Free Florida Firefight by Randy Wayne White

been in your shoes. It’s upped my bar business fifty percent.” He snorted in self-deprecation. “If I had a ball left between my legs, I’da hunted them down with a kill-gaff and made it so they had to say grace through their assholes.” He thought for a moment, sobering. “In fact, if I’d had any balls at all, I’d of gotten some of the boys together and done it a year ago, when we first started having problems.”
    â€œJacob Hayes told me a little bit about it. It didn’t sound too good.”
    Buck Hamilton’s head bowed as if under a weight. “How’s old Jake doing, anyway? I liked to cried when I heard about his boy. Only saw him once—about 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.” 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. “I’ll tell you, James, this whole goddamn country has gone looney tunes. They let these crazy fuckers roam the streets, but they’ll sure as hell throw an honest man’s ass into jail if he kills a burglar trying to break into his house.”
    Hawker nodded and said nothing. Buck Hamilton was carrying a lot of bitterness and a lot of shame. Proud men don’t like to ask for outside help. Hawker decided he would let Hamilton work into it his own way.
    â€œAnd have you been to Miami lately?”
    â€œNot since the early seventies.”
    Playing for the Tigers in the Florida Instructional League, Hawker had traveled most of the state.
    â€œShit, you wouldn’t recognize Miami,” Hamilton said. “Not since they brought in all them refugees from Mariel Harbor, Cuba, anyway.”
    â€œBuck,” Hawker said softly. “You’ve got problems here. Let’s talk about the Colombians.”
    Hamilton scratched his head and studied his feet. “Guess I have been going at it like a bird dog after a skunk, huh?” He looked at Hawker. “Fact is, I’m so ashamed of the way I and every man in this town has acted, it fairly makes my stomach roll. Don’t even like to talk about it.”
    â€œThe only difference between a coward and a brave man is the distance they’ll let themselves be pushed. Maybe the men in your town have been pushed far enough,” Hawker said.
    At that moment the New Zealand bartender, Graeme Mellor, entered with Hawker’s 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.
    â€œThat ought to keep you busy for a while,” Mellor said with a grin.
    â€œI hope so,” said a suddenly subdued Buck Hamilton. “Mr. Hawker here is about to hear a very long and very sad story.”
    While Hamilton talked, Hawker did justice to the dinner.
    He had had stone crab claws during his days as a catcher in the Tigers’ 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 Hamilton’s 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 wasn’t 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