rich and too ornery to give a double damn about whatever his lawyer was toting in his green alligator briefcase. If the I.R.S. or D.H.C. or I.C.E. or any other bureaucratic bull slingers were after him, well, let them take their best shot. As for Whitehurst and all his drama, let him cool his heels. Preferably in horseshit.
Rutledge was not clueless as to the goings-on in Washington. He read the newspapers and even watched that twitchy woman Katie Couric on TV once in a while. The failed immigration legislation the year before had brought the weasels out of their holes, screaming hate at illegals. The Department of Homeland Security was under pressure to do something-anything-to close what was essentially an open border with Mexico. Not good news for the man who employed thousands of migrants in the Central Valley, some for just a few weeks during harvest season, some full-time.
Rutledge had seen these waves of nativism come and go. His father had hired Mexicans legally under the braceros program. Even now, Simeon Rutledge employed some documented aliens as guest workers, but the numbers were limited by law, and the paperwork took forever. He didn't see any difference between a Mexican with papers and one without. He paid decent wages and provided the best working conditions he could and still make a profit. He admired the courage of the men and women who risked death to come north and look for honest work. He couldn't understand why Europeans who braved an Atlantic crossing in search of a better life should be held in higher regard than Mexicans who crossed the desert last week, pursuing the same dream.
Big mouths like Quinn and the fear-mongering politicians didn't understand crap. Farmers always faced ruin. The weather was either too hot or too cold. Too much rain or too little. Not enough workers when you needed them, and too many when there was nothing to do. Market prices tumbled without warning. Just now, almond prices were in the crapper, thanks to all those Hollywood health nuts buying acreage and planting trees.
Sure, the government was a threat, but nothing compared to a flooded field or a February frost. So, just because his lawyer showed up with a brow as furrowed as a lettuce field, Rutledge wasn't going to alter the day's schedule, which included castrating a stallion who'd been raising hell in the east pasture.
'So what should I do about Quinn, Counselor? Sue him, shoot him, or debate the damn fool on the radio?' Rutledge scratched at his bushy mustache with a knuckle. The whiskers hid a divot in his upper lip, a reminder of a bar fight and a broken beer bottle forty years earlier.
'Things the way they are, I'd prefer you kept a low profile, Simeon.'
'And just how are things?'
'There's a team in the Justice Department working full time on the investigation,' Whitehurst said. 'It's called 'Operation New River.' But it might as well be called 'Operation Rutledge.' The feds have targeted you for-'
The barn door opened, and both men were blinded an instant by the blazing sunlight.
'Hold on, Whitebread.' All Rutledge could see was the silhouette of a huge horse. A frothy-tailed, rambunctious white stallion who'd been terrorizing the mares. It was time to settle him down.
'I'm gonna de-nut White Lightning,' Rutledge said, brandishing the shiny steel emasculator. 'Then you can tell me why I should crap my pants over some bureaucrats with fat briefcases and skinny ties.'
THIRTY-TWO
Payne pulled the Lexus to the berm, and the Imperial County sheriff's cruiser pulled up behind him.
'It's the dude from the diner,' Payne said, looking into his side mirror.
'We ain't done nothing wrong,' Tino said.
'Maybe so, but let me do the talking.'
Payne watched as Deputy Dixon spoke into his radio, then stepped out of the cruiser. He walked slowly toward them, a purposeful, heavyset young man in reflective sunglasses.
Payne zipped the window down and sang out, cheerfully, 'Hey, there, Officer. We meet again.'
For a moment, no one spoke as an open-bed truck trundled north, a dozen Hispanic men in work clothes huddled in the back. A cyclone of dust swirled across the highway, oily fumes in its wake. Watching the truck pass, Dixon said, 'Temporary work permits. Otherwise, the beaners would be hiding under tarps.'
Beaners, Payne thought. Not a good sign.
'Where exactly you folks headed?' the deputy asked.
'Just a little vacation,' Payne said. 'Thought we'd look around Imperial.'
'Little bitty town, not much to see unless you like sand dunes.'
'Love sand dunes,' Payne avowed. ' Lawrence of Arabia is one of my favorite movies.'
'Uh-huh.' The deputy peeled a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. He turned to Tino and said, 'Want a stick, Harry Potter?'
Tino shook his head.
'Please step out of the vehicle. Both of you.'
They got out of the air-conditioned metal box. A wave of desert heat rolled over them. Sand blew across the highway.
'Gonna ask you again, kid,' the cop said. 'What's your name? Tu nombre? '
'Tino,' the boy said, just as Payne said, 'Adam.'
The deputy cocked his head. 'Which is it, Adam or Tino?'
'Adam Tino Payne,' Payne said. 'He likes his middle name better.'
'Sure he does.' The cop flicked his gum wrapper toward a staghorn cactus. 'Got some I.D. for Master Adam Tino Payne?'
'I don't need no stinking I.D.,' Tino spat out, with an overcooked Mexican accent.
'Can it, kid.' Payne turned to the deputy. 'My name's James Payne. I'm a lawyer. Like I said, this is my son, Adam. School's out, so we're touring the desert.'
The cop took off his sunglasses and gave Tino a long, hard look. 'Boy doesn't favor you, does he?'
Beads of sweat tracked down Payne's forehead and stung the corners of his eyes. 'If it's any of your business, his mother's Hispanic. My wife. Juanita.'
'Okay, husband of Juanita. What's going on here?'
'Like I said, vacation. Father and son bonding. Maybe head over to Phoenix, watch the Diamondbacks play.' Winging it now.
'Not buying what you're selling. Now, what are you and your little mestizo up to?'
'You asking because my son has brown skin? This some kind of racial profiling?'
'More like pedophile profiling.'
'What!'
'We got a problem with guys coming down to the border, buying Mexican kids for lustful purposes.'
Lustful purposes?
It was such a ludicrous phrase that Payne laughed.
'What about it, chico?' the deputy asked. 'This guy try anything funny with you?'
'What you think, I'm some sort of mayate? Anybody try that with me, I chop off his aguacates.'
Using the word for avocados. It occurred to Payne that the Spanish language had an abundance of synonyms for testicles.
'Just asking if the guy tried,' Dixon said.
'No, man. He's my vato.'
'Your bud? So, he's not your father?'
Tino clammed up, and the cop turned to Payne. 'You got some I.D., Mr. Payne?'
'It's in the car.'
The deputy followed Payne, who opened the passenger door, then clicked open the glove compartment. A blue-steel, short-barreled revolver fell to the floor with a thud.
'What the hell!' Payne said.
The deputy grabbed Payne by the shoulder and spun him around. 'You got a concealed firearms permit?'
'That's not mine! I don't know how it got there.'
