Assessment 2010

As usual at this time of year, I doubt my productivity, so I do an assessment of my writing.


I have, of course, proofread and edited approximately 2000 papers during the year, although that doesn’t count as writing, but it is part of how I earn most of my money. If I multiplied that times the 45 years I have taught, it comes to nearly 100,000 papers over a lifetime.

Having become more organized, I can give an accurate accounting of my writing for 2010:

1. Poems:

    A. Written—34

         a. Found poems (new effort)—7

         b. Free verse—8

         c. Rhymed verse—4

         d. Translated from French—14

         e. Translated from Spanish—1

    B. Submitted for publication—10 (current and archived)

    C. Published—6 (5 archived, 1 current)

    D. Published in blog Writing rite—88 (from archives or previously published collections)

2. Articles or essays

    A. Started—16

    B. Completed—11

    C. Submitted for publication—2

    D. Published—0

    E.  Published in blog Writing rite—18 (from archives or written in the blog)

3. Short stories

    A. Started—15

    B. Completed—6

    C. Entered in contests—4

    D. Published—0

    E. Published in blog Writing rite—11 (from previously published collections)

4. Novels

    A. Worked on—8

         a. Science fiction—2

         b. Mystery—5

         c. Western—1

    B. Completed—2

    C. Published—2

    D. Chapters published in blog Writing rite—23 (revised from Encomienda)

5. Miscellaneous
    A. An associate at MDC was creating a newsletter for a local veterinarian and asked for title suggestions. I suggested Meow Growl, and that was the title chosen for the newsletter.


This assessment is quantitative and tells me that I have kept steadily writing.  Qualitatively, I did publish 6 poems and 2 novels, so some editors have approved my writing.  Plus, I did get one excellent review and encouraging comments from readers.  Thanks.

Happy New Year.

Buck has found two missing college students Ch23

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 23



The fathers were ecstatic to see their sons. They hugged them and cried. Then they hugged me and Ruben and Scotty and Caridad and even Shevonne, though she had never been involved in the case.

The Menendez and the Concepción families went to dinner together after the boys had another long shower and changed into their own clothes. They invited us to the dinner, but we declined. The dinner should be among the reunited fathers and sons.

The fathers wanted their sons to come home, but the sons wanted to stay in Miami. They were much more men than the boys that they had been a few months ago. They were breaking away and forging their own ways in the world. That’s the way it has to be. They didn’t want to return to the nest. Besides, they had gained some fame on campus, not to mention South Florida.

Concepción’s bill came to over $10,000 because we had to call in Scotty and his men. Concepción paid it without a flinch and declared it “the best money I ever spent.” Then Fernandez, out of pride and gratitude, gave us his check for the same amount. He insisted that we take it. Those were two happy fathers.

Of course, we were a very happy detective agency, too. The windfall went into our general fund, which we use for new equipment, parties and social events.

I called Cyndi and invited her to a victory dinner. “Anywhere you want. I’m buying.”

“Thanks for inviting me, but you forgot that I’m working to meet a deadline. So I’ll have to decline.”

“Come on. You have to eat sometime, don’t you? So, why not eat with me. A good meal will energize you.”

“Just a meal.”

“Just a meal.”

“Well, I don’t have much to eat here, but let’s go some place close to my house, so I can get back to work right after.”

“No problem.”

“All right.”

“Good. See you in a half-hour.”

“An hour.”

“An hour it is.”

I was happy. Just a meal can lead to other things later. A meal is a warming thing.

Of course, I hadn’t seen the last of Iris. A month later, Cari knocked on my office door, came in and announced “Iris Dabney, no appointment.”

In came the adventurer, wearing her usual jeans and orange sweatshirt. I stood and gave her a hug. I said, “Good to see you, Iris. Have a seat. Are you visiting your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hitchhike?”

“No, I took the plane this time.”

“Good.”

“Planes can crash.”

“Sure. How’s your mother?”

“Doing ok. She’s joined AA. She’s trying to control her drinking.”

“She really does love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“How’re your grades?”

“All A’s.”

“Terrific. Say it’s almost lunchtime. Can I take you to lunch?”

“Sure.”

We went to my favorite local bistro. I told her to have anything she wanted. She chose chicken fajitas. I had a hamburger.

In the middle of the meal, Iris said, “You know, I was angry at you for a while.”

