The Heart is a Poor Judge Ch. 06

"Follow me," said Eddie.

Heavily-laden, they made their way into camp. Eddie had, of course, already made inroads with the workers here. A very slim white man, sweating and cursing as he walked a large black metal drum across the dusty yard, immediately stopped and straightened up, greeting Eddie with a "Sir." Eddie merely nodded at the man and kept moving. When they arrived at an upright tan canvas tent near the single-wide, Eddie lifted the flap and motioned for Miguel and Gabe to enter first. "These are the guest barracks," he said.

Miguel looked around the cramped, dim interior. There were four cots lined up against the back wall with very little space between them.

"I snore," Eddie announced, "so I'll talk the one on the left. We'll skip one, and I'll let you two fight over who gets the other wall." Eddie placed his belongings on the unused cot. "Let's head over to the main house. I'll call the others in so you can meet them."

They approached the battered single-wide. The air-conditioning unit struggled in one of the windows, a wart on the tin exterior. Stepping inside, Miguel was reminded somewhat of the main house back at the Delta Encampment. But while theirs had been kept pristine through the years, no such effort had been made here. The walls were scuffed, scraped and even punctured here and there. An especially peculiar indentation near the edge of the small junky kitchen caught his eye. The fake wood panel was notably concave and cracked vertically. The area surrounding the crack hosted a vague maroon discoloration. He dropped his gaze to the carpet below, where the dark stain continued.

All-knowing Eddie guessed where Miguel's gaze was fixed. "Cleaned it up the best they could," he said. "It was six years ago now. Worker got with the boss's girl one night. Boss killed the worker right then and there. Of course, we had to clear everyone out for good. The camp was vacant for months while we assembled a new team. You can imagine how badly it hurt production," Eddie went on. "We were only pushing about eighty percent there for a while."

Miguel nodded compliantly, as if production were not the furthest fucking thing from his mind at the moment. Could this possibly be some sort of tasteless joke? He looked over to Gabe, but the kid just stared blankly at the floor.

"I'll call the workers in." Eddie stepped into the kitchen and lifted a black corded phone from its base. As he spoke into it, his voice was magnified, with a slight delay, through a loudspeaker outside.

A toilet flushed down the hall. Two men stepped loudly in through the front door. Then a third came from the bathroom, standing to the right of the first two. "Just taking care of business," the third man said with a crooked smile. "Begging your pardon."

"Gabe, Miguel, this is Muskogee, Alvarez and Vernon," said Eddie, motioning left to right. "Vernon is in charge out here. The other two answer to him—as will both of you."

Miguel recognized Muskogee as the skinny man who had been moving the metal drum.

"Evening boys," Vernon drawled. He carried plenty of extra weight in his red face and wore a white, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, which he tipped as he greeted them.

"What are the women's names?" said Gabe.

"Who?" asked Eddie.

Gabe turned around and pointed out the front window. "There are two women outside. Who are they?"

Sure enough, two figures stood beyond the glass, statue like, dark skinned—Mexican, Miguel guessed. If he had felt more at-ease, he might have smiled at the kid's audacity to speak up. The son of Marco was certainly in the room.

"Oh, them? They're just laborers," said Vernon dismissively. "They were hired on a temporary basis."

Eddie looked out the window for a long time, then slowly back at the three men. "Gabe and Miguel are here to see how things are done. Let's take a look at storage before the cisterns, as well as cutting and packing. They've never seen any of it."

As they made their way back out into the yard, Eddie greeted the women and asked them how long they had been at the camp.

"Almost two months," the taller one said slowly. She wore turquoise earrings—perfect little spheres the size of BB pellets, hovering near each lobe like orbiting planets. Her gaze lingered for a long time on Eddie, who shook their hands before dismissing them.

"It was because you called all the workers to the house," Vernon explained. "They must've figured you meant them, too."

"I did mean them," Eddie said, then ushered the group toward an unexplored tent.

Inside, Miguel was met with a wave of humidity, accompanied by a fairly sweet scent. Metal shelving stood in several rows, skimming—and perhaps supporting—the roof of the tent, the gaps between them just large enough for a human to fit. Stacked high on every shelf, as well as in scattered piles, were thousands of fat lukata cactus stems, each cut to about two feet in length.

