Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (38 page)

He
left me at the corner of Montrose and Elston, where I could feign waiting for a
bus to account for my solitary presence. A pay phone stood nearby. If Max
didn’t return in ten minutes I would call Conrad. Some missing chunks of memory
had returned in the night, including Mrs. Rawlings’s phone number, but in case excitement
fragmented my mind I’d scrawled the number on my wrist.

I
paced the sidewalk to loosen my muscles and sang Italian folk songs under my
breath to distract my mind. A cop car slowed to take a closer look at me. I
frowned at my watch and looked up the street, miming impatience for the bus.
The car drove on. The ten minutes stretched to fourteen. My hand was hovering
over the number pad when Max returned.

“I
couldn’t see anyone, but a large truck was standing there. I drove by twice,
but there didn’t seem to be anyone about. Do you want to risk it?”

I
couldn’t imagine why Gary would leave his truck at the site. It made me
uneasy—it might mean he’d be showing up at any moment. We finally decided to
drive down the alley and park south of the site. That way we could get to the
car if anyone came in—the pattern of one-way streets made the north end the
entrance to the alley. I tried to get Max to agree to wait in the car where he
could call Conrad from his cellular phone, but he vehemently refused.

We
stopped for several minutes just beyond the truck, where we could see the whole
site. When no one appeared Max pulled forward to a spot where the remnants of a
garage hid the Buick from the mouth of the alley.

We
picked our way across the rubble. We couldn’t see the Elston traffic but we
could hear it; every passing car made us jump nervously. My head was starting
to ache again. I realized it had been foolish to insist on this pilgrimage.

As I
was starting to inspect the piles of materials, jotting down names of suppliers,
Max called to me in a loud whisper. I turned and froze. The back of the truck
was opening. I gestured to Max to kneel down behind a stack of lumber and
pulled my gun from its holster.

One
of the work crew stumbled over to the high grass beyond the site and urinated.
He moved over to a large metal container and fiddled with it. A motor came to
life—it apparently was some kind of portable generator. As he returned to the
truck he spotted me, gave a wide grin and called out something. Two more of the
crew came to the back of the truck and peered at me.

“Bay-bee!”
one of them crowed, jumping down.

He
made an explicit suggestion, using his hands, but lost some of his zest when
Max rose up from behind the pile of lumber. Max walked over to the trio and began
speaking, not fluently, but apparently making himself understood. The man who’d
called out to me clapped Max on the back, and gestured to the truck. A few more
crew members stumbled from the truck, shouting out questions, or perhaps
greetings.

I
stood idly by, my hand on my holster, although the mood seemed more festive
than dangerous. The relation of the language to Italian meant I could pick out
words here and there, but not the overall sense. Anton’s name cropped up
several times.

After
a few minutes Max turned to me. “They are from Romania, as we thought.

And
they don’t wish you any harm, but no one is supposed to come onto the site
without Anton’s permission. He broke someone’s face—jaw, I guess—for wandering
around, and they think you should leave in case he shows up.”

“Agreed.
Could you ask them a couple of questions first? See what they know about the
project they’re working on?”

I
watched the crew’s faces while Max fumbled through some questions. They started
talking in excited gusts,gesticulating wildly. Max got them to slow down. A
wiry man with an outsize black mustache silenced his fellows and spoke slowly,
in the loud, simple sentences one uses with foreigners.

“Someone
brought them over here about two months ago,” Max reported. “I didn’t understand
the word for the kind of person who did it, but I suppose it might be a labor
contractor. They’re working long hours ... ” He turned back to them and asked
them something, holding up his fingers to make sure he was understanding them.

“Yes.
They work six days a week, ten hours a day. They’re living in this panel
truck.” He peered inside. “It looks like the hold of an old ship—just rows of
bunks nailed into the wall.”

I
made a gesture to the men, asking if I could look inside. Letting out more ribald
shouts they welcomed me on board. When I hoisted myself up they cheered, with
more cries of “Bay-bee.” The main speaker put down a crate for Max, then gave
him a hand to help him onto the tailgate. Inside they turned on a flex lamp,
throwing a harsh light onto their home.

Bunks
for twelve men were attached to the walls. Eight were occupied. Along the back
their clothes dangled from a series of rough hooks. Between the bunks they had
hung pictures torn from magazines. Some were frankly pornographic, others
scenic posters of home. A few had put up photographs of their families.

A
board across two short sawhorses served as a table. It was crammed with empty
beer bottles and cigarette stubs. Another sawhorse table held a hot plate and a
small black-and-white TV.

Two
men were still sleeping when we entered. Roused by their comrades’ outbursts
they sat up, naked and surly. I turned and swung my legs over the tailgate,
sliding off to stand on the crate underneath. My shoulders and head were too
sore for me to leap on and off the truck like a goat, but the men deserved a
modicum of privacy, they had so little else. It seemed a ghastly way to acquire
hard currency.

A
minute or two later Max sat down next to me. He shook his head in dismay,
muttering about sights he didn’t think existed in America.

The
spokesman came back out and bent down to ask Max something. He translated for
me. “They want to know who you are—if you’re looking for a lover, or if you’re
a government official. What should I tell them?”

“Oh.
They think I may be with INS. Tell them I have friends who’ve agreed to do some
work for Anton’s boss, and I’m worried about whether they’ll be paid
properly—that I wanted to talk to someone who was already working for him to
find out their experience.”

“I’ll
do the best I can with that—remember, my Romanian’s pretty rudimentary.”

They
roared with laughter at this question and went into a wild expose. Max kept
interrupting, unable to follow what they were saying. At one point he tried
German, but they didn’t understand, any more than they did my Italian or
schoolgirl French.

