Read Online The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols - Free Book Online Page A

the Dancing Trout, was a tall, lanky, fifty year old with a weather-beaten Oklahoma face and an air of the old-time rodeo cowboy about him. Horsethief Shorty Wilson, the other foreman, was a short, bowlegged, foxy-looking, white-haired man from Plainfield, New Jersey, who’d come out West forty years ago to be a cowboy, had traveled the rodeo circuit for about three years as a clown, and then been signed on one wild drunken night by Ladd Devine Senior, and he had been with the Devines ever since. Where Jerry G. was no-nonsense, taciturn, practically zombielike, Horsethief Shorty was a boozing, tall-story upstart with a propensity for never making the same mistake twice. Of the three men in the room, only Horsethief Shorty spoke Spanish.
    â€œDon’t tell me, Ladd, lemme guess,” Shorty said cheerfully. “That sawed-off ex-pachuco José Mondragón has went and cut water into a beanfield he owns on the west side of town, and you called us together right now because you got an uncomfortable inkling that that man irrigating that field at this particular time spells Trouble with a capital T—am I right?”
    â€œYou’re right, Shorty,” Devine said, although his words did not come out altogether friendly; with Shorty they never did. He had grown up and grown middle-aged with Shorty, but he had never really liked or absolutely trusted the man. Shorty’s brass balls didn’t disturb him as much as the man’s uncanny familiarity with the entire workings of the Devine empire. And while Shorty usually ate with the help (whereas Jerry G. often dined with Devine, Flossie, Emerson Lapp, and other Devine functionaries), it was his habit right after lunch to amble obnoxiously into the boss’s den and spend fifteen or twenty minutes with the Wall Street Journal. Over the years he had invested in stocks and bonds, and Devine suspected Shorty was currently worth a nice piece of change. Devine also suspected that if he himself had not shown an interest in the Devine enterprises, old Ladd Senior would have bequeathed the operation to Shorty—lock, stock, and barrel.
    Most probably because his grandfather and Shorty had been alike as two peas in a pod, Devine was also somewhat awed by Shorty. And he harbored a feeling, which had been riding shotgun with him all his grown-up life, that if Shorty were ever removed, for one reason or another, from the Devine Company, the whole empire would come tumbling down.
    Hence, he tolerated Horsethief Shorty and, while wincing at his uncouth cowboy appearance and his loud and sometimes lewd mouth, Devine nevertheless dealt Shorty into all high-level conferences; to a very great extent, he counted on his Spanish and his way with the local people to keep a finger on the pulse of the Miracle Valley.
    The Forest Service truck jolted up the white gravel drive, and Flossie excused herself to greet the new arrivals at the door and usher them in. The men exchanged hellos and then Devine briefly reviewed the situation, asking each man what he had heard on the grapevine, what he thought Joe Mondragón’s act might portend, and what he, Ladd Devine, ought to do about it.
    â€œIt’s illegal,” Floyd Cowlie said. “Why doesn’t Bernie arrest him? I mean, forgetting for the moment that probably the only thing Bernie ever arrested was his own development.”
    â€œWell, people are nervous,” Devine said, refusing to snigger along with the rest of them. “This dam, this conservancy district has the farmers down there on pins and needles. Arresting Joe Mondragón for a symbolic act like this could start something nasty.”
    Carl Abeyta laughed. “Who you trying to kid, Mr. D.? The people in this town—they’re my people, qué no?—I know these people. They’re not gonna go off half-cocked just because José Mondragón gets arrested. Shoot, I can’t think of anybody who wouldn’t send three cheers