"We let them dry out a little before we mulch them," said Vernon. "Mulching used to be done by a regular old meat grinder setup," he added, "but nowadays we know that's not good enough. At best you'll end up with a low B on the modern scale. You only get class-A through crushing. Eddie, do they want to see the mortars?"

"We can skip that and head straight to extraction," Eddie replied.

They made their way over to the large metal structure. Inside, six round metal troughs, each at least ten feet across, sat atop a slab of concrete.

"These are the cisterns," said Vernon. "The mulch sits in acid for a few days until all the crude gets drawn out of it." He pointed down into the nearest one. "You can see how it rises to the top."

Eddie led them between the troughs, stopping at one that was completely capped in white paste. Miguel studied the remarkably smooth sheen of the surface, noting small bubbles scattered throughout, popping occasionally.

Vernon sidled up to Eddie, adjusted his hat. "This one's looking pretty ripe. What do you say, Al?"

Alvarez peered down onto the expanse of milky liquid for a long time, silent and still, as though hypnotized. He turned his head and spat onto the concrete. "This one is ready."

Muskogee moved swiftly to the wall and lifted what looked like a small pool net from a hook. The netting itself appeared to be made of a fine stainless steel mesh. He stood at the edge of the trough and went to work.

"Watch the way he skims over the surface of it, kind of zig-zagging like that. Then he's got to move quick over to the bucket, 'cause it'll come through the net like crazy the second you hold it still."

"It behaves a little like cornstarch and water," Eddie clarified. "Freezes up whenever you put force on it."

Miguel watched as the contents of the net oozed, fingerlike, into the bucket. Muskogee proceeded with two more sweeps across the surface, then motioned for Gabe and Miguel to approach. Miguel peered down into it and saw that it was only about a quarter full.

"That's not a lot," Gabe said.

"It'll be even less once it's dehydrated," said Eddie.

Miguel thought of the many grueling hours spent crushing those stems and the endless days of monitoring and gestation, all just to dump a few cups of Elmer's glue into the bottom of a pail. Marco's words came to him then: Things of great value take time and effort.

"What you're looking at there, that crude—we put it into molds, and we bake it," Vernon explained. "Come see." He led them over to an old yellow refrigerator along the wall. From it he drew out two metal molds the size of ordinary red bricks. He placed them both bottom-side-up on an adjacent workbench, grabbed a ball-peen hammer and used the rounded end to administer one solid tap to each. He set the hammer aside, then whisked the molds upward as if they weighed nothing.

Two perfect white bricks lay a foot apart on the scarred workbench. Every last corner was clean and sharp. Not even the tiniest speck had crumbled from either.

"Good work," said Eddie. He leaned in to inspect the product. "They're both a safe class-A." He turned to Miguel. "I bet you know what I'm about to ask you."

Miguel did know. Eddie wanted a total value placed on the goods. He spoke up immediately. "Twelve large, easy. Thirteen, depending on where they're headed."

Vernon whistled. "Only goes up these days. Not like when I was a kid."

They moved next to the cutting process. This precision work was performed exclusively by Vernon, and as such, Alvarez and Muskogee were dismissed to return to their duties. The cutting was done using a bandsaw, under harsh light in the back corner of the shop. Only about one in twenty bricks ever made it to a dealer whole. More often they were portioned fractionally down, sometimes all the way to sixty-four even parts.

Miguel mostly tuned out the packaging demonstration. He had done enough custom reconfiguring for the dealers to know how the goods were sent: enveloped in wax paper, then tenderly cradled in a sheath of bubblewrap.

"Not much else to show, I guess," said Vernon, turning to Eddie. "Unless you can think of anything I missed."

"That's fine, Vernon. We'll head back to the house for the evening. Everything still work in the kitchen?"

"About as well as last time you were here."

Eddie motioned for Miguel and Gabe to follow him.

Once back in the air-conditioned confines of the house, Eddie collapsed onto the tattered couch. "Nice to get out of the heat. Why don't you two take a load off?"

Miguel wasn't yet prepared to relax in a room where evidence of a man's gruesome end had been left casually on display. But he had enough energy in his reserves to fake it. Gabe had already taken a seat on the other end of the couch from Eddie, so Miguel settled in an armchair with a clear sightline to the spot on the wall.

"Hope you two brought something to pass the time."

"I brought a couple of books," said Gabe.

