It was one of life’s amusing ironies. Tomlinson, who claims to have no interest in money or possessions, is gradually becoming wealthy, boosted along, perhaps, by his own fearless indifference to failure. I, on the other hand, remain steadfastly middle class because of my indifference-not counting a cache of small, valuable treasures I have acquired over the years.
Jade carvings and amulets. Spanish coins of gold and silver. All will remain faithfully hidden away, barring an emergency.
“The trailer park’s on the same side of the bay,” he replied, “but a couple miles farther east. That’s why I used to like cruising Red Citrus, it was close enough. I could moor my boat near the bar and use my electric bike. In the last year or so, though, the whole vibe of the place has changed. The aura, it’s smoky and gray now like a peat fire. It’s the sort of place that consumes people’s lives.”
I replied, “Isn’t that a tad dramatic?”
He asked, “You ever lived in a backwater trailer park? You’ve spent enough time in the banana republics to be simpatico with the immigrants who live there-that’s one of the reasons I asked you to come along. People in that park work their asses off, man, six or seven days a week, picking citrus or doing construction or busing tables at some restaurant. Then they wire half the money-more sometimes-back to their families in Nicaragua or El Salvador or the mountain regions of Mexico. Hell, you know the places I’m talking about, man. These people are always fighting just to survive. That’s why the girl deserves our help.”
It was true, I am simpatico. “These people” included illegals on the run, as well as the “shadow illegals,” men and women with green cards and work permits-sometimes forged, sometimes not. They live peacefully and work hard in this country, unlike the drugfueled minority that gives the rest of them a bad name.
I knew “these people” well because I spent years working in Central and South America before returning to Florida, where I opened a small research and marine specimen business, Sanibel Biological Supply.
The illegals of Central America and Mexico are, in my experience, a gifted people. Strong, tough, smart and family-oriented. All the components required of a successful primate society.
However, simpatico or not, I am also pragmatist enough to understand what too many Tomlinson types fail to perceive or admit. In a world made orderly by boundaries, an unregulated flow of aliens into any nation makes a mockery of immigration law. Why wait in line, why respect legal mandates, if cheaters are instantly rewarded with a lawful citizen’s benefits?
It is also true, however (as I have admitted to Tomlinson), there is a Darwinian component that must be considered. People who are sufficiently brave, shrewd and tough enough to survive a dangerous border crossing demonstrate qualities by virtue of their success that make them an asset at any country, not a liability.
Long ago, though, I learned I cannot discuss such matters with anyone who is absolutely certain of their political righteousness. So, instead, I listened.
“The undocumented workers have it tough, man,” Tomlinson said, as he stared out the window. “They’ve got to watch their asses from every direction. The only thing they’re more afraid of than the feds are their own landlords. Say the wrong word, don’t jump when the boss man says jump, all it takes is one vicious phone call. And the dude who runs the trailer park is about as vicious as they come. He’s a bodybuilder. A great big bundle of steroid rage, full of grits and ya’lls and redneck bullshit.”
I baited my pal, saying, “You’re the expert on better living through chemistry,” as I slowed and studied the road ahead. We had crossed the small bridge onto San Carlos Island. I could see the pterodactyl scaffolding of shrimp boats moored side by side, floating on a petroleum sheen of black water and Van Gogh lights.
On my right were fish markets and charter boats. To my left, a jumble of signage competing for low-budget attention.
As Tomlinson told me, “Just past the gravel drive, take the next left,” I spotted a faded wooden sign that read: RED CITRUS MOBILE HOME PARK RVS WELCOME!
VACANCY
“A vacancy in March?” I said, slowing to turn. “That tells me something. It’s got to be the only place around with a vacancy this time of year.”
Sitting up, paying attention now, Tomlinson said, “Doc, I left out a couple of important details. One is that Tula-she’s a thought-shaper.”
I shot him a look.
“Of course, to a degree, we all have the ability to shape people’s thoughts. This girl, though, has powers beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed.”
Thought-shaper. It was another of Tomlinson’s wistful, mystic fantasies, and I knew better than to pursue it.
“The second is: People at Red Citrus call her Tulo. So just sort of play along, okay?”
I said, “The masculine form?”
“You know how damn dangerous it is for a girl to cross Mexico into the States. Tula wants people to think she’s a boy. She’s a thought-shaper, remember? And the young ones, the adolescent kids from Central America, have more to fear than most.”
I turned, shifted into first and proceeded beneath coconut palms and pines, weaving our way through rows of aluminum cartons that constitute home for many of the one million illegals in the Sunshine State.
When my truck’s lights flushed a couple of peacocks, I wasn’t surprised. Exotic fowl are common in the low-rent enclaves where migrant workers have adapted to living under the radar. They depend on exotic birds, not dogs, to sound a private alarm when outsiders arrive.
The cry of a peacock is high-pitched. It is a siren whine that morphs into a series of honks and whistles. That’s what I thought I was hearing as I parked the truck and stepped out into the summer-cool night.
It was a cry so piercing that I paused, ears alert, before turning to Tomlinson, who was visible in the glow of a security light as he pushed the truck’s door closed. His hair was tied back with a red bandanna, which he was retying as we exchanged looks.
The scream warbled… paused for a breath… then ascended. As if reading my mind, Tomlinson said, “That’s not a bird! It’s a person-a man, I think!” and then he sprinted toward the source of the sound.
I hesitated, reached behind the seat, then went running after him, struggling to slide a palm-sized Kahr semiautomatic pistol into the pocket of my jeans.
TWO
A few minutes before thirteen-year-old Tula Choimha heard the screams for help, a huge man with muscles pushed through the trailer door, stepped into the bathroom, then stood for a moment, grinning at what he saw.
The man finally said, “Hah! I knew you was a girl! By God, I knew it the first time I saw your skinny little ass from behind! It was the way you walked.”
He paused to stare, then added, “Fresh little peaches up top. Nothin’ but peach fuzz down below.”
Tula, sitting naked in the bathtub, looked where the man was looking, hoping, as always, to find a miracle. But there was only her own flat body to see.
The girl recognized the man. He was the propietario of this trailer park, maybe the owner, too. The man scared her. But the man’s wife-or girlfriend, maybe-a woman with muscles and an evil face, scared her more.
Automatically, Tula used her hands to cover herself. But then she took her hands away.
The man had fog in his eyes-most people did-and Tula decided it was safer to be still, like a mirror, rather than behave like a frightened vessel that could be taken by force, then filled.
The man, whose name was Harris Squires, looked at her strangely for a moment. It was almost as if he recognized her face and was thinking back, trying to remember. Then he tilted his head and sniffed twice, nostrils searching. He was a man so large that he filled the bathroom space, his nose almost touching the low ceiling. Squires’s nose was flat and wide, like a gorilla’s, but he was the palest man Tula had ever seen. A man so white that his skin looked translucent, blue veins snaking out from beneath his muscle T-shirt and tight jeans.