The Milagro Beanfield War (7 page)

Devine pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. Then he picked up the telephone at his elbow and called the sheriff.

“Hello, Bernie? Ladd Devine. Say, listen, my friend, my secretary Mr. Lapp just came in with a story about this character, what's his name? this Joe Mondragón fellow he says is diverting irrigation water into one of those fields on the west side.”

“He speaks the truth,” Bernabé said, covering the mouthpiece as he whispered to his wife, “Carolina, get me a couple aspirins, will you? This is getting worse.”

“Well, tell me then, Bernie. Do you think there's any possibility an apparently random action like this could have serious consequences?”

“Maybe. I dunno, Mr. Devine. But that's been on my mind, I can promise you.”

“Did you go have a talk with Joe?”

“Well, it's this way, sir. Joe would have told me to jump in a lake before I opened my mouth.”

“You could arrest him, couldn't you?”

“I figure until I understand better how the people here feel, Mr. Devine, and whether there's more than just one person involved, it might be foolish to start driving folks down to the Chamisa V. cooler. You know, some fanatics in town are just a little bit tense about your dam, sir—”

“It isn't
my
dam, Bernie. It would be controlled and operated by the people.”

“Sure, sure. But of course you're aware of some of the sentiments floating around down here anyway.” Masochistically, the sheriff chewed up the aspirin in his mouth, making a horrible face that startled his wife.

“I see.” Devine thought for a moment. At length he said, “Bernie, I suppose you're right. At least for now.”

“Basically, there's not much to do now, the way I see it, sir. Just lay low and see what develops, is my motto.”

“Right. I'll keep in touch, Bernie. Good-bye.”

“That guy—” Emerson Lapp cast his eyes to the ceiling. “It walks, it talks, it carries a real gun, so it calls itself a sheriff,” he groaned sarcastically. “What did he have to say: ‘Let's just lay low for the time being and see what happens,' I'll bet.”

“Don't be nasty, Em.” And, as Devine dialed another number, he told his secretary, “See if you can't drum up Horsethief Shorty and Jerry G., okay? I think Jerry G.'s down in the pony corral with some kids. Shorty might be over in the bunkhouse, it's his afternoon off. Tell them to come up for a short talk. And Jim Quintana, too—is Jim around? Hello, Harlan—?”

Emerson Lapp started to say, “Jim Quintana's out with that Kildare party from Lubbock—” but cut it short on a brief hand signal from his boss, who was talking to Harlan Betchel, manager of both the Pilar Café and the Harlan Betchel (Buck-A-Fish) Trout Pond behind the café.

Glumly, the secretary nodded so long to Flossie and left the room.

“Look, Harlan, a matter's come up that I think we should discuss. Do you think you could drive up here in, say, about ten minutes, for a short meeting at the ranch? You can leave Betty in charge. It won't take long.”

“Sure, Mr. Devine. I could do that except the missus has the car, and she's down in Chamisaville doing the weekly shopping at Safeway.”

“You can go over to the Forest Service office and hitch a ride with either Carl, or—what's that new man's name?”

“You must be talking about Floyd Cowlie, sir.”

“Right, Floyd Cowlie. Tell me, is their truck outside the office, can you see?”

“Yup. Just sitting out there, Mr. Devine. In fact, only ten minutes ago they pulled in from having it serviced at Jake's Enco in Doña Luz. It had a leak in the oil pan they picked up on the Little Baldy road yest—”

“Then you can ride up with them, Harlan. I'm going to call them right now, so why don't you hustle over there pronto?”

“Sure thing. Right away.”

Devine dialed the Forest Service office. Carl Abeyta answered.

“Carl, this is Ladd Devine. Right—thanks. Look, I'd like both you and Floyd to come up to my place right away for a short meeting. It's about that Joe Mondragón beanfield on the west side. Harlan Betchel's going to catch a ride with you boys because Greta is down in Chamisaville with the car. I'll expect to see you soon—”

“Whatever you say, sir. We'll be right over.”

After that, while his wife pensively sucked on a sour lemon, Devine called the Enchanted Land Motel manager, Peter Hirsshorn, who promised to come right up, and then he dialed long distance to his lawyer and partner in crime, Peter's brother Jim. Briefly he outlined to the lawyer the situation insofar as he understood it, and asked Hirsshorn what his initial and instinctive gut reaction was.

