Raylan_ A Novel - Elmore Leonard [43]
A woman’s voice said, “You people dig it all up, what’s future generations gonna do?”
“What have future generations ever done for us?” Carol said. “I’m kiddin. You know who said that? Groucho Marx. Listen, I don’t think we should worry our heads about running out of coal. I know we’ve got enough in the ground for the next two hundred and fifty years.”
A man’s voice piped up: “We can have windmill power right now, like in Holland. Clean wind, no soot blowin on us.”
“If the wind lovers ever get it right,” Carol said. “The trouble is, wind turbines can cause health problems, headaches and sleep disorders, kids having nightmares.”
Man’s voice: “All this strippin goin on, your company gets rich while we’re the poorest county in the state, most of us laid off.”
“It tells me,” Carol said, “we got to do more strippin, get more work for you fellas.”
A miner’s voice: “We work for a time, the company digs while the price of coal is high. The price dips, the coal company files bankruptcy, forfeits its bond, and slips away in the night.”
“You know they’re always risks,” Carol said. “It costs a fortune to set up a mine operation. They don’t find as much coal as expected, they have to try again someplace else. Mister, it’s the price of coal on the market keeps us in business.”
“You clear out,” a voice said, “without cleanin up the mess you always leave behind. A ’poundment breaks loose where you’re holdin three hundred million gallons of slurry, fulla poison, toxic chemicals, and it pours down in the holler and contaminates the water. You know what your boss, the CEO of M-T Mining, called it?”
“An Act of God,” Carol said. “I believe my boss, bless his heart, is sincere when he says that. He’s a churchgoer, he believes the Lord moves in mysterious ways we don’t always understand. Why couldn’t it be an Act of God? The Lord tellin us, if you gonna build impoundments to catch slurry, then God damn it, try buildin one that holds.” Carol said, “Sometimes we have to learn the hard way.”
She was getting sounds of approval, whistles, a woman saying, “A-men” and Carol felt closer to the crowd.
She said, “I know the pay’s decent for surface-mine work. I believe it comes to eleven hundred and twenty dollars a week,” and said right away, “Raylan Givens,” extending her hand in his direction, “I bet most of you know him. A judge assigned Raylan as my personal bodyguard. I asked His Honor, ‘What do I need protection for? Aren’t we all friends?’ ” That drew some noise. “Raylan works for Uncle Sam, he’s a federal marshal and has been decorated a number of times, I understand, for drawing down on outlaws.”
She let the miners hoot and whistle, then turned to Raylan saying, “Marshal, may I ask if your salary as a law enforcement officer is in the neighborhood of eleven hundred a week?”
It surprised him and he hesitated, taking his boot from the first step to the stage. Raylan said, “Base pay startin out? It’s around there.”
“About the same as a surface miner’s.”
“Well, there’s overtime . . .”
“But you start out with a weekly salary not much different than if you were diggin coal. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s pretty close,” Raylan said. “Except marshals are paid fifty-two weeks a year. I’ve put ten years in, that’s five hundred weeks I’ve been paid without a miss. I take a day off—sometimes I have to—I come down with a ferocious hangover . . .”
Raylan paused, letting the miners come alive yelling remarks at him, “Tell it like it is,” shouting, “Day off’s a day of pain!”
“I take a sick day,” Raylan said, “I don’t get fired.” He waited a beat and said, “Even get paid for it.”
Carol saw it coming. Raylan finished and the gym erupted in applause, those piercing whistles, miners yelling his name—“You tell her, Raylan!”—and Carol realized she’d blown it. She’d let Raylan in, let him go on when he said, “Except”—and nailed it in a few words—“there’s a big difference between my pay and a coal miner’s working for a company that shuts down when they feel like it,” Raylan giving them something to cheer about,