“Really?”

“But I got over it. After all, I’d had the best adventure I ever had. I decided I liked you a lot and I didn’t want us to be strangers.”

“I’m glad. I respect you.”

“That’s what I realized. You wouldn’t have done what you did if you didn’t care about me – who I really am.”

“That’s right. I could’ve just let you out in Naples the first day and hoped never to see you again.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Fate put us in touch with one another, and we both grew richer for the experience.”

“I know now that the real adventure is life itself, not the risky situations I create for myself. Helping Mom overcome her dependency is a true adventure. Helping my friends make wise choices is a true adventure. Keeping myself safe so I can experience all of life is the real adventure.”

“Iris, you’re much wiser than I was at your age. You have what the psychologists call emotional intelligence.”

“You won’t get angry if I tell you that I love you?”

“No, I won’t because I love you in the same way.”

“We’re going to be friends for a long time.”

“I hope a very long time.”

End of Chapter 23 -- end of book
 
 
Families can be dysfunctional.  Buck wants a family, but the person he thinks will make that dream come true is hesitant to join with him in such an endeavor.
 
I grew up in a fairly normal family re Leave it to Beaver.  Mother and father loved each other and loved their children.  Dad was a good provider and mother was a good homemaker.  When I was 17 mother died of breast cancer, and Dad went into a depression that lasted for at least six years.  However, I was lucky, for the next year I went off to college and was independent from that time forward.  My memories of growing up are mostly pleasant.
 
However, my younger sister, who was only 8 when mother passed has a different memory.  She had to put up with Dad's depression, which included his blaming her for mother's death among other aberrations and his being an erratic parent that didn't always understand what his daughter needed.  My sister never had a strong desire to be married, although she did marry once to her son's father.
 
I had a fairly optimistic view of marriage, but, unfortunately, I didn't understand myself and married the wrong people when I was young: two marriages that in hindsight seemed doomed as soon as they began.  Later, I had a long-term relationship that was satisfying; we didn't get married, but we had four cats that seemed like children.
 
By the way, Iris and Sanchez appear again in the tenth Buck Jaspers mystery Windfall, which I hope will be published early in 2011.
 
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Buck finds two missing college students Ch.22

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 22


I took Nano with me. He stunk as if he’d been living with pigs. His clothes had begun to rot from the swampy moisture, and his own sweat and dirt. I took him back to the motel, so he could shower. I threw his clothes away and gave him some of my clothes to wear, though they hung a little loose on him: we had to roll up sleeves and cuffs. While he cleaned up, I checked everybody out of the motel.

I thought he might snooze on the trip back to Miami. But he was too excited to sleep, and with a little nudging from me and the resilience of youth, told me the story.

After irresponsible Jeff sideswiped them and sent them skidding into the railing, they got beat up as the Samurai tumbled in the air and landed right side up in the canal. Although bruised and stunned, both got out of the car and swam to the eastern bank of the canal. Paulie had twisted an ankle and bruised some ribs and couldn’t walk. Nano had suffered a concussion and a cut mouth and passed out once on land. By the time Nano was again conscious, night had fallen, Paulie’s adrenaline rush had subsided and his ankle and ribs ached. Together they stumbled away from the canal into the dark glades night.

They staggered right into Beanland’s shipment of marijuana being loaded from a boat onto a truck. Beanland at first thought they were drunk farm workers because Nano was disoriented and his speech was garbled, and Paulie spoke Spanish first and breathed shallowly. He loaded them into the back of his truck and took them to the compound. He stuck them inside a cabin.

The next morning he discovered his error. Once he realized that they weren’t his usual malleable victims, he shackled them and kept them in his shed. He used them to work his marijuana fields on weekends and days when he stayed at camp. He never intended to release them; they knew too much.

Nano’s and Paulie’s crash wounds healed, but they suffered through weeks of enslavement and misery among the hammocks and the sheds. Beanland had six hammocks planted with marijuana, thousands of plants. The boys’ job had been to harvest large buds and pack them in vegetable cartons stamped AGG.

He grimaced and said, “I hated and feared Beanland. The others weren’t quite so ruthless, but no one could stand up to Beanland. I think his own people were afraid of him.”

I said, “You really had a Christmas and New Year to remember.”