“I dunno, Ladd.
I'm
not worried, if that's what you're after. Both of us have lived here all our lives, you know. We understand these people. You can probably smoke out the situation as well, if not better, than anyone else around there. My initial, gut-level response would be to keep close tabs on the situation, on Joe Mondragón, but for the time being stay cool, don't push the panic button. I'm assuming what he wants is to have his action legitimized by some kind of nervous or hysterical or authoritarian attention. So don't play his hand, Ladd, and I kind of feel the whole thing will die down.”

“Thanks, Jim. Got to sign off now, here come Shorty and Jerry G.”

Jerry Grindstaff, a foreman of the Dancing Trout, was a tall, lanky, fifty year old with a weather-beaten Oklahoma face and an air of the old-time rodeo cowboy about him. Horsethief Shorty Wilson, the other foreman, was a short, bowlegged, foxy-looking, white-haired man from Plainfield, New Jersey, who'd come out West forty years ago to be a cowboy, had traveled the rodeo circuit for about three years as a clown, and then been signed on one wild drunken night by Ladd Devine Senior, and he had been with the Devines ever since. Where Jerry G. was no-nonsense, taciturn, practically zombielike, Horsethief Shorty was a boozing, tall-story upstart with a propensity for never making the same mistake twice. Of the three men in the room, only Horsethief Shorty spoke Spanish.

“Don't tell me, Ladd, lemme guess,” Shorty said cheerfully. “That sawed-off ex-pachuco José Mondragón has went and cut water into a beanfield he owns on the west side of town, and you called us together right now because you got an uncomfortable inkling that that man irrigating that field at this particular time spells Trouble with a capital T—am I right?”

“You're right, Shorty,” Devine said, although his words did not come out altogether friendly; with Shorty they never did. He had grown up and grown middle-aged with Shorty, but he had never really liked or absolutely trusted the man. Shorty's brass balls didn't disturb him as much as the man's uncanny familiarity with the entire workings of the Devine empire. And while Shorty usually ate with the help (whereas Jerry G. often dined with Devine, Flossie, Emerson Lapp, and other Devine functionaries), it was his habit right after lunch to amble obnoxiously into the boss's den and spend fifteen or twenty minutes with the
Wall Street Journal.
Over the years he had invested in stocks and bonds, and Devine suspected Shorty was currently worth a nice piece of change. Devine also suspected that if he himself had not shown an interest in the Devine enterprises, old Ladd Senior would have bequeathed the operation to Shorty—lock, stock, and barrel.

Most probably because his grandfather and Shorty had been alike as two peas in a pod, Devine was also somewhat awed by Shorty. And he harbored a feeling, which had been riding shotgun with him all his grown-up life, that if Shorty were ever removed, for one reason or another, from the Devine Company, the whole empire would come tumbling down.

Hence, he tolerated Horsethief Shorty and, while wincing at his uncouth cowboy appearance and his loud and sometimes lewd mouth, Devine nevertheless dealt Shorty into all high-level conferences; to a very great extent, he counted on his Spanish and his way with the local people to keep a finger on the pulse of the Miracle Valley.

The Forest Service truck jolted up the white gravel drive, and Flossie excused herself to greet the new arrivals at the door and usher them in. The men exchanged hellos and then Devine briefly reviewed the situation, asking each man what he had heard on the grapevine, what he thought Joe Mondragón's act might portend, and what he, Ladd Devine, ought to do about it.

“It's illegal,” Floyd Cowlie said. “Why doesn't Bernie arrest him? I mean, forgetting for the moment that probably the only thing Bernie ever arrested was his own development.”

“Well, people are nervous,” Devine said, refusing to snigger along with the rest of them. “This dam, this conservancy district has the farmers down there on pins and needles. Arresting Joe Mondragón for a symbolic act like this could start something nasty.”

Carl Abeyta laughed. “Who you trying to kid, Mr. D.? The people in this town—they're my people, qué no?—I know these people. They're not gonna go off half-cocked just because José Mondragón gets arrested. Shoot, I can't think of anybody who wouldn't send three cheers your way for cutting that punk down a little. Things aren't as tense as you think, Mr. D. I know. They're my people, qué no?”