As
far as Max could interpret, Anton was an overseer. A Romanian who had been in
America for fifteen years, he had a green card. He had met the crew at O’Hare
when they arrived two months ago on tourist visas. He told Immigration they
were students he was showing around America, and immediately chauffeured them
to the truck, where they’d been living ever since. When they first arrived they
finished work on a building. They had been here on Elston about two weeks.

Before
they ever collected their pay some money was deducted for the jobber who’d
brought them over, and some sent directly to their relatives in Romania.

They
were charged for their room and board, even though they were living in an old
bread truck. Their net pay amounted to about thirty dollars a week.

“That’s
outrageous—it’s like the agricultural exploitation in the South,” I cried. “We
need to report this to someone.”

“The
problem is, they’re here illegally,” Max said. “Anton holds the threat of
deportation over their heads. They all have families back home they’re trying
to help out. Some are married, others have parents they’re supporting.
Obviously they’re exploited, but they need the money.”

I
frowned. I knew a lawyer, a woman named Ana Campos, who did advocacy work for
low-income immigrants. I didn’t know what choices the men had, but surely
something better than this unsanitary cattle car could be provided them. I told
Max about Ana.

“I’m
going to have to give her a call—I can’t walk away and leave this situation as
it is. How many different crews do you suppose Charpentier has stashed around
the city like this?”

Before
Max could answer, one of the crew grabbed me and cried out, “Anton!”

The
urban cowboy was driving down the track in a pickup truck. He hadn’t seen us
yet, but if we tried to flee up the alley we’d be easy targets. Anyway, neither
Max nor I was fit enough to run for it.

I
scrambled to my feet and stretched a hand down to Max. “Come on. Ask the guys
if we can crawl into an empty bunk for a bit.”

Max
followed me, gasping out a few words. The spokesman smiled, said okay, and
hollered to his companions in the back. We were hustled handily under some
bedding, Max in a lower berth, me in an upper one. One of our new pals stuck
his hand inside my shirt and—purely autonomically—I brought my knee up to his
stomach. He hastily pulled a blanket over my head and jumped down.

The
back of the truck opened. I could hear Anton but neither see nor understand
him. It was terrifying to lie like that, not knowing what the men were saying.
I clutched the Smith & Wesson tightly, but my palms were so sweaty it kept
slipping in my grip.

After
a sharp exchange between Anton and the men he seemed to be taking roll.

My
heart started pounding painfully—had he noticed the extra lumps in the bunks?

Below
me I could hear a faint wheezing from Max, and prayed the sound wouldn’t betray
us.

Anton
barked out something ominous. The men mumbled, and then there was silence. I
lay still, breathing as shallowly as I could. When someone pulled the blanket
away from me a minute or two later I had my gun out, pointing it at his head.
It was our spokesman. He blenched and jumped quickly away.

“It’s
okay, Vic,” Max said quietly. “Anton has taken off. He seemed only to be
checking that everyone is here—he told them they were going to move to a
different job later today, so to stick around.”

“Oh.”
I pocketed the gun, feeling foolish. “Tell the guy I’m sorry I scared him.”

When
Max finished translating—a long flourish that made me wonder how I was being
described—the spokesman blinked and nodded, but didn’t look very happy. I had a
feeling our welcome was long outworn. My head was pounding in earnest; Max
seemed exhausted. I touched his arm and told him I would get the car.

“I’m
fine, Vic, really. But maybe I will wait here for you.”

My
arms and legs were as weary as though I’d done ten hours’ hard labor. I sat on
the tailgate like an old woman, and slowly slid my legs over the edge. I had
just made the ground when a car drove up, an old blue Dodge carrying four men.

I
stumbled back into the truck as they ran toward it. Before I could cry out, or
offer any kind of warning, they had jumped up on the tailgate. One of them held
a gun; another flashed a badge.

“Immigration,
boys. Hands in front where we can see them. We’re going for a nice, long ride.”
He repeated the command in Romanian.

Tops
on Everyone’s List

The
INS agents had a van waiting at the top of the alley. They were totally
uninterested in Max’s and my protests and refused to look at our
identification, shoving us inside so hard that my head was jolted against a
seat back. For a dizzying moment I thought I might pass out again. I bit my lip
hard enough to use the pain to steady myself.

The
van itself could have held eight comfortably. The fourteen of us were jammed in
with legs and elbows at all angles. I was wedged in a corner with one of the
workmen on my lap. Garlic and the cloying sweat of fear filled the airless
space.

The
men were convinced that Max and I had fingered them, even though we were cuffed
just as they were. They spewed invectives at us during the ride to O’Hare.
Although Max refused to translate, it wasn’t hard to figure out the burden of
their cries.

We
spent almost four hours at the airport, first in a small room with the
Romanians, then in a minute room by ourselves—and a guard. They confiscated my
gun at the outset. I was strip-searched to make sure I wasn’t concealing other
weapons. The city cops toyed with arresting me on a felony weapons charge, even
though I clearly had a permit for the gun. Neither they nor the immigration
officials wanted to hear that Max and I were citizens—they kept trying to claim
we had stolen our driver’s licenses and credit cards. They would have shipped
us off to Bucharest if any planes had been leaving just then.

During
the time we were together with the Romanians the man with the mustache
continued his tirade. His comrades squatted on the floor, staring dejectedly at
nothing. Max, gray about the mouth, gallantly tried to translate for a few
minutes. He finally gave it up—he said their speech had become so colloquial he
couldn’t make it out.

“I
could make an educated guess, but my English vocabulary wouldn’t be
wide-ranging enough in any event for what they’re trying to say,” he added.

“Mine
is,” I said sourly. “And I can live without hearing it again.”