Illegal

THIRTY-THREE

"Damn it, Simeon. This is serious," Charles Whitehurst said.

"Yeah. You told me. There's a list. I'm a target." Rutledge wanted to get on with castrating his stallion. But his doomsaying lawyer wouldn't let up.

"You're on the top of the list, Simeon. The first raid will be here." He made a circular motion, as if the feds would storm the barn at any moment.

Rutledge spit toward a bale of straw. "We've had Immigration poking around for years. Just P.R. stunts."

"Not this time. A multiagency task force. Homeland Security. F.B.I. I.C.E."

"What about all those subsidiaries you set up? Field hands work for them, not for me."

Whitehurst shook his head. "Corporate dodges don't work anymore."

The lawyer's voice was tense and high-pitched. Not like the unflappable old mouthpiece. It gave Rutledge pause, and now he pictured jeeps and helicopters and swarms of agents in Kevlar vests, kicking in doors, flaunting their automatic weapons. Bees buzzing around a hive. All to appease the yahoos and their prejudices.

"How do you know all this?" he asked.

"That's not important. Just trust me. The suits at Justice checked out every big employer in the West. Meat-packing plants. Hotel chains. Fisheries. They saw your name and said, 'Bingo! Simeon Rutledge.' You're it. And they'll milk it for all it's worth. You're facing millions in fines. Serious prison time. Forfeiture of your property. They're making you the test case."

"How the hell do you know all this?" Rutledge repeated.

Whitehurst looked around the barn as if the Attorney General might be hiding behind an Appaloosa in a neighboring stall. "We had a young lawyer, a junior associate, leave the firm last year to get trial experience. He's with the U.S. Attorney in San Francisco, and we've maintained a good relationship. Do I have to say any more?"

Whitehurst had bought himself a spy, Rutledge thought. In the high-rise world of the justice system, you didn't have to shovel shit to get your hands dirty.

"When's it coming down?" Rutledge asked.

"Soon. Tomorrow. Next week. A few weeks, at most."

Rutledge ran a hand over his buzz cut. The information sounded legit. "You got some legal advice for me?"

"Get rid of your illegals. All of them. Now."

Rutledge coughed a wet, gravelly laugh, the sound of stones washing down a sluice. "Then who'll pick my arti chokes? You?"

"It's time to clean up, Simeon. And not just the farms. You gotta close that pleasure palace up in Hot Springs."

"The Gentleman's Club? Bullshit! My granddad built that for his friends in Sacramento. Hell, they oughta designate the place a historic monument."

"Why don't you just hire lobbyists like everyone else?"

"What do you think whores are? Granddad used to say you could buy anything with bourbon and pussy."

"Like I've been saying, Simeon, times change."

"Well, I don't. As for the migrants, even George Dumb-ass Bush knew we couldn't run the country without 'em. It shouldn't be a crime to hire able-bodied men and women just because they don't have some papers. Unless John Q. Public wants to pay ten bucks for a head of lettuce, we gotta have these people."

"Not a time for political speeches."

"Maybe it is. They arrest me, I'll have a platform."

"And if you're imprisoned?"

"I'm counting on you to keep that from happening, Charlie."

"You can't buy your way out of this one. Jesus, Simeon, sometimes I wish you'd fire me."

"Say the word, and I'll hire a smart Jew lawyer who's still hungry. So are we done? I'm not getting rid of my mojados or my putas."

"If you don't take precautions, Simeon," Whitehurst said, "I shudder to think of the consequences."

"While you're shuddering, I'm gonna do some work." Rutledge turned his attention to a young Hispanic man leading a huge white horse into the gelding stall. Alongside, an older man with cabled forearms gripped the horse's halter. The horse whinnied and stomped the floor like a spoiled child, its tail sweeping back and forth like a geisha's fan.

"You know why I castrate fine-looking beasts like White Lightning?" Rutledge asked.

Whitehurst sighed. "So you'll be the only stallion left on the ranch."

"Gelding mellows him out so he can pasture with the mares without humping 'em and dumping 'em."

The older Mexican man stroked the horse's flank and whispered in his ear. The stallion seemed to relax.

