The UFL visit could’ve gone better. The farm manager mistook Jenner and Rudge for a state inspection team due that day; he greeted them extravagantly at first, then, when the true purpose of their visit became clear, shunted them into an outbuilding, where they waited for twenty minutes until a foreman arrived with a pale, harried-looking lawyer sweating through his gray worsted-wool suit.
It was a painful process. Every question Rudge asked was run by the lawyer before the foreman could answer; the lawyer had no understanding of the day-to-day workings of the farm, and the foreman’s English was terrible.
After half an hour, Rudge had had enough; he excused himself to use the bathroom.
Jenner waited under the eaves of the grain house and looked out over the fields, watching the farm machines move slowly through the drizzle. Near the central farm buildings, most of the land was freshly tilled, dark and rich, and narrow red vehicles with insect-like limbs crawled across the soil, small groups of farm workers following like drones.
Rudge called his name and they moved on, the lawyer, foreman, and detective all hugely relieved. There was one odd thing, though: Jenner had the distinct impression that two of the Mexican farmhands had been watching them. The impression deepened when they got back into Rudge’s car; one of the men pulled out a cell phone and made a call as he watched them drive away.
North of Bel Arbre, the land got wetter. They crossed a low bridge over a channel dug through mangrove swamp, the twisted branches and trees knotted dense and thick, the water gray as old tin. The late-afternoon sun appeared in a fissure in the clouds; the rain-washed tarmac was sleek and black as a new tuxedo, the fields and trees streaming by on either side a vibrant pale green, as if they’d just burst from the earth.
La Grulla Blanca was north of Bel Arbre, wedged between I-55 and the Everglades. They were waved past the gatehouse, under a high white arch painted with the farm’s name in block letters. They followed the long drive to the main farmhouse, a white clapboard affair with green shingle roofs and shutters, a deliberate echo of the Polo Grounds clubhouse.
The drive divided the property into a big upper field and a smaller lower one. The property, built on earth dug to create a boat channel through the swamp, sloped gently down to the waterfront, hemmed in by the dense press of mangroves stretching off to the west, toward the Gulf of Mexico. Next to the farmhouse, at the top of the low rise, were two bunkhouses and the remains of a demolished barn. The lower field tilted down to a boat shed and dock on the water.
On the upper slope, there were two open structures with corrugated tin roofs over poured concrete floors; metal slop troughs lined the single full wall in each building. A smaller enclosed building nearby was a miniature of the farmhouse, with the same white clapboard walls and green-shingled peak roof, down to a small version of the tin rooster weathervane. There was a white picket fence around the building; as Jenner watched, a flap door opened and three small pigs trotted out. Everywhere, hoses sprayed mist for the pigs, which tromped the water into the earth and lolled in the cooled mud.
They were met at the farmhouse by the manager, Mr. Brodie, a dour man in blue-and-white La Grulla Blanca–logo polo shirt and cap, and the farm overseer, Mr. Bentas.
They introduced themselves, but before Brodie could even begin to speak, Rudge turned to Bentas and said, “Sir, I have to inquire if you have a concealed carry permit for that pistol.”
Brodie flicked the back of his hand toward Rudge, as if he were waving away a card at a blackjack table. “Detective, of course Mr. Bentas is licensed. We have a problem with snakes here, copperheads and rattlers, especially in the cleared land, and last year we lost a pig to gators.”
“Mr. Brodie, I support the right of our agricultural workers to superior firepower, I surely do. But the concealed carry permit? You’re telling me Mr. Bentas needs to get the drop on a gator?”
“Glad to see you have time to joke, detective—you find this funny?” Brodie tipped his head to one side and spat, the white ball landing two feet from Rudge’s foot.
Rudge stiffened and grew still, his eyes small and black in his wide face. His head dipped slightly and he peered up at Brodie from under a heavy brow.
Brodie continued, “Mr. Bentas accompanies the payroll deliveries to the farm every Friday. He needs the weapon—Bel Arbre can be a dangerous town, particularly ’round payday. As you know.”
He spat again.
Jenner quickly said, “So, we’re here…”
Brodie said wearily, “Yeah, about the missing farm workers. Well, we ain’t missing any farm workers. We told that to the deputy who called, told that to the guy who came by yesterday.”
Rudge said, “What guy came by yesterday?”