Nano said, “Maybe, but it made me appreciate my regular life more. I didn’t realize how good I had it until this happened.”

“How did Paulie take it?”

“Once his ankle and ribs healed, he was ok. In fact, he smoked some of the product to ease his pain and he got to like it. But I think he’ll be fine once he gets back to his normal routine. Please, don’t tell his father.”

“All right, I’ll let you handle it. What did you guys eat?”

“When we were in the shed, we ate whatever the farm workers ate. Rice and beans. White bread. Whatever the cook had made that day. Sometimes chicken soup or beef stew or ropa vieja. In the hammocks, we had less choice. Bread and coffee for breakfast. Bologna sandwiches and coffee at lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches for supper. Not a real healthy diet, but then we weren’t expected to survive anyway, were we?”

“No, I guess not. But I have a feeling you’ll get whatever you want tonight.”

“That would be great. You know what I’m craving the most? A big green salad with a great variety of vegetables.”

“Yeah?”

“A long, hot shower was the first thing I wanted, but the salad is next.”

I told him how we had discovered his whereabouts, going into his computer, tracing his movements through his bills. He didn’t mind. I said, “I saw that paper you had written on the encomienda system.”

He laughed. “Wow. The university. Academics. That seems so far away.”

“I was thinking that you have some personal experience now to add to that paper.”

“Oh, yeah. I see. My own living encomienda.”


End of Chapter 22
 
 
The boys ate a lot of sandwiches.  Some can be nutritious.  Some can be quite tasty.  When I was a boy, I ate a lot of PBJs, and I still like peanut butter sandwiches.  As an adolescent I got hooked on hamburgers and hotdogs.  In my twenties I loved Rubens. When I became more educated about health and nutrition, I gave up those cardiac arrestors and turned to sandwiches heavy with vegetables and some fowl or fish.  My favorite now is a turkey and vegetable wrap that I get at a whole foods grocery.
 
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Buck must find two college students Ch21

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 21

I knew there was no time like the present to have a heart-to-heart talk with Iris. I grabbed her with one hand and Wyatt with the other and walked them aside into the center of the hammock near the marijuana field.

I let go and said, “Sit down.”

They squatted on the soft earth in the shade of the rising hemp plants heavy with flowers and seeds. I sat also. I didn’t want to tower over them. I wanted us eye to eye.

I could tell by Wyatt’s expression that he had no idea what to expect. Iris, on the other hand, had a skeptical look in her eyes. She was expecting a lecture.

I said, “Did you take a good look at the boys?”

They nodded.

“How did they look to you?”

Wyatt said, “Pretty used and abused.” Iris glared at me.

“Right, these criminals are not nice people. You were letting yourself in for some of the same treatment. When the shooting started, did any of the bullets come close to you?”

Wyatt said, “Whizz-bang all around. We lay flat as we could get.”

“You could have easily caught a bullet and died. Are you aware of that? This day could have been your last day on earth. No more school. No more parties . . .” I looked at Iris. “No more hitchhiking. No more adventures.”

She sighed and fiddled with some grass stems at her feet.

“Having an adventure is one thing. But putting your health and lives in jeopardy is another. You were way over your heads this time.”

Iris said, “Maybe.”

“No, there’s no maybe about it. If we hadn’t come in when we did . . . if we had waited even one or two days . . . you two might have been two more victims whose short lives would have been reported in the media.

“Gone before you fell in love for the first time. Gone before your chance at college. Gone before a career. Gone before you could make an impact on the world. You’d hardly be remembered except as a couple foolish kids.

“You wouldn’t even have your pictures in the high school yearbook, so people could look at your pictures to help them remember you.

Wyatt said, “Ouch.”

“Wyatt, do your parents know where you are?”

“No, of course not.”

“What if tomorrow they read that Wyatt had been killed in a raid at someplace he had no business being? How would they feel?”

He squirmed but said nothing.

“All the hopes and dreams they had for you would be crushed.”

Iris said, “Why are you picking on Wyatt? It wasn’t even his idea.”

“I knew that. So you have another thing to think about. You not only endangered yourself, but you put a friend in danger. You nearly ended not only your life but also the life of someone you care about.”

She started crying because she was fine with putting herself in trouble, but she really didn’t want to harm anyone else.

She said, “I’m sorry, Wyatt. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I wasn’t thinking.”

