Free The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols

anything approximating his experience, but she told him about groping around in the back seats of enormous convertibles with crew-cut boys in tuxedos who sucked on her big breasts like newborn babies. They became very close that afternoon, like brothers and sisters, and at one point Shorty unzipped his fly, letting her ogle his wong for a minute; after that she unbuttoned her blouse and pried out a breast for him to inspect. He went and kissed the nipple, which touched off her tears again, but nothing else happened. Since then they had been close, and sometimes Flossie talked to Shorty about things that bothered her, or else she just described to him the nebulous thoughts floating like lazy tropical fish through her brain, and she never felt Shorty was mocking her, not even silently in his mind. They had much in common, being both lonely and sad, but comfortable; and they felt at ease with each other; and somehow, God knows how, they had handled it perfectly for a long time, so that no chisme or rumor had ever linked them in a compromising fashion.
    â€œJerry G.,” Devine said. “What do you think?”
    Jerry G. furrowed his brow, pursed his lips, and for a long time said nothing. Eventually he dislodged the following:
    â€œI think this small act is part of a larger problem which could become serious.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    Not one to adorn an opinion, Jerry G. nodded.
    â€œWhat would you do about it?”
    Again he frowned, steeped in plodding, methodical, concentrated thought. At the end of this session he drawled:
    â€œI hate to say ‘Let’s just wait and see how the thing develops before making a move,’ but I’m afraid that’s all I can think to say right now.”
    Ladd Devine settled back. “Anybody here got any idea why he did it?”
    â€œWhy does that little bugger do anything?” Carl Abeyta said.
    â€œAnybody else?” Devine asked.
    â€œHe’s curious to see what’ll happen,” Shorty suggested. “I don’t think he knows why he did it himself. One thing for sure, nobody put him up to it. But if I was you I wouldn’t let nobody, least of all nobody from the valley you don’t trust for sure, see those plans for the conservancy district where you and Nelson Bookman got almost all that new water made possible by the dam going into that beanfield acreage you been buying up over on the west side for a golf course ever since the 1935 water compact killed all the little farmers over there.”
    Devine blew cigarette smoke carefully out through his nose. Then, leaning forward abruptly, he said, “Well, boys, for the time being I guess that’s it. Sorry to put you out, but this meeting is already over. I think for now we’ll simply have to wait and see how things develop—”
    And the last of the men had just departed when the phone rang.
    Peter Hirsshorn, manager of the Enchanted Land Motel, blurted, “Hey, Ladd? Look. Listen, I’m really sorry. But we’ve had an accident down here. The couple in 12B—well, the guy, he’s from someplace around Austin, he’s a fishing nut. They were gonna go over to Betchel’s Buck-A-Fish highway robbery, catch a few moron trout, and this guy, his name is Carson, Phil Carson—he’s in space electronics or something—well, he was outside beyond the pool, casting with his new rod, trying it out or practicing or something, with one of those big grasshoppers on it, you know? The ones Fred Quintana ties that Harlan sells in the café, he had one of those on, a number six which I know is crazy—for the Rio Grande, maybe, but not Harlan’s mud puddle—but he had it on anyway, dry casting it on the lawn like I said, and he just got it caught in his ear. The hook went all the way through his fucking ear. So instead of coming up to your place I had to drive him down to the clinic here in Doña Luz. That’s where I’m