Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [48]
John came back and sat on the Jacuzzi wall again. “Now,” he said, and waited.
“Before I go into it, let me ask you: do you ever hire illegals?”
“Well, sure. There’s not a small contractor in the county who doesn’t. I’ve done it personally, and as far as I know, my foremen still do.”
“Don’t you consider that exploitation?” It was off the subject, but I wasn’t tracking too well and, anyway, it interested me.
“No,” he said flatly. “At least they’re eating, and cheap labor makes it possible for me to stay in business.”
“But what about their rights?”
“What rights? They’re here illegally.”
“In case you don’t know, there’s been a series of court decisions that in essence say that once undocumented immigrants are in the country, they have the protection of our laws.”
“Yeah, well, isn’t that always the way? Protect the guy who’s here illegally at the expense of the one who was born here. Protect the criminal’s rights at the expense of the victim’s. I’m getting damned sick of it.”
“I understand why you’re—”
“No, you don’t, Shar. You’re not a small businessman who’s struggling to give his kids a decent life. And I know what you’re going to say to that: the illegals are trying to give their kids a decent life, too.” He paused. “Hell, you know I feel for them. We’re all getting fucked by the people who run things. And I’m not claiming I’m running a charity here, but the guys who hire on with me get treated good and can at least put food in their families’ mouths. A square meal’s a damn sight more nourishing than some rich politician’s yap about rights.”
“You have a point there.”
“You bet I do.” His eyes narrowed. “Why the questions about the illegals? You on an immigration case?”
“I’m not on any case at all, at least not officially.” And then I began to tell him about it. Soon the words were spilling out so fast I could barely catch my breath, fast and with too much emotion—an odd mix of anger and fear and determination.
John didn’t say a word the whole time, but his face grew grim. “So that’s why the questions,” he commented when I finished. “The Holiday Market.”
“You know the place?”
He nodded. “In the past year we’ve been doing a lot of jobs in the South Bay. Cops run the illegals off from the Holiday now and then, and they go down the street to the parking lot of a taco stand. When the cops run them off of there, they’re back at the market.”
“John, I’ve got to find out if Hy went there, and what happened. Is there any way you can get the guy who runs the place to talk with me? Or do you know anybody he might trust?”
He considered. “Two of my foremen, Al and Pete, are Hispanics, and I know they’ve done a lot of hiring there. Maybe one of them. I’ll ask.”
“Would you?”
“Of course.” He frowned, pulling at his lower lip—a childhood habit when he was worried. “But look, kid, aren’t you getting in over your head?”
Kid. Years ago he called me that. When had he stopped? Somewhere around the time I shot and killed a man. With surprise I realized it had taken him all these years to accept it and acknowledge that deep down I was still his baby sister.
Truthfully I replied, “Maybe I am, but I’ve got no choice.”
“This Ripinsky guy means that much to you?”
“Yes. It’s … an odd relationship. I don’t know exactly how to explain it. But he’s the only person—with the exception of Ma, maybe—who’s ever understood who and what I am and not judged me because of it.”
“Ma?” John stared at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses.
“Yes, Ma. She said some things to me last fall when she was visiting that made me realize she knows me better in some ways than I do myself. Maybe knows all of us better than we think.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh … that there’s a side of me that’s kind of … wild, is how she put it, that isn’t going to fit into any of the convenient little niches that