Brodie put his hands on his hips and leaned back. “Oh, some kid, asking questions about missing farmhands, and were people happy with working here.” He worked his lip a bit, then spat again. “I’m telling you the same thing: all our workers are present and accounted for, all of ’em happy to have a job here with us. And we pay well, and they’re happy. The end.”
Rudge shook his head and took a step back with a wide smile. “Well, Brodie, I figure you’d have to pay them extra because of the goddamn smell. Tell the truth—you use that gun to keep the vultures away, right?”
Brodie’s eyes had narrowed to slits. “Detective, we don’t take to cursing around here. I gotta ask you to speak to me civil, or not at all.”
“Sorry, Mr. Brodie. I figured you’d be used to the question by now.” Rudge spat.
Jenner looked down the field, where two Mexican farmhands were herding pigs down to another mud bath. “So, Mr. Brodie…Why pigs? Not too hot for them down here?”
“The sprayers keep ’em cool.” Eyes still fixed on Rudge, Brodie lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug; it was like watching a snake slowly rise and uncoil before striking. He glanced back at Jenner. “Owner wants pigs, he gets pigs.”
Behind Brodie, Bentas stood, face somber, hands on his hips. When he turned, Jenner saw the blocky shape of a pistol grip under the man’s shirt, wedged inside his waistband; he had no idea how Rudge had spotted it. It occurred to Jenner that they were out in the middle of nowhere, Rudge antagonizing a man with an armed bodyguard. What was it Douggie Pyke always said? Don’t poke a skunk.
Jenner was about to suggest they move on when Brodie tipped his head back, took off his cap, spit again, then said to Rudge, “You got anything else, boy? Because we got work to do.”
The stiffness instantly slipped away from the detective’s body. Rudge’s smile grew wider. “Nothing for now, Mr. Brodie. But we’ll be back with a warrant, get a good look around here without having to disturb you.”
He turned to Jenner, nodded at the car.
Brodie said, “You’re welcome to look around all you want! But hell, yeah, you go get yourself a warrant! Let’s keep it nice and legal.”
Now Brodie was smiling too. “Y’know, we got lawyers, too. We know that game. This is a working farm, we got shit to do, can’t be giving tours of the property all the time. So, you go ahead, you just show your probable cause to the state attorney. Tell you something, though: when you do, he’ll tell you you can kiss his fat white ass with your warrant.”
The smile stopped. “Now get the fuck out of here, boy.”
Rudge’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, Mr. Brodie…I guess we’ll come on back tomorrow, y’all! Y’hear?”
As they walked back to the car, he called out, “I’m gonna need to see your associate’s carry permit and his state or federal ID.”
As Brodie and Bentas watched, they climbed into the car.
Jenner said, “Well, that went well!”
Rudge’s smile was gone. “I’m going to ram that warrant so far up his ass I can play Whac-A-Mole with his tonsils.”
“You think you’ll have a problem getting it?”
Rudge started the car; he exhaled slowly. “Maybe. We’ll see. Don’t know who owns this spread, but like as not they play golf with the judge at the Polo Grounds.”
They drove in silence, looping down the driveway, between the fields. As they passed the miniature barn on the way back up the drive, the door opened, and Jenner glimpsed a farmhand standing in a room filled with piglets, surrounded by wall-mounted shelves stacked high with red-and-white feed bags. The piglets poured around the man’s legs like bubbles, charging out to lose themselves in the mud.
“Why did you ask about the carry permit?”
“I didn’t like that guy. See his hand? On the base of his thumb, he’s got a pachuco cross tattoo—they say you get them for doing a rape, a murder, and an arson. The guy smells of gangs and the joint to me, and if he’s got a record—any felony, domestic violence, whatever—he shouldn’t have a permit.”
Jenner looked out over the farm. Near the mangrove swamp, there was a large airboat tied to the dock, and next to it a shallow draft swamp boat. The Everglades stretched beyond the fields in an infinite green swath, shot through with glimmering gold threads as the water caught the setting sun.
When they reached the gate, their path was blocked by a large white box truck. Rudge steered the Taurus onto the grass shoulder so the truck could pass; the truck had a logo Jenner couldn’t quite place, a pale blue globe with the letters CBM.
As the truck inched past them, Jenner glanced back toward the main buildings. In front of the farmhouse, another man had joined Brodie and Bentas, tall and skinny, in a black cap; Bentas and the new man went to meet the truck but Brodie stayed on the porch, staring at the Taurus, talking on his cell phone. Even after they’d passed out of sight, even after they’d reached the highway, Jenner felt Brodie’s eyes still on them.