“Excuse me, but what are you gonna learn from your so-called fucking people, seeing as how you work for the Floresta?” Horsethief Shorty chuckled, an obnoxious light twinkling in his dark eyes. “Shit, man, half the farmers who go to bed at night in this town dream of hanging you up by the balls for becoming one of Uncle Sam's Mexican honchos. Don't you remember what happened back in Buddy Galbaldon's time during the Smokey the Bear statue riot? I'm surprised that fat green truck of yours doesn't blow up every morning when you step on the accelerator. These people wouldn't confide in you, in that uniform, Carl, if you was César Chávez, Pedro Infante, Cantinflas, and Lee Trevino all rolled into one.”

“Uh, Harlan—?” Devine asked, moving uncomfortably on.

“Mr. D., the people in this town like you. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you found out someday they really
love
you. I mean, you put this place on the map, didn't you? And now with this Miracle Valley project, why, they're gonna owe to you everything they got—”

“Which won't be nothing new,” Shorty interrupted, flashing a bright impudent grin at his boss.

“No, I think whatever you decided to do, they would back you up,” Harlan insisted. “I know
I
sure would. And Nick Rael, that's the way
he
feels—”

“Which isn't too surprising,” Shorty said, “considering that Ladd here's got so many notes on Nick's business, not to mention the mortgage on his house—shit, fellas.” Shorty bit off the end of a cigar, rolling it in his puckered lips for a moment before he scratched a match on his zipper and lit it. “I got nothing against Nick, understand, but he's owed the Devine operation so much for so long that all he's got on his mind now is how best to kiss ruddy bums from here to Christmastime so's to build up credit until Valentine's Day, and I wouldn't trust his opinion any more than I'd trust you, Harlan, to dish me up a piece of cherry pie for breakfast that wasn't made from fruit in a can.”

Flossie giggled. She loved Horsethief Shorty. In fact, she had always wanted to make love with Shorty. Once, a long time back, when her husband was away and the help more or less off for the day, they got drunk together, her and Shorty, under some weeping willows, drinking bourbon, seated in mammoth wooden armchairs built by an alcoholic local santo carver named Snuffy Ledoux, who had left town years ago (during the Smokey the Bear statue riot, in fact) to seek his fortune in the capital. When they both had a mellow buzz on, laughing and giggling intimately together, Flossie asked, “Can I take my clothes off, Shorty, and would you diddle me if I did?” And Shorty's eyes popped open wide as he exclaimed, “Shit, Flossie, I ain't
that
drunk!” When she burst into tears, he went over and tenderly cuddled her head for a moment, crooning, “Listen, honey. It ain't what you maybe think, and it sure ain't nothing personal. But all my life I've had the bad habit of sticking my tool into anything that would spread its legs or its cheeks or open its mouth, and right now, much as I hate to admit it, I got a dose.” She never learned if that was true or not, but he went on and unpinned her hair, letting the long yellow curls flow and bounce around her shoulders, and then he sat on the thick grass in front of her while they talked about screwing and other things. Some talk was sad, some funny. Shorty recounted terribly raunchy stories about the whorehouses in Juarez and Agua Prieta and Nogales; he also gave her the straight poop on a couple of women he had loved. She didn't have anything approximating his experience, but she told him about groping around in the back seats of enormous convertibles with crew-cut boys in tuxedos who sucked on her big breasts like newborn babies. They became very close that afternoon, like brothers and sisters, and at one point Shorty unzipped his fly, letting her ogle his wong for a minute; after that she unbuttoned her blouse and pried out a breast for him to inspect. He went and kissed the nipple, which touched off her tears again, but nothing else happened. Since then they had been close, and sometimes Flossie talked to Shorty about things that bothered her, or else she just described to him the nebulous thoughts floating like lazy tropical fish through her brain, and she never felt Shorty was mocking her, not even silently in his mind. They had much in common, being both lonely and sad, but comfortable; and they felt at ease with each other; and somehow, God knows how, they had handled it perfectly for a long time, so that no chisme or rumor had ever linked them in a compromising fashion.

“Jerry G.,” Devine said. “What do you think?”

Jerry G. furrowed his brow, pursed his lips, and for a long time said nothing. Eventually he dislodged the following: