got ten Haitians, and you assign each one to a row of tomatoes. They all start out okay, and then one guy gets a little ahead and sees a nice tomato in the next row. He goes over and picks it. Then he spots another, three rows over, even bigger, so he gets that one, too. The other Haitians do the same, and the first fucking thing you know Haitians are scattered all over the field. And half their assigned rows are unpicked."
Hoke laughed. "The bigger the tomatoes, the sooner a man gets a full basket, right?"
"Right. But the growers have to use 'em 'cause, like I said, the old-time fruit tramps have quit pickin' and migratin'. They either sit tight on welfare or find other jobs. Then they put their kids in school and register to vote. We've still got a trickle of illegal Mexicans and lots of Haitians, but our old reliable source has dried up. To get harvests in on time, the big growers've been hiring tougher crew bosses."
"I still don't see where this is leading," Hoke said, looking pointedly at Brownley. "I'm working on the old Russell case right now, and I've got a fairly good lead--"
"Finish your beer, Hoke. Let Mel tell you the rest of it."
"The thing is, Sergeant," Mel continued, "you could put Delaware in Collier County and never notice it was there, and I'm only one man. I had me a clerk, but she quit last month because she can make more money puttin' pickle slices on burgers at McDonald's." Mel crushed his Pepsi can and placed it on the bench.
"I still don't know what you expect me to do about that."
"You speak any Creole, Hoke?" Brownley said, taking a sip of his beer.
Hoke grinned. "I just know their worst swearword. -Guette mama!- I was called it once in Little Haiti, so I checked it out."
"-Guette mama?-"
"Yeah. That's Creole for -linguette mama-, or 'your mama's little tongue.' At one time, in Africa and Haiti, they used to cut off a woman's clitoris when she got married. It was called the little tongue, a useless thing to be thrown away."
"My wife wouldn't agree on that," Brownley said. "Why would they cut off a woman's clit?"
"Without a clit, a man's wife's less likely to fool around, Willie. They don't do it in Haiti any longer. But it has a nice sound to it as a swearword, doesn't it?" Hoke lowered his voice and growled: "-Guette mama!-"
Brownley frowned at Mel. "Tell him, Mel."
Peoples nodded, and sucked his teeth. "Haitian farm workers've been disappearing, Sergeant Moseley. We didn't notice it for some time because they stay to themselves. Because of the AIDS scare, American black men don't even go after their women, you see. And Haitians don't complain about things 'cause they're afraid of being sent back to Haiti. But word gradually gets around. A family man'll disappear, and his woman'll ask if anyone's seen him. Then someone'll say, 'I think he went over to Belle Glade to work.' But a Haitian won't leave his wife without sending her money. And they all send money back to Haiti. They're Catholics and family-oriented. But once one of these Haitians disappears that's the end of him. He ain't in Belle Glade or anywhere else. And we don't know how many are missing altogether."
"When you say 'we,'" Hoke said, "are you talking about you and Willie here, or you and the clerk who went to work for McDonald's?"
Mel shook his head. "Me and Sheriff Boggis, in Collier County. I also had a dialogue with a deputy over in Lee County, but he said he wished they all were missing, so I didn't talk with him again. But what happened, we finally found a body."
"You and Sheriff Boggis?"
"No, a truck driver from Miles's Produce, over in Tice. He picked up a load of melons in Immokalee and then stopped on the highway, a couple of miles past the Corkscrew Sanctuary cutoff, to take himself a leak. He went behind the billboard there, the one that advertises the Bonita Springs dog track, and found some toes stickin' up. It had been raining, the ground was marshy, and the foot had worked its way up. He dug around a
Hoke laughed. "The bigger the tomatoes, the sooner a man gets a full basket, right?"
"Right. But the growers have to use 'em 'cause, like I said, the old-time fruit tramps have quit pickin' and migratin'. They either sit tight on welfare or find other jobs. Then they put their kids in school and register to vote. We've still got a trickle of illegal Mexicans and lots of Haitians, but our old reliable source has dried up. To get harvests in on time, the big growers've been hiring tougher crew bosses."
"I still don't see where this is leading," Hoke said, looking pointedly at Brownley. "I'm working on the old Russell case right now, and I've got a fairly good lead--"
"Finish your beer, Hoke. Let Mel tell you the rest of it."
"The thing is, Sergeant," Mel continued, "you could put Delaware in Collier County and never notice it was there, and I'm only one man. I had me a clerk, but she quit last month because she can make more money puttin' pickle slices on burgers at McDonald's." Mel crushed his Pepsi can and placed it on the bench.
"I still don't know what you expect me to do about that."
"You speak any Creole, Hoke?" Brownley said, taking a sip of his beer.
Hoke grinned. "I just know their worst swearword. -Guette mama!- I was called it once in Little Haiti, so I checked it out."
"-Guette mama?-"
"Yeah. That's Creole for -linguette mama-, or 'your mama's little tongue.' At one time, in Africa and Haiti, they used to cut off a woman's clitoris when she got married. It was called the little tongue, a useless thing to be thrown away."
"My wife wouldn't agree on that," Brownley said. "Why would they cut off a woman's clit?"
"Without a clit, a man's wife's less likely to fool around, Willie. They don't do it in Haiti any longer. But it has a nice sound to it as a swearword, doesn't it?" Hoke lowered his voice and growled: "-Guette mama!-"
Brownley frowned at Mel. "Tell him, Mel."
Peoples nodded, and sucked his teeth. "Haitian farm workers've been disappearing, Sergeant Moseley. We didn't notice it for some time because they stay to themselves. Because of the AIDS scare, American black men don't even go after their women, you see. And Haitians don't complain about things 'cause they're afraid of being sent back to Haiti. But word gradually gets around. A family man'll disappear, and his woman'll ask if anyone's seen him. Then someone'll say, 'I think he went over to Belle Glade to work.' But a Haitian won't leave his wife without sending her money. And they all send money back to Haiti. They're Catholics and family-oriented. But once one of these Haitians disappears that's the end of him. He ain't in Belle Glade or anywhere else. And we don't know how many are missing altogether."
"When you say 'we,'" Hoke said, "are you talking about you and Willie here, or you and the clerk who went to work for McDonald's?"
Mel shook his head. "Me and Sheriff Boggis, in Collier County. I also had a dialogue with a deputy over in Lee County, but he said he wished they all were missing, so I didn't talk with him again. But what happened, we finally found a body."
"You and Sheriff Boggis?"
"No, a truck driver from Miles's Produce, over in Tice. He picked up a load of melons in Immokalee and then stopped on the highway, a couple of miles past the Corkscrew Sanctuary cutoff, to take himself a leak. He went behind the billboard there, the one that advertises the Bonita Springs dog track, and found some toes stickin' up. It had been raining, the ground was marshy, and the foot had worked its way up. He dug around a
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