Free Trapline by Mark Stevens

wise old head. According to the calendar, she was coming up on forty but when Jerry focused on business, he looked half way to fifty. The sparkling whites of his brown eyes, behind ever-present bifocals, revealed his inner youth. “A month or two. And then we’re supposed to let them go.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œBut you always have a plan.”
    Jerry smiled, but it was a weak version. “You know me too well.”
    Jerry tapped his pen, wobbled his head like he was weighing an offer, and held her gaze. His in-the-moment quality was one of his strengths.
    â€œYou know what we’re up against,” said Jerry.
    â€œWell, everything,” said Trudy. There was a well-respected grower in New Castle that had distributed across Colorado for years.
    â€œThe only thing we’ve got going for us is brand loyalty,” said Jerry. “Our products are good, but we cost more. We’re up against the high-tech greenhouses in California, Mexico, and the Caribbean. Fresh herbs are being air-freighted from Peru and Israel, all that mineral-rich water for the Mediterranean herbs.”
    â€œOurs taste better,” said Trudy.
    â€œAnd we got lucky,” said Jerry. “The whole buy-America, buy-Colorado wave. We’re riding it.”
    â€œWhere are you going with this?” said Trudy.
    â€œWhere I’m going is we’ve got to protect what we’ve got. You don’t want to put all this at risk.” Jerry had a touch of professor in his soul. Maybe too much.
    â€œSo how?”
    â€œSubcontracting,” said Jerry.
    â€œI’ve seen them go over this on television. It’s not right.”
    â€œI know,” said Jerry. “And I know what every other business does— but have the subcontractor set up first.”
    Between Officer Lemke’s warning and this shaky plan, Trudy felt oddly trapped. Every thought was woven like a braid with the dread born yesterday at the base of the footbridge.
    â€œA subcontractor buys us arm’s length,” said Jerry. “Separation.”
    Jerry paused. He knew he was gaining headway.
    â€œYou look like you’ve got one more thing to say,” said Jerry.
    If there was a scale for measuring inscrutability, Jerry was a lightweight—an open book.
    â€œWhy do we have to do their job for them?”
    â€œWhose?” said Trudy.
    â€œThe government’s ,” he said with some snap. “They’re the ones not protecting our borders. Why should we have to play defense for them?”
    For the first time since her seizures stopped, following the successful temporal lobectomy that had ended her days as an epileptic, Trudy had the sensation of fog and floating, of seeing everything through a thick mist. It wasn’t hard to imagine the whole business going poof like a gust from a hurricane doing its thing on a birthday cake candle. But these weren’t seizures. Those had been fixed through surgery after George’s exit to state prison.
    â€œYou should have seen the look on the cop’s face,” said Trudy.
    â€œHe was reacting to the moment,” said Jerry. “Cops think they know how to fix everything. Part of their nature.”
    â€œBut if we go to a subcontractor, or try to set one up, that will be so obvious. They would all be working for us one day and then working for somebody else the next and still doing all the same stuff in the same places.”
    â€œIt might have to be done gradually—start with the maintenance crew first.”
    â€œAnd let them go?”
    Jerry gave a shrug. “What’s the difference if we make the move or if ICE forces the issue?”
    Trudy pictured the conversations with the employees—breaking all the bad news, how the word would spread. “They depend on us,” she said.
    Jerry shrugged. “A job is not a lifetime guarantee.”
    â€œYou’ve already decided,” said