The midday sun poured down, a ball of orange fire. They mounted up, and Rutledge gestured toward a long building of yellow pine with a steeply pitched roof. 'Knocked off my first piece of ass in those stables.'
Payne decided not to say 'congratulations.' Instead, he tried to keep his horse from sidestepping and crushing him against the corral rail.
'Maria something-or-other,' Rutledge reminisced. 'Grape picker. Hands stained like she worked an old printing press. Went on for a month before my daddy caught us. I was afraid he'd beat me, maybe send the girl back to Mexico. But he hauled out a bottle of Old Grand-dad and told us to do it again. He wanted to watch. Then he had his way with her.'
Sick fuck, Payne thought. 'Nothing like fathers and sons sharing quality time.'
'My point is, we're all a product of our upbringing.'
'Why not just cut the bullshit and tell me what's happened to Marisol Perez?'
Rutledge gave him a look as hard as polished oak. 'There's a time I would have horsewhipped a man who spoke to me that way.'
'All I'm saying, how tough can it be to check who started work the last few days?'
'We're looking into it. Now, let's ride.' Rutledge cluck ed in the stallion's ear and tugged on the reins to turn the big animal. Payne followed, bouncing in the saddle.
The path took them past two workmen polishing a pickup truck, an ancient short-bed Ford with a gleaming finish the color of freshly washed spinach. Rutledge noticed Payne admiring the truck.
'A 1951 F-100. My daddy's. Do you know why I keep it?'
'Tradition, I guess. Another link to your past.'
'You got it, Payne.' Nodding with approval. 'Your father hand anything down to you?'
'Only a bowling ball he forgot to take with him.'
Rutledge grunted, nudged his stallion, and they headed toward the fields at a steady trot. The horses clop ped along a path of brick-colored dirt. After a few moments, Rutledge said, 'Attorney Payne, I admire what you did in that trailer-truck case.'
'Forty-eight hours in an air-conditioned cell. Nothing compared to what the migrants went through.'
'Point is, you risked your career for a cause you believed in.'
'Wasn't that hot a career.'
'Still deserves respect. Damn few men of principle left. Much less men of action.'
A realization came to Payne.
He's complimenting himself. Simeon Rutledge considers himself a man of principles and action. But what principles? And what actions?
They came to a barren stretch of black earth. Two dozen workers chopped at dirt clumps with hoes, smoothing out the soil.
'Notice anything about those hoes?' Rutledge asked him.
'Not really.'
'The handles are five feet long. Lets the worker stand straight. Used to be, all the growers insisted on el cortito, the short-handled hoe. The closer to the dirt, the better the weeding. But the poor sumbitches had to work all hunched over, ten hours at a time. It was inhumane, and everybody knew it. But I couldn't find any long-handled hoes on the market, so we started milling the wood ourselves. I had my workers weed the strawberry fields standing up. Proved to everyone it could be done.'
'That's a good deed. A very good deed.' Payne meant it. Rutledge was damn complicated. But then, who wasn't?
'I try to make my workers' lives more bearable. Ice water in the coolers, hot water in the showers. I give loans without collateral. I take care of my people.'
A feudal lord, looking after his adoring peasants. Nagging thoughts tugged at Payne.
Why's he greasing me?
Why does Simeon Rutledge care what I think of him?
And where the hell is Marisol?
In the distance, a small plane flew low over a field, dropping a billowing cloud of white flaky pesticide. Payne wondered if the migrants, enjoying cold drinking water and hot showers, were downwind.
The horses picked up speed, cantering past fields popping with red and yellow peppers. They approached an apple orchard, the fruit nearing ripeness. To their right was a spillway. Water poured into an irrigation culvert. They neared a concrete-and-steel structure that looked like a dam, rising above the culvert, which disappeared behind an earthen levee twenty-five-feet high. A chugachuga sound came from unseen machinery. A sign read, Pump Station Three.
Near the top of the levee, a bizarre sight. The grille, bumper, and headlights of an old car peeked out of the dirt.
'What the hell is that?' Payne asked.
'A '56 Chevy.'
'What's it doing there?'
'A memorial to Hector.'
'Hector?'
'Javie's father.'
'Cardenas? The chief who calls you his uncle?'
'His old man saved my ass when we got hit by three Pacific storms, back-to-back in '79. Worst flooding in a hundred years. We ran out of sandbags, and the levee was gonna breach. I was damn close to owning a hundred- thousand-acre lake instead of a farm. Then Hector Cardenas came up with the craziest idea. Reinforce the levee with scrapped cars. We called every junkyard from here to San Francisco, got three thousand chassis for scrap metal prices. All the braceros pitched in, tough little fuckers, working in mud up to their chests. Townspeople, too, women making coffee and sandwiches. Worked seventy-two hours straight through storms and gale-force winds, but we saved the levee. Saved the farm.'
Payne could picture it. Simeon Rutledge standing knee-deep in muck atop the levee, shouting orders. If he couldn't command the rain to stop falling, he would push men and machines to reconfigure the earth where the rain fell.
'But we couldn't celebrate,' Rutledge continued, his voice dropping a notch. 'One of the cranes toppled over and pinned Hector underwater. Drowned before we could get him out.'
'Jeez, that's awful.' Payne figuring this was the 'long story' Cardenas referred to, the source of Rutledge becoming Tio Sim. 'So you raised Javier?'
'His mother raised him. I just made their lives a little easier.'
The horses followed a straight path that ran in the shadow of the towering levee. Gesturing toward the levee, Rutledge said, 'Where do you suppose that water comes from?'
'Wells, I suppose,' Payne said. 'I saw some back by the vege table fields.'
'Not up here. I dammed a river and diverted the water for the orchards. Now I got state and federal agencies crawling up my ass. Some crap about not getting permits and polluting the water with fertilizers.'
'You must have some high-priced legal talent working on it.'
'Whitehurst and Booth in San Francisco.'
'They're good.'
'Good and expensive. Long on bills and short on balls. They want to negotiate fines that'll cost me millions.'
'That's what deep-carpet firms do.'
'What would you do, Counselor?'
'O.D.D. Obstruct. Delay. Distract.' For the next five minutes, Payne gave his theory of pettifoggery. Hang tough, he advised. Outlast the bureaucrats. Only a matter of time until they jump to the private sector or just get so damn tired that they'll dismiss charges or settle for pennies on the dollar. He told Rutledge to file counterclaims. Sue for inverse condemnation, claim the government has destroyed the value of the land. Seize on little mistakes like missed filing periods.
'Always bring a contingent of your workers to court,' Payne said. 'Let them track mud into the gallery. Hard workers who'll lose their jobs if the government prevails. Put a human face on the billion-dollar corporation.'