Wyatt said, “It’s all right, Iris. I could’ve said ‘no.’”

I said, “Next time, please say ‘no.’”

Iris said, “There won’t be a next time, not with someone I like.”

“There should be no next time unless you wind up being in law enforcement and are paid to do this.”

“Wyatt, your car will be impounded. Both of you will be driven home by a law enforcement officer. So, your parents will know what you’ve been up to.”

Iris said, “Ok, we get it.”

I stood. “Then let’s go back to the others.”

Of course, we couldn’t leave immediately. Suarez had to get statements from Nano, Paulie, Scotty and me. But he expedited things; he had a lot of other things to do, too – multiple reports to file. He had to contact the DEA and the ATF and the FBI and the FDL – a lot of acronymic representatives to handle.

Wyatt and Iris were glum as they left inside a police car, although Iris waved to me a slight, barely perceptible wave.

Christian was happier than his usual contented self. I told him that his help had been indispensable to the positive outcome. He winked. “Hey, we’re still undefeated. Seminoles one hundred – enemy zero.”

I made a point of visiting Lieutenant Suarez in his office and thanking him. I said, “I’m glad we met. You’re the kind of police that Americans hope we have. Keep it up. You go by the law, protect the public without abusing the public. It seems slow sometimes, but it’s the way the police in a democracy must work. And when you had the evidence to act, you did. It was an honor to be able to work with you.”

“Thanks, Buck. The feeling is mutual. I wish all private detectives were as aboveboard as you.”

I smiled (what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me), then said, “One more thing – quit that nasty habit. I want to come back to your promotion to chief in a few years and I want to see a healthy you.”

“Ok, I’m trying.”

Morris Alcorn showed up while we were at the sheriff’s station. He stood around with his mouth open as if he were breathing in new knowledge. He would need time to absorb and reflect. He had already called AGG’s attorneys, who would begin assessing liability and damages to the corporation. Already deputies were joking that AGG now stood for “America’s Ganja Guys” and a new logo would include a marijuana leaf. Alcorn would have to get used to having his leg pulled, although he was entirely innocent.

Beanland was about to be buried in the penal system. He would face charges of kidnapping, enforced servitude, violations of several labor laws, attempted murder, murder (the cook and his wife were talking about the bodies in the canal), possession of illegal arms, use of firearms during the commission of a felony, growing illicit drugs, possessing and distributing illegal drugs, conspiracy to distribute illegal drugs. The police had caught a very bad guy, a truly malevolent being, cruel, vicious and ruthless.

His crew at the camp would join him in facing kidnapping, labor law violations and enforced servitude charges. Some would face accessory to murder charges and possession of illegal firearms charges.

His crew in the hammocks would share the drug and firearms violations with him.

Beanland was as brutal a human being as I had ever encountered. How he got that way will be the province of the psychologists and psychiatrists. I saw him as a huge mound of greed. I suppose that he ate as he did other things. When he was hungry, he wanted food and lots of it. He wanted the biggest, fiercest dogs. He wanted the biggest, deadliest weapons. He wanted money and lots of it. He wanted people around him that he could control and manipulate.

The police found over six hundred thousand dollars hidden in his doublewide trailer. Not only was he getting pay to run the camp from AGG, he charged the migrant farm workers for room and board, for transportation to and from the fields, for meals. Do the math: $25 a day from each worker times 640. That’s $16,000 a day for a full camp. And once they were in his camp, they were under his complete control. But even that was not enough for him, so he started his own farm system in the hammocks in order to exploit America’s penchant for drugs.

And that’s how Nano and Paulie fell into his grasp. I had Nano ride with me in the Z3 on the way back to Miami, and he told me the story.

But first, I thanked and said goodbye to Scotty’s men, who had performed magnificently. I shook the hand of each one and told them that I would be proud to work with any of them again. They left shortly afterward in the panel truck. Scotty was taking Paulie in the jeep to my office, where the parents were waiting.

End of Chapter 21

Happy Holidays to all.  I hope your holiday is safe and fulfilling.
 
Buck shows some ability as a parent.  He wants a family and children, but the woman he wants for that purpose is not cooperating.  The teenage years are difficult for both the teenagers and the parents.  The parents have so much they want to say, but teenagers are tuned out from their parents and tuned in to trying out life on the their own terms.
 
