.
Chico was moaning now, a harsh, strangling sound, and was staggering about in tight circles. His jeans had slipped below his knees or the circles would have been wider. The animal noises the Mexican was making would soon bring Tiny Bock out to the barn, Hoke thought, but then he thought differently. Tiny Bock—that son of a bitch—would think the sounds of pain were coming from him, not Chico.
The barn hadn’t been used
as a barn for some time. There were four stalls on one side, but no horses or mules. Dusty harnesses, which hadn’t been used in years, hung from wooden racks on the wall beside the stalls. There was no wagon inside the barn, and Hoke hadn’t seen a wagon in the yard. There was a stack of loose boards near the barn door. The wide double doors were open. Hoke couldn’t let Chico stumble outside, where Bock might see him from the house. Hoke selected a two-by-four to use as a club and circled behind the Mexican. He didn’t want to get too close to Chico. If the man got his big hands on him, or even one hand, he knew it would be all over. Holding his breath, Hoke hit the Mexican on his right kneecap, swinging the two-by-four as hard as he could. The knee snapped, and Chico fell over sideways. He didn’t remove his hands from his face but screamed again as he fell. Hoke hit him squarely on the head, and the scream stopped abruptly. There was a whooshing sound as the breath left his throat. Hoke pounded the man’s head again, and the two-by-four splintered and broke. Hoke’s hands were punctured with tiny splinters from the piece of wood. Blood and gray matter oozed from the dead Mexican’s head. Blood poured from his nose and ears, and the dislodged yellow headband was saturated.
Hoke’s arms were weary, and he gasped with pain. The pain in his side had increased with the effort he had put into clubbing the man to death, and Hoke bent over double to obtain some relief as he limped back to the bale of alfalfa and sat down. His tailbone hurt from being kicked. Bending forward helped him breathe, a little, but not much. When he regained his breath, gradually, Hoke crossed to the other wall again and retrieved his pants and belt. He folded his jeans into a square pad, placed the pad against his injured ribs, and pulled the belt tight around his waist to hold the pad in place. He removed a nail from one of the loose boards and made a small puncture in his belt and fastened the buckle. He could breathe a little more easily now, so long as he took shallow breaths, and the pain was not as severe. His ribs, Hoke concluded, were only cracked, not broken. He hocked and spit into the palm of his hand. It hurt to cough, but there was no blood in the spit. If his ribs had been broken, after all his activity, he would be spewing blood by now. Blood from his cut chin had dribbled onto the front of his shirt, and both sleeves were ripped at the shoulder. Hoke removed his shirt and dabbed at the blood on his chin. The puncture was deep; it went through the fleshy part of his chin all the way to the bone.
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