in the hammock of pines and scrub palmettos. He sat on a wooden bench, lit a cigarette, and slapped some of the gnats away from his eyes.
At seven thirty-five Major Brownley and another black man joined Hoke in the clearing. The major, a squat man in his early fifties, with skin the color of a ripe eggplant, was wearing a pink T-shirt, with "Pig Bowl" printed on it in cherry red letters. He wore faded jeans and unlaced Reebok running shoes. The other black man, who was about the same age, was at least a foot taller than Brownley. He wore khaki trousers and a shirt with the creases sewn in, and he had pulled a snap-brim fedora well down on his forehead. His skin was the color of a dirty basketball, and mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. His Wellington boots, rough side out, had seen hard wear. Brownley was carrying two unopened cans of beer and a new straw hat. He handed the hat and one of the beers to Hoke.
"Try this for size."
Hoke put on the hat and pulled down the brim. "It fits okay." He popped the top of his beer and took a long pull.
"This is Mel Peoples, Hoke. Mel, Sergeant Hoke Moseley." Hoke shook the tall man's hand. Instead of a beer, Peoples was drinking a Diet Pepsi, and his spidery fingers were damp and cold.
"Let's sit down," Brownley said. Peoples and Hoke sat on the bench, but Brownley remained standing. His short, kinky hair, with shiny black sidewalls, resembled bleached steel wool, and he scratched his scalp with his right forefinger. There was a razor-blade part on the right side of his head. "I guess you're wondering what this is all about."
"Not at all," Hoke said. He put his beer on the bench and lighted a Kool. "It's pleasant to meet in the Glades like this instead of in your air-conditioned office, although I imagine it'll be pretty hot out here along about noon."
"It won't take that long. Mel and me go back a long way, Hoke. We were roommates at A and M for two years, and we majored in business administration. We were even in business together for a while, scalping tickets to the FSU games."
Mel chuckled. "But it didn't last the full season."
"You got caught?" Hoke said.
"No." Mel shook his head. "Our source at FSU was expelled. He never got caught for the football tickets, but he stole the final exams from the social science department."
"I thought it was the history department--"
"This is interesting," Hoke said impatiently. "Should I tell you now about my year at Palm Beach Junior College?"
"Sorry, Hoke," Brownley said. "Mel's a field agent for the State Agricultural Commission. A kind of troubleshooter. Isn't that right, Mel?"
"Something like that, and a little more. For six years I was investigating complaints statewide, concentrating on migrant workers. But for the last two years I've been in Collier County on a permanent basis. In the last few years lots of things have changed. What with unemployment insurance, food stamps, and welfare, a lot of former migrants have quit migratin'. After the harvest season, instead of moving on the way they used to, they stay put and pick up unemployment or go on welfare. Then, too, we've got us a large illegal Haitian population, and they ain't movin' either. They've got a language problem, and they wouldn't have no one to talk to if they moved on up to Georgia, say--"
Hoke nodded. "So now you stay in Collier County because you've got enough migrant problems without moving around the state?"
"That's the size of it. I check growers' complaints as well as migrants'. Haitians are good people, but they're used to tiny one-man farms back in Haiti, so they can't understand teamwork. This makes for discipline problems, and we've tried to get some training programs started. But that takes money, and the legislature ain't going to give us money for people who've entered the country illegally. Technically they ain't even here. But they are here."
"Discipline? You're punishing Haitians because they don't understand teamwork?"
"No, not at all. Say you've
At seven thirty-five Major Brownley and another black man joined Hoke in the clearing. The major, a squat man in his early fifties, with skin the color of a ripe eggplant, was wearing a pink T-shirt, with "Pig Bowl" printed on it in cherry red letters. He wore faded jeans and unlaced Reebok running shoes. The other black man, who was about the same age, was at least a foot taller than Brownley. He wore khaki trousers and a shirt with the creases sewn in, and he had pulled a snap-brim fedora well down on his forehead. His skin was the color of a dirty basketball, and mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. His Wellington boots, rough side out, had seen hard wear. Brownley was carrying two unopened cans of beer and a new straw hat. He handed the hat and one of the beers to Hoke.
"Try this for size."
Hoke put on the hat and pulled down the brim. "It fits okay." He popped the top of his beer and took a long pull.
"This is Mel Peoples, Hoke. Mel, Sergeant Hoke Moseley." Hoke shook the tall man's hand. Instead of a beer, Peoples was drinking a Diet Pepsi, and his spidery fingers were damp and cold.
"Let's sit down," Brownley said. Peoples and Hoke sat on the bench, but Brownley remained standing. His short, kinky hair, with shiny black sidewalls, resembled bleached steel wool, and he scratched his scalp with his right forefinger. There was a razor-blade part on the right side of his head. "I guess you're wondering what this is all about."
"Not at all," Hoke said. He put his beer on the bench and lighted a Kool. "It's pleasant to meet in the Glades like this instead of in your air-conditioned office, although I imagine it'll be pretty hot out here along about noon."
"It won't take that long. Mel and me go back a long way, Hoke. We were roommates at A and M for two years, and we majored in business administration. We were even in business together for a while, scalping tickets to the FSU games."
Mel chuckled. "But it didn't last the full season."
"You got caught?" Hoke said.
"No." Mel shook his head. "Our source at FSU was expelled. He never got caught for the football tickets, but he stole the final exams from the social science department."
"I thought it was the history department--"
"This is interesting," Hoke said impatiently. "Should I tell you now about my year at Palm Beach Junior College?"
"Sorry, Hoke," Brownley said. "Mel's a field agent for the State Agricultural Commission. A kind of troubleshooter. Isn't that right, Mel?"
"Something like that, and a little more. For six years I was investigating complaints statewide, concentrating on migrant workers. But for the last two years I've been in Collier County on a permanent basis. In the last few years lots of things have changed. What with unemployment insurance, food stamps, and welfare, a lot of former migrants have quit migratin'. After the harvest season, instead of moving on the way they used to, they stay put and pick up unemployment or go on welfare. Then, too, we've got us a large illegal Haitian population, and they ain't movin' either. They've got a language problem, and they wouldn't have no one to talk to if they moved on up to Georgia, say--"
Hoke nodded. "So now you stay in Collier County because you've got enough migrant problems without moving around the state?"
"That's the size of it. I check growers' complaints as well as migrants'. Haitians are good people, but they're used to tiny one-man farms back in Haiti, so they can't understand teamwork. This makes for discipline problems, and we've tried to get some training programs started. But that takes money, and the legislature ain't going to give us money for people who've entered the country illegally. Technically they ain't even here. But they are here."
"Discipline? You're punishing Haitians because they don't understand teamwork?"
"No, not at all. Say you've
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