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The Last Sunset

I was exhausted after last semester, so I spent my first two days off sleeping, eating and watching TV.  AMC showed a movie I had never seen before: The Last Sunset (1961).  I got into it because Kirk Douglas and Rock Hudson were in it.

I can't recommend The Last Sunset as a terrific movie, but it has its moments.

It was based on a novel by Dalton Trumbo (who wrote the screenplays for Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, 1944; Roman Holiday, 1953; Spartacus, 1960; Exodus, 1960; Lonely are the Brave, 1962; The Sandpiper, 1965; Hawaii, 1966; Papillon, 1973.) and the plot is interesting.

A gunman (Kirk Douglas) flees into Mexico after killing someone in Texas. A sheriff (Rock Hudson) pursues him. The gunman arrives at a ranchero run by a cowardly, alcoholic ex-officer of the Confederacy (Joseph Cotton). The rancher's wife (Dorothy Malone) is a former girlfriend of the gunman; she is the only woman he has ever really loved. The rancher has been trying to hire hands to drive his cattle to Texas and offers the gunman a job, and he accepts, but he also tells the rancher that he wants his wife. A 16-year-old daughter (Carol Lynley) falls in love with the gunman and pursues him relentlessly despite his interest in his old flame the mother. One soon picks up that the girl could be the gunman's daughter. The sheriff arrives (turns out the murdered man was his sister's husband), but he has no authority to arrest the gunman in Mexico, so he hires on as the trail boss and tells the gunman that he will arrest him once they cross the border into Texas. They finally set out with three Mexican and three American trail hands, and the mother and daughter in charge of the chuck wagon. As the drive approaches Texas, the rancher is killed by some ex-soldiers who accuse him of cowardice. Then the sheriff makes a play for the widow, and she responds. She also tells the gunman that the daughter is his. In an act of selflessness, the gunman tells his daughter that he will always love her (she doesn't know he's her father) and carries an unloaded weapon to the fight with the sheriff, in effect committing suicide. The end.


The cinematography was good, captured the desert West very well, and lent atmosphere to the hard scrabble story.

However, the casting has flaws. Kirk Douglas was good as the gunman, Joseph Cotton as the drunk rancher, and especially Carol Lynley as the love-struck daughter. But Hudson and Malone weren't convincing.

I think part of the problem lies with the director. The tension among the characters could have been raised by a different emphasis in the scenes or maybe even different camera angles. The wife was too resigned to her circumstances, and the sheriff seemed without animus. Also, the gunman, despite having lived life as a wastrel and killer, seemed entirely too philosophical--he was too easy to like and didn't create fear and hatred around him.

I would like to see someone redo this movie because the plot has a lot of promise; with the right cast and director, it has potential to be a wonderful movie.

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Buck must find two college students Ch20

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 20


At ten, Joe called, but he had little to add. “The workers are harvesting crops, but no sign of the boys. It’s getting warm.”

Then Mario: “Beanland is back in his trailer and the dogs are back in the pens. Cocker fell asleep in his chair and got chewed out by Beanland, who caught him napping. A young woman and a young man arrived in an old car a half-hour ago. They spoke to Cocker, who let them in and took them to see Beanland. Beanland led them to a cabin and they went in. My guess is that the newcomers are migrants looking for work.”

When I heard that, my gut got a queasy feeling. I said, “Was the girl wearing an orange sweatshirt?”

“No, a simple blue dress. I know what you’re thinking. Was it Iris? She did have long black hair, but I didn’t get a real good look at her face. She wore a straw hat. The man with her wore a baseball cap. The man was skinny.”

“Ok, see if you can ID them better.”

My cell phone rang around 10:45 a.m. Thus go the best-laid plans of mice and men. Ours began to unravel. Caridad said, “Jefe, we got problems. Señor Menendez is here in the office with two muy grande, muy macho dudes. He wants to talk to you and he wants to bring his amigos to give you some help to find his son. Whatchya think a that?”

“Not much. We don’t need an unknown factor complicating things for us.”

“Do you want to talk to him, or should I tell him you’re not available?”

“Put him on.”

Menendez spoke English, but not very well, and because he was so overwrought, he gave up and launched into a spiel in Spanish about his coming to help us get his son back. I spoke to him very calmly and slowly in Spanish. “Tranquilo.” I told him that we were sure we had located his son and that we were in the advanced stages of formulating a plan to retrieve Paulie and his friend Nano within 24 hours. “Paciencia. Espera para nosotros en Miami.” But he couldn’t. He demanded to know where I was. I hung up and called Caridad.