"Jorge, I ain't got all day," Rutledge said. "You done singing love songs to that big bastard?"

" Relampago Blanco knows in his heart what you're going to do to him, jefe, " Jorge answered.

Rutledge moved around the horse, examining it the way a pilot checks an aircraft before taking off. He ran his hands over the horse's sheath and leg, then peered into its eyes. This was a strong and handsome animal, and Rutledge felt something akin to love for him.

Jorge filled two large syringes, one with a tranquilizer, the other with an anesthetic to be injected into the testes. Rutledge would perform the tricky surgery himself. His father had shown him how, just as his father before him. Maybe Whitehurst didn't understand how traditions were passed from fathers to sons in the natural order of the universe. Land. Horses. Crops. Migrants. Whores.

Jorge handled the injections. It took the anesthetic only two minutes to work. While he waited, Rutledge thought about his lawyer's advice. Whitehurst was looking out for him. The savvy old lawyer didn't want him indicted, even though he could make a ton of money with a big show trial, the mother's milk of those silk-suited shysters.

Rutledge watched his lawyer peer over the top of the stall from the outside. Just like a hired mouthpiece. A spectator, enjoying the action from a safe distance.

"It's not just the feds I'm worried about," Whitehurst said. "Legal Services lawyers are making noise about suing you under RICO."

Rutledge picked up a scalpel. He patted the horse's flank, and leaned underneath. He pinched the scrotum, got no reaction, then made a quick incision. "I thought RICO was intended to bust the Mafia and whatnot."

"Smart poverty lawyers use it to go after substandard housing conditions."

As Jorge stroked the horse's muzzle, Rutledge peeled back the walls of the scrotum and pulled out the baseball-size testes. "They think I'm abusing my workers?"

Whitehurst didn't answer. He seemed fascinated as Rutledge tossed the testes into a bucket, where they landed with a plop-plop.

"Jorge, how long you work for me?"

"Thirty-two years, jefe. I started one week after I crossed over."

"Ever feel abused?"

"Only by mosquitoes during irrigacion."

Rutledge moved swiftly, attaching the jaws of the emasculator to the spermatic cord. "How are your kids? Camilo, Dulce, Nieve, and one more boy. What's his name?"

Jorge stifled a laugh. "You know his name, jefe. It's Simeon."

"Hear that, Whitebread?" Rutledge tightened the emasculator and snapped the handles shut. The device hung from the underside of the horse like a giant, vise-gripped pair of pliers. In three minutes, the tissues of the spermatic cord would be crushed. The horse whinnied and wriggled its hindquarters but didn't seem to be in pain.

"My abused worker names his son after me." Rutledge came up from under the horse. "Young Simeon's a pharmacist in Sacramento. Owns his own shop, competes with the chains and still makes money."

" El jefe paid my boy's way through school," Jorge said, his voice filled with reverence. "Paid for the girls, too. Dulce and Nieve both went to Cal Davis. Dulce's a teacher. Nieve's in gradu ate school learning wine-making."

"I want the first bottle from her vineyard," Rutledge said.

"It will be called 'Zinfandel Simeon.' "

"Named after me or her brother?" Simeon teased.

"After you, jefe. Her brother drives her crazy."

Rutledge smiled. His best employees felt like family. He had no one else. He ducked back under the horse, released the emasculator jaws, and checked for bleeding. A few drops, nothing more. "Lots of antibacterial solution," he instructed Jorge. "Check him every couple of hours."

"I'll sleep right here," Jorge said, pointing at a pile of straw.

"No need. White Lightning's not exactly Barbaro."

"Is not a problem, jefe. If the horse is in pain, I should be here."

Rutledge threw an arm around Jorge and squeezed his shoulder. "That's my man."

Embarrassed, Jorge broke free and gave a slight bow. "Pardon me, El Patron, but I was listening before, about how some lawyers want to do you harm."

"Nothing to worry about, my friend."

Jorge cupped one of Rutledge's hands in both of his own and lowered his head, as if in the presence of royalty. "I only want to say, that if you ever need me for anything, no matter what, I will do it."

Rutledge smiled playfully at him. "What if I ask you to cut off someone's balls?"

"It would be done, jefe. And without painkillers."