“I’ll go, mister.
You’re a contractor, an’ you got a license.
You jus’ show your license, an’ then you give us an order to go to work, an’ where, an’ when, an’ how much we’ll get, an’ you sign that, an’ we’ll all go.”
The contractor turned, scowling.
“You telling me how to run my own business?”
Floyd said, “’F we’re workin’ for you, it’s our business too.”
“Well, you ain’t telling me what to do.
I told you I need men.”
Floyd said angrily,
“You didn’ say how many men, an’ you didn’ say what you’d pay.”
“Goddamn it, I don’t know yet.”
“If you don’ know, you got no right to hire men.”
“I got a right to run my business my own way.
If you men want to sit here on your ass, O.K.
I’m out getting men for Tulare County.
Going to need a lot of men.”
Floyd turned to the crowd of men.
They were standing up now, looking quietly from one speaker to the other.
Floyd said,
“Twicet now I’ve fell for that.
Maybe he needs a thousan’ men.
He’ll get five thousan’ there, an’ he’ll pay fifteen cents an hour.
An’ you poor bastards’ll have to take it ’cause you’ll be hungry. ’F he wants to hire men, let him hire ’em an’ write it out an’ say what he’s gonna pay.
Ast ta see his license.
He ain’t allowed to contract men without a license.”
The contractor turned to the Chevrolet and called,
“Joe!”
His companion looked out and then swung the car door open and stepped out.
He wore riding breeches and laced boots.
A heavy pistol holster hung on a cartridge belt around his waist.
On his brown shirt a deputy sheriff’s star was pinned.
He walked heavily over.
His face was set to a thin smile.
“What you want?” The holster slid back and forth on his hip.
“Ever see this guy before, Joe?”
The deputy asked
“Which one?”
“This fella.” The contractor pointed to Floyd.
“What’d he do?” The deputy smiled at Floyd.
“He’s talkin’ red, agitating trouble.”
“Hm-m-m.” The deputy moved slowly around to see Floyd’s profile, and the color slowly flowed up Floyd’s face.
“You see?” Floyd cried. “If this guy’s on the level, would he bring a cop along?”
“Ever see ’im before?” the contractor insisted.
“Hmm, seems like I have.
Las’ week when that used-car lot was busted into. Seems like I seen this fella hangin’ aroun’.
Yep!
I’d swear it’s the same fella.” Suddenly the smile left his face. “Get in that car,” he said, and he unhooked the strap that covered the butt of his automatic.
Tom said,
“You got nothin’ on him.”
The deputy swung around. “’F you’d like to go in too, you jus’ open your trap once more.