“Caridad, don’t tell him where we are.”

“I don’t know where you are – not exactly.”

“Good, maintain that. Get him out of the office and then call Señor Concepción. Tell him not to tell Menendez where we are if Menendez finds him.”

I hung up and a few minutes later Scotty’s phone rang. He listened briefly, said “Thanks” and turned to me. “That was Mario. A few minutes ago, Beanland got an assault rifle from the first shed and readied the airboat for a ride. He put the two newcomers in the boat; Mario can’t swear that the woman is or isn’t Iris. Then Beanland got two prisoners from the second shed. They were shackled, and Mario thinks they’re our missing boys. Beanland put them in the airboat and headed into the swamp. I think we had better move. I told Mario to take care of Cocker and secure the compound. Can we rent a helicopter?”

I held up my palm. “Hold on. I think I can get something better.” I dialed Christian Oceola’s number. Told him what our emergency was, asked for his help. He said he’d meet us at the camp in half an hour. I hung up and said, “Get your boys ready for a fight. Tell Joe to meet us at the compound.”

Scotty drove the panel truck. I drove my Z3. We hit 70 plus on Highway 29, bouncing over the ridges in the road. I was way in the lead by the time we reached Beanland’s compound. The black jeep was parked next to Christian’s red pick-up truck. Beyond that I could see a boat trailer at the edge of the swamp and three men steadying a large two-fan airboat in the water. I honked. The panel truck was turning onto the cutoff road and raising dust toward us.

Mario ran up to me. “Hi, Buck. Here’s another thing. In the distance to the east are hammocks and I’m pretty sure I saw marijuana plants growing on the nearest one.”

“Ok, tell Scotty.”

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Suarez’s number. I was happy to be able to bring him in. If I didn’t, I knew I would turn a friend into an enemy. He answered and I said, “Listen. Some men I brought in and I are at Beanland’s compound. We’ve had a positive ID of the missing boys, plus it looks like Beanland is growing pot as a side business. He’s fled into the swamp with the boys and two other captives, so we can’t wait for you. We’re going after them. Bring as many men as you can and secure the compound. You’ll find automatic weapons in one of Beanland’s sheds. If you can get a helicopter, we’re in a double-fan airboat heading east into the swamp. Beanland is in a single-fan airboat. Do you need to get a warrant?”

“Didn’t you just report a disturbance in progress? No warrant needed. Besides, the farm worker’s wife is our corpse, so a warrant will be forthcoming. See you soon.”

I joined everyone in the boat. Scotty and his men were in camouflage fatigues and carrying automatic rifles, pistols and knives. Christian was in the driver’s seat next to a machete, a hunting rifle and a .44 Magnum. He had tied an eagle feather into his hair. I introduced him, and then he revved up the fans and we were off, roaring and slapping over the water and leaving a wake that washed the grasses on either side as we passed. Once I squatted, I realized I had forgotten my gun.

During our wind-streaming ride, Scotty passed an automatic pistol back to me.

He yelled, “You need something!”

I yelled, “Thanks!”

Mario pointed forward. I looked and could see the first hammock approaching fast. Sure enough. Pot plants everywhere in the sunlit areas of the hammock. Christian cut the engine and the boat slowed and bumped gently against the edge of the hammock.

Scotty and his men leaped ashore and he yelled back. “Wait in the boat!” They disappeared into the maze of contraband plants and natural foliage.

I reached up and shook Christian’s hand. “Thanks, buddy. This is above and beyond.”

He said, “Shit, Buck, these assholes invaded our swamp. Glad to help.”

In five minutes they returned and boarded. Scotty said, “Nobody here. Let’s go.”

Off we went, skimming over the marshland, startling deer and alligator and gar. Now I could see distinct paths that frequent boat use had carved into the swamp between each hammock.

About a hundred yards from the second hammock, three times the size of the first, a bullet pinged off the protective cover of the fans. Christian didn’t slow, but he began zigzagging. The rest of us hugged the bottom of the boat. I peeked over the rim of the boat once and could see the twinkle of automatic fire coming from several points on the island. A couple shallow-draft outboard motorboats were parked at the island.

