Free The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey Page B

overcharged for food and claimed everything for housing, which was usually little more than a termite-ridden, clapboard barracks. It was either that or an INS jail cell awaiting deportation. The only migrant who made anything was the one whom the farm gringos deputized to keep each barracks in line however he saw fit. They picked the most sadistic.
    Five years ago, Arroyo took his first beating from the barracks captain. The next morning, the captain couldn’t be found. That afternoon he turned up in the blades of a harvesting machine. There was talk, but nothing more. The gringos put Arroyo in charge of the barracks. He wanted more.
    Through a series of whispered circumstances, Arroyo became the only illegal immigrant with an executive’s title and salary at one of the largest cane processors in Florida. He never went in the office, and everyone was happy about it.
    Gaspar had bigger dreams as he gazed off the side of the causeway at the moonlit cane.
    â€œPull over,” he told the driver. “I have to take a leak.”
    The truck stopped on the road, because there was no shoulder. Gaspar walked to the edge of the canal and trickled into the water. He zipped up. “José, get over here. I see something.”
    â€œWhat is it?” yelled the driver.
    â€œI hope it’s not what I think. Hurry!”
    José hopped down from the cab and ran to the bank. “What’s the tire iron for?”
    â€œIn case of snakes while I’m peeing.”
    José turned his head toward the swamp. “Where am I looking?”
    â€œIn the reeds on the other side of the canal.” Gaspar crouched and pointed. “At the waterline.”
    â€œStill don’t see it.”
    â€œAre you blind? It’s right there.”
    José leaned closer. “You mean that ? It’s just an empty milk bottle bobbing.”
    â€œYou’re right,” said Gaspar.
    José straightened up. “This weird lighting played a trick on your eyes.”
    Gaspar stepped behind him. “No, I mean you were right about a lot of our clinics getting hit. Someone’s been talking.”
    Gaspar swung the tire iron with all he had, smashing José at the base of his back and sending electric jolts both ways through his spinal cord.
    A horrible, high-pitched scream emptied into the sugarcane.
    José fell onto his back, limbs bent weird. “Oh God! I can’t feel my legs!”
    â€œThat’s the whole idea,” said Gaspar, leaning over him and brandishing the iron. “You thought I wouldn’t find out that you’re ratting on me?”
    â€œNo, Gaspar! I can explain—”
    The next swing hit José’s right elbow. Another scream, then another elbow whack, and so on.
    Gaspar finally dropped to his knees and rolled José onto his stomach. “This is what you get for fucking me!”
    â€œWhatever you’re thinking, please! . . . I still can’t feel my legs . . .”
    â€œWhatever I’m thinking? Here’s what I’m thinking!” Gaspar gently caressed the back of José’s neck. “I’m thinking of one of these cervical vertebrae. Then you’ll forget about your legs. You won’t feel anything, except your head. You’ll be able to smile, frown, blink, even talk, except nothing will come out because your brain won’t be able to tell your lungs to breathe . . . Consider it quiet time to mull over what you’ve done.”
    â€œNo! Please—”
    Wham .
    The blow would have sounded like a dull thud to anyone standing around, but inside José’s skull it was the sharp clap of a rifle shot. Then Gaspar rolled him over so he could face the night sky. His lips moved silently.
    Gaspar stuck the tire iron in his belt and climbed the shoulder of the road. He looked up at the truck’s bed. Everyone turned away. They were in the middle of forty same-looking miles. Even if they wanted to,