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

your way for cutting that punk down a little. Things aren’t as tense as you think, Mr. D. I know. They’re my people, qué no?”
    â€œExcuse me, but what are you gonna learn from your so-called fucking people, seeing as how you work for the Floresta?” Horsethief Shorty chuckled, an obnoxious light twinkling in his dark eyes. “Shit, man, half the farmers who go to bed at night in this town dream of hanging you up by the balls for becoming one of Uncle Sam’s Mexican honchos. Don’t you remember what happened back in Buddy Galbaldon’s time during the Smokey the Bear statue riot? I’m surprised that fat green truck of yours doesn’t blow up every morning when you step on the accelerator. These people wouldn’t confide in you, in that uniform, Carl, if you was César Chávez, Pedro Infante, Cantinflas, and Lee Trevino all rolled into one.”
    â€œUh, Harlan—?” Devine asked, moving uncomfortably on.
    â€œMr. D., the people in this town like you. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you found out someday they really love you. I mean, you put this place on the map, didn’t you? And now with this Miracle Valley project, why, they’re gonna owe to you everything they got—”
    â€œWhich won’t be nothing new,” Shorty interrupted, flashing a bright impudent grin at his boss.
    â€œNo, I think whatever you decided to do, they would back you up,” Harlan insisted. “I know I sure would. And Nick Rael, that’s the way he feels—”
    â€œWhich isn’t too surprising,” Shorty said, “considering that Ladd here’s got so many notes on Nick’s business, not to mention the mortgage on his house—shit, fellas.” Shorty bit off the end of a cigar, rolling it in his puckered lips for a moment before he scratched a match on his zipper and lit it. “I got nothing against Nick, understand, but he’s owed the Devine operation so much for so long that all he’s got on his mind now is how best to kiss ruddy bums from here to Christmastime so’s to build up credit until Valentine’s Day, and I wouldn’t trust his opinion any more than I’d trust you, Harlan, to dish me up a piece of cherry pie for breakfast that wasn’t made from fruit in a can.”
    Flossie giggled. She loved Horsethief Shorty. In fact, she had always wanted to make love with Shorty. Once, a long time back, when her husband was away and the help more or less off for the day, they got drunk together, her and Shorty, under some weeping willows, drinking bourbon, seated in mammoth wooden armchairs built by an alcoholic local santo carver named Snuffy Ledoux, who had left town years ago (during the Smokey the Bear statue riot, in fact) to seek his fortune in the capital. When they both had a mellow buzz on, laughing and giggling intimately together, Flossie asked, “Can I take my clothes off, Shorty, and would you diddle me if I did?” And Shorty’s eyes popped open wide as he exclaimed, “Shit, Flossie, I ain’t that drunk!” When she burst into tears, he went over and tenderly cuddled her head for a moment, crooning, “Listen, honey. It ain’t what you maybe think, and it sure ain’t nothing personal. But all my life I’ve had the bad habit of sticking my tool into anything that would spread its legs or its cheeks or open its mouth, and right now, much as I hate to admit it, I got a dose.” She never learned if that was true or not, but he went on and unpinned her hair, letting the long yellow curls flow and bounce around her shoulders, and then he sat on the thick grass in front of her while they talked about screwing and other things. Some talk was sad, some funny. Shorty recounted terribly raunchy stories about the whorehouses in Juarez and Agua Prieta and Nogales; he also gave her the straight poop on a couple of women he had loved. She didn’t have