Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [44]
Had the house been so bereft of life in December? I wondered. Or was it merely Pa’s absence that made the difference? I thought back to Christmas Day, when I’d met here with John, his boys, Charlene, Ricky, and the aptly named little Savages. We’d all cooked dinner for Pa, and the occasion had been cheerful, even festive. But in retrospect, I decided everyone—including Pa—had worked hard to ignore an underlying depression. Unlike the mood at Ma’s Christmas Eve buffet, when with considerable relief I’d been able to let go the last of my reservations about her new relationship with Melvin Hunt.
I slipped down farther on the lounge, still not sleepy. The tops of the tall eucalyptus in the canyon blew lazily, outlined against a cloud-streaked sky. Something rustled in the underbrush beyond the fence and, farther off, I heard a coyote cry. By day, with sunlight silvering the eucalyptus and pepper trees and accentuating the brilliant colors of the wild plumbago and bougainvillea that grew among the yucca and prickly pear and greasewood, the canyon was beautiful and enticing. As children we’d played there, descending the stone steps that Pa had built into the steep downslope; the remains of our treehouse still perched in one of the sturdier live oaks. But I’d never liked the canyon at night, particularly after our favorite black cat disappeared into it. Then it was rendered wild and strange by the setting sun. Then all that moved down there were the hunters and the hunted.
The coyote howled again—closer. In spite of the night’s warmth, a chill slid down my backbone. I closed my eyes, tried to picture Hy’s face. All I saw was Gage Renshaw’s, and his expression when he said he intended to kill him. Hy seemed very far away, even though tonight I’d gone to places where he’d been only some forty-eight hours before, talked with people who had talked with him. Tomorrow I had to move faster, close the gap between us….
Something screamed farther up the canyon—a small animal taken by a larger one. I came alert, knowing there would be little sleep for me tonight. Momentarily I was safe here, but people already were looking for me. One false step and they’d snap me up as sure as the coyote snaps up its prey.
Eleven
Wednesday, June 9
The Holiday Market was a drive-by hiring hall.
Dozens of men gathered in its weedy parking lot—drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups, talking idly, smoking. All were Hispanic and most, I was sure, had not long been on this side of the border. As they waited, hunched against the dawn chill, hands shoved into jacket pockets, their eyes expectantly watched the arrival of each truck.
The trucks that pulled into the lot belonged to any type of firm that used unskilled laborers, but the majority were building contractors. Each driver followed a prescribed ritual: get out of the truck, stroll into the market, return a couple of minutes later with coffee, then begin negotiating.
And if the police or the INS came by? Just stopping for a jolt of the old caffeine on the way to the job site, officer. Hiring illegals? Christ, no, I wouldn’t do that, and these undocumented workers aren’t worth shit, anyway. Besides, this lot is posted. You see that sign—No Loitering, Prohibido el Pararse. Hell, everybody knows that’s the local lingo for “Don’t be picking up your cheap labor here.”
That morning no INS sweeps interfered with the hiring process. I sat across the street behind the wheel of the Scout, watching the contractors strike their bargains and the workers pile onto the trucks. They would receive far less than the union wage for their day’s work, and benefits were unheard of, but they were the lucky ones. Those who were left behind—many too sick or strung out for a contractor to take a chance on—would go hungry tonight.
After a while I got out of the Scout and locked it. It was overcast here by the beach, and even though the temperature hovered in the high fifties, I felt a deep bone-chill from the fog-damp