Illegal

EIGHTY-EIGHT

A December wind drives the cold rain in great sweeping arcs across the valley. Three hell-raising Pacific storms, back-to-back, have pummeled the state for the past week.

Wearing a poncho and fishing boots, Simeon Rutledge, in his forties, stands knee-deep in mud. The rain falls hard and fast, like buckshot piercing the skin. Atop the earthen levee, he gauges the depth of the stream and the strength of the soil holding it back. A single fissure and one hundred thousand acres will flood. Crops lost, equipment destroyed, loans called. Three generations of sweating and bleeding, of clawing and scratching. All undone by Mother Fucking Nature in one week of gales and floods.

"Faster! Drop the damn chassis!" Shouting at the crane operator, guiding a Plymouth Duster along the ridge of the levee. "No style points, Luis! Just drop the damn thing!"

Thank God for Hector Cardenas. It was his idea to use junked cars to shore up the levee. One chassis worth two hundred sandbags.

Rutledge watches Cardenas and Zaga run their crews, shoveling mud around the rusted-out cars, both men on their feet for days, taking breaks only to piss, snort cocaine, and sip whiskey. Good men, both of them. Brothers in arms.

Cardenas is half-buried in muck, his arms braced against the hood of a Mercury Marquis that has flipped onto its side halfway down the levee. Two of his men, grunting and cursing, muscle the car upright. One man slips in the mud, screams something unintelligible, and lets go. The Mercury slides down the slope into the water, spins in a circle, catches the current, and sails downstream.

Rutledge watches it, cursing. Fuck! The damn car will crash into Pump Station Two, fouling the pipes, maybe even cracking the concrete caissons. "Christ, Hector! Watch what your men are doing."

Cardenas peers toward his boss. In the rain and fog and diesel fumes, Rutledge can't make out the Mexican's face. Cardenas trudges through the mud toward him.

"What now, Hector? Got no time for your shit."

Cardenas reaches under his slicker and pulls a pint bottle of cheap blended whiskey from a back pocket. He takes his time draining it, then hurls the empty bottle at Rutledge. It sails into the darkness.

"Goddammit, Hector! Get your brown ass back to work."

Cardenas charges him. Rubber boots glopping in the mud, it seems to take forever for the short, stocky Mexican to close the distance. Rutledge crouches, sidesteps, and clotheslines Cardenas, catching him under the chin, knocking his feet out from under him. A quick kick to the backside flattens Cardenas, facedown in the mud.

Spitting a wad of clotted earth, Cardenas gets to his feet. "You fuck my wife, bastard cocksucker."

"Got no time for this, Hector! Not tonight. Not fucking tonight."

Cardenas comes at him again, taking Rutledge to the ground. They roll down the slope to the water's edge. Rutledge gains leverage, gets his hands around Cardenas's neck, and squeezes hard enough to crack walnuts.

Cardenas tries to pry his hands off, but Rutledge is bigger, stronger, and meaner.

Zaga splashes toward them. "Hey, Sim. How 'bout letting up now?"

"Shut up, Z!"

Rutledge twists Cardenas's head to one side, forces the Mexican's mouth and nose underwater. Cardenas chokes, and inhales the slime. His limbs spasm. The other workers look away. Rutledge does not let go until Cardenas stops twitching.

"I told him, not tonight," Rutledge says to Zaga. "Not fucking tonight!" He turns to the rest of the crew. "Get the fuck back to work!"