This kid. Of course he brought books. Miguel glanced in his direction and they made eye contact. Gabe smiled at him—an ambush. He melted halfway into the chair before averting his eyes. It was all he could do not to throw himself at the kid right then and there. But without anywhere else to go, his gaze had once again locked onto that strange, shadowy area by the kitchen. A part of him still believed he was being tricked, but that would make even less sense.

"Stop looking at it," Eddie said suddenly.

Miguel scowled. "You want to switch me places?"

"It would be much better for you to practice your self-control. If it bothers you so much, you can simply choose to stop acknowledging it's there."

"A man died, Eddie. How am I supposed to ignore that when I can see the exact spot where he bled out? Jesus, ever heard of a replacement wall panel? Ever thought of throwing a rug over that spot on the floor?"

"Men die," said Gabe.

Miguel turned fiercely toward the kid. "As if you're so jaded. I saw a man get shot to death once. Right on the street. It didn't keep me from falling asleep that night. What bothers me is treating the dead with indignity."

"Miguel," said Eddie.

"What?"

"Covering it up won't change anything."

"Sure it will. It's a simple matter of respect. Sometimes death leaves a mess behind, and when it does, it should be cleaned up properly. That's all there is to say about it."

Eddie looked at him patiently. "Yours is not the only opinion in the room."

"No," Miguel said. He pretended to yawn, then continued staring at the spot on the wall, partly out of defiance. "It never is."

—

Nightfall was still hours away. Eddie had requested privacy in order to meet with the other men in the house, so Miguel and Gabe reentered the guest barracks. They were unreasonably hot inside. As Miguel sat cross-legged on his cot, contemplating whether or not to apologize yet again—this time for snapping at the kid—a book landed in his lap. It was called The Sun Also Rises and the author was Ernest Hemingway. He looked up. "Is it good?"

"Why don't you find out?"

Miguel hesitated. "Is it literature?"

"Yes," Gabe said, digging through his bag. "I can give you something lighter if you think it will be too dense."

"No," Miguel said quickly. "I like dense."

"Then by all means."

Miguel dressed down to shorts and a sleeveless cotton shirt, flung himself on his back and began to read. He became engrossed, so much so that when Gabe spoke up nearly an hour later, Miguel asked him to repeat what he had said.

"I said I agree with you. About that stain on the wall and floor where that man died."

"Oh." Miguel had all but forgotten. "Thanks. I didn't mean to go off like that in there. Eddie really knows how to get me worked up—sometimes I think he does it on purpose."

"Could be."

"I'm glad you're here."

The kid looked over at him. "There's strength in numbers."

"No, I mean that I'm glad it's you specifically. I feel like I could be around you all the time, and you would hardly ever get on my nerves."

Gabe looked back up at the drooping canvas roof of the tent and smiled. "I seriously doubt that. We don't exactly have the best track record."

"Well, I'm the one who's mostly to blame for it."

"I doubt that, too."

Miguel sat up. "What are you reading?"

"The Great Gatsby. I've read it about a hundred times."

"Really?"

"No. Ten times, though, easy."

"Isn't that the one about all the bored white people and the lady who gets hit by the car?"

He got another smile out of the kid. "That's the one."

Awhile later, Miguel turned and said, "How many books do you think you read in a year?"

"A year? No idea. In a month, maybe ten or fifteen. You can do the math."

"And where does it get you?"

"What?"

"Does it get you anywhere? In life, I mean."

Gabe didn't answer right away. The kid was really putting some thought into it. "It gets me away," he said finally.

"Away from all of this," Miguel said in a slow, wistful voice, gesturing with the book still in hand at the tent's drab interior.

"Pretty much."

Eddie entered the barracks no less than an hour later. The sun hung low in the sky and invaded the tent through the open flap, casting a long, manic shadow of their hulking boss onto the back wall.

"I don't get it," he muttered, keeping his volume closely in check. "We gave them the go-ahead to hire whoever they saw fit. We made a show of trusting them to make a good decision outside of our purview...and this is how it goes down."

Miguel lay the book face down on his sweat-covered chest. "What are you talking about?"

"I wanted to oversee it, but Otero said no," he continued. "I'm sure this isn't what he had in mind. It's not a place for women, and Vernon knows that."

"Hold on," said Miguel. The lecturing voice of Alice, leaning over the bar some rainy night, came suddenly to mind. "Women are free to do anything they want, Eddie. What year do you think this is?"

Eddie just shook his head. "Those women are not free."

"Oh." He looked down. The significance of the statement came to him gradually. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

"It wasn't all that clear," muttered Eddie.

