been in your shoes. Itâs upped my bar business fifty percent.â He snorted in self-deprecation. âIf I had a ball left between my legs, Iâda hunted them down with a kill-gaff and made it so they had to say grace through their assholes.â He thought for a moment, sobering. âIn fact, if Iâd had any balls at all, Iâd of gotten some of the boys together and done it a year ago, when we first started having problems.â
âJacob Hayes told me a little bit about it. It didnât sound too good.â
Buck Hamiltonâs head bowed as if under a weight. âHowâs old Jake doing, anyway? I liked to cried when I heard about his boy. Only saw him onceâabout three years ago when Jake senior brought him down to catch his first tarpon. Fine-looking kid. Had a mind of his own, like his daddy.â Hamilton took a little tin of snuff from his shirt pocket, jammed a ball of it inside his lip and spat into the brass spittoon near his chair, disgusted. âIâll tell you, James, this whole goddamn country has gone looney tunes. They let these crazy fuckers roam the streets, but theyâll sure as hell throw an honest manâs ass into jail if he kills a burglar trying to break into his house.â
Hawker nodded and said nothing. Buck Hamilton was carrying a lot of bitterness and a lot of shame. Proud men donât like to ask for outside help. Hawker decided he would let Hamilton work into it his own way.
âAnd have you been to Miami lately?â
âNot since the early seventies.â
Playing for the Tigers in the Florida Instructional League, Hawker had traveled most of the state.
âShit, you wouldnât recognize Miami,â Hamilton said. âNot since they brought in all them refugees from Mariel Harbor, Cuba, anyway.â
âBuck,â Hawker said softly. âYouâve got problems here. Letâs talk about the Colombians.â
Hamilton scratched his head and studied his feet. âGuess I have been going at it like a bird dog after a skunk, huh?â He looked at Hawker. âFact is, Iâm so ashamed of the way I and every man in this town has acted, it fairly makes my stomach roll. Donât even like to talk about it.â
âThe only difference between a coward and a brave man is the distance theyâll let themselves be pushed. Maybe the men in your town have been pushed far enough,â Hawker said.
At that moment the New Zealand bartender, Graeme Mellor, entered with Hawkerâs supper. The big yellow stone crab claws were piled high, and the fillet of grouper had to weigh two pounds. There was plenty of lime, sour cream, garlic toast and a bowl of drawn butter.
âThat ought to keep you busy for a while,â Mellor said with a grin.
âI hope so,â said a suddenly subdued Buck Hamilton. âMr. Hawker here is about to hear a very long and very sad story.â
While Hamilton talked, Hawker did justice to the dinner.
He had had stone crab claws during his days as a catcher in the Tigersâ organization, but these were even milder and richer than he remembered. He used nutcrackers to open them, dipped the pale meat in the butter, then ate them with the garlic toast. He washed it down with the iced beer, clearing the way for the lime-drenched grouper.
Hawker stopped long enough to ask a few questions during Hamiltonâs narrative. But mostly he listened. And ate.
The first Colombians had arrived a little over a year ago. There were four of them, all men. They said they wanted to go into commercial fishing. The townspeople helped them as they would have helped any newcomers. Then more Colombians arrived, buying boats and houses, flashing big money.
It wasnât long before things started to go sour.
There were a few separate incidents of Colombians ganging up on local fishermen in bar fights. Local people bristled, but it was generally accepted as inevitable when outsiders move