It probably had been. Miguel liked to think of himself as highly perceptive in all settings, at all times, but he had a bad habit of skipping over things in plain sight. He turned to Gabe. "Did you know?"

"I had a hunch."

"A hunch," Miguel repeated. The kid had a hunch. He looked back at Eddie. "What are you going to do?"

"There's nothing I can do. Not right away. It's an awkward situation."

"What did Vernon say about it?"

"Nothing. He said they're quick studies with a great work ethic. Muskogee gave me a wink at that point. Vernon saw it and kicked him so hard I thought he was going to cry."

Gabe shook his head, staring down at the open pages of his book.

"They share a room in the house," said Eddie. "The other one is Vernon's."

"I don't like it," said Miguel, trying to catch Gabe's eye. The kid just kept looking blankly down at his book. Miguel suspected that he hadn't read a single word since Eddie came in.

"Help me with this," Eddie said, zipping open a large vent flap in the back wall and rolling it upwards. "This should help cool things off in here." Miguel rolled up his side, keeping it even with Eddie's as they went, then secured it at the top with a metal clip.

Eddie left to make his rounds. Gabe read silently on the cot next to him. Miguel tried to refocus on his book, but his mind insisted on wandering. He turned suddenly to Gabe. "What do you make of all that?"

"Sounds like Eddie has it handled."

"Are you sure about that?"

"No."

Miguel sighed. "Well, don't you think they might be in danger?"

"Yes, but Eddie already says there's nothing he can do right now. I'm sure if he could act immediately, he would. There must be some reason he can't."

Eddie returned after the sun had completely set. Miguel went behind the barracks and brushed his teeth, spitting into the dirt. Ten minutes later, the kid lay still on his cot with his eyes closed and Miguel sat propped on his elbows, watching Eddie search through his bag for something. Finally, he drew out a gun—just like that, a fucking gun—inspected it for a few seconds, then placed it back inside. Miguel had always known, at least in theory, that Eddie carried a gun. A concealed weapon was just another component part of the uniform worn by most the higher-ups. Otero sometimes even open-carried one on his belt. But as for Eddie...this was the first visual proof Miguel had ever witnessed. Gunslinging Eddie.

"What was that?" Miguel asked in a low voice.

"A Glock."

"What for?"

"For protection."

"Oh," Miguel said. "Guess that's important out here."

"Not just out here," said Eddie. "Everywhere."

—

Miguel woke up around midnight, hotter than he had ever been in his life. He sweated so profusely into the permeable fabric of the cot that he began to imagine droplets forming on the underside, falling ten inches to the dirt below.

Gabe shifted beside him.

"Damn, it's hot," Miguel whispered harshly between Eddie's massive, wheezing snores. "I could really go for a cigarette."

Gabe's face peeked over. "Now? Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding," Miguel rasped. "Jesus, I think I'm going to die."

"You won't," said Gabe. "Drink some water and go back to sleep."

After a pause, Miguel said, "This place gives me the creeps."

Gabe shifted again. "What exactly were you expecting?"

"Nothing. Just maybe...not as bad as this."

Gabe was silent for a few seconds. "Yeah. Me too."

Miguel reached down for the milk jug and gulped down several mouthfuls of warm water. He wiped his mouth with his forearm. "I'm headed out. You coming or what?"

"No," Gabe whispered firmly.

"Fine." Miguel heaved himself from the sweaty grip of the cot and crawled over to his duffel bag. While hunting around for his cigarettes he heard the kid shifting behind him. He turned around to see Gabe sitting upright in his cot, rubbing his eyes like a toddler, letting his hands fall into his lap.

"What?" whispered Miguel.

"I'm coming."

Miguel thought better of exiting the tent in his present, near-naked state. Though it would have done wonders to cool him down, it seemed ill-advised to wander the desert at night wearing nothing but white briefs. Besides, the kid might take it the wrong way—whatever the significance of that might be. Reluctantly, he slipped on gym shorts and pulled a tank-top over his head.

Creeping as quietly as possible over the dirt path leading away from the barracks, they came alongside the car, parked far away from the others, sparkling in the moonlight like something dropped in from a foreign world. They moved silently along the dirt road, arcing far out away from camp before cutting right, threading warily through gaps in the brush. Miguel paused briefly at the base of the hill, making sure they were out of sight before beginning their ascent.