Scotty gave Christian instructions that I couldn’t make out. Fifty yards out, Christian swept the boat in a broad leftward arc that sent a rooster tail behind us and the boat broadside to the island. Suddenly Scotty and his men crouched and returned fire in short bursts. I peeked again and saw that the return fire was effective in suppressing the defense. Our fire sent splinters flying from the boats. One caught fire and burned with a small smoky flame.

Christian kept the boat headed north and suddenly swept into shore at the northern tip of the hammock. Scotty looked at me and said, “Stay here,” just before his men leaped ashore and disappeared into the woods. Christian cut the engines. I looked at him and said, “You should put this ride in Disney World.”

He smiled but said nothing. We both listened.

Minutes later, gunfire erupted. A stream of automatic fire interspersed with short bursts. I knew Scotty’s men were signified by the short bursts, disciplined attack.

Then over the gunfire, we heard an airboat engine kick in. I said, “Somebody’s getting away.” Christian started the engine and backed the boat away from shore. He passed his rifle down and said, “Get ready. It holds seven shots.” Then we were off. I settled into the middle of the front of the boat and peered forward.

As we rounded the tip of the island, I could see a smaller airboat maybe fifty yards ahead and to the south. It was picking up speed eastward. I recognized the massive form in front of its engine. I yelled, “Beanland!”

Christian gunned the engine and the boat whooshed ahead, really planing now without the weight of the five men who were ashore. Double fans against one. Catching Beanland would be no problem. We gained on him easily. Christian shouted, “The engine! Hit the engine!”

I steadied myself. Thirty yards away, I fired. Bang! Zing! I fired again at twenty yards. Bang! Zing! Beanland’s engine died with a cough and as his boat settled, ours swooshed past. I could see that Beanland was the only occupant.

Christian threw his boat into a tight right turn. As we came around, I saw Beanland pick up his assault rifle, aim it toward us and let loose. But he was aiming high. And then I heard a helicopter. Beanland heard it too and looked up. We were closing again and I could see Beanland’s expression. It held all the frustration and contempt and evil hatred he could muster. He aimed his gun higher and I knew he was going to try for the chopper.

I aimed again and at thirty yards sent a shot into his right shoulder. Bang! Thunk! He dropped the gun and pitched backward, back flopping with a climactic splashing wallop into the swamp.

Then the helicopter was there. Sheriff’s logo on the side. Two men descending ropes and splashing into the swamp next to Beanland’s boat. Lieutenant Suarez waved from the cockpit. I waved back.

Christian headed the boat back to the big hammock.

From this side, we could see a wooden shack set near the shore. Scotty’s men were there, so we went right up to shore, stopped and got out.

Corey and Joe were guarding two men leaning against the shack, both wounded, one in the arm, one in the leg. Another lay dead on the ground. Then came what we had been hoping for. Scotty, Mario and Patric led three young men and a girl from inside the cabin. I recognized two of them immediately. The shackles were gone, they were dazed and scruffy: our missing boys.

I said, “Nano, Paulie, welcome back to the world. My name’s Buck Jaspers. I was hired by your father to find you and bring you back.”

Paulie started crying. Nano said, “You got any water?”

Scotty, semper paretis, offered them his canteen.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the office. Caridad answered. I said, “Call Concepción and then Menendez. Tell them we have their boys and they’re all right. We’ll be home late tonight.”

“Buck, that’s wonderful! We’ll wait for you.”

After clicking off, I looked at the other two youths. I didn’t know the young man, but I knew the girl. She was squinting at me and had a smile on her face. She was wearing a blue shift.

She said, “Hi, Buck.”

I said, “Jesus Christ, Iris, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Helping out.”

“Helping out?”

“Well, we didn’t know you were so close to the finish. We thought we’d pose as kids looking for work and try to find your college boys.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“My good buddy Wyatt Skeets. He was into it, too. Wyatt, this is Buck Jaspers, the detective I told you about.”

I looked at Wyatt. He was a skinny kid with black hair and brown eyes and he was dressed all in black, including black sneakers. He said, “Hi.”

I said, “Do you two realize you could’ve gotten killed?”

Wyatt said, “We didn’t think about that.”

Iris said, “Our plan worked. We were in faster than you, and we found the boys right away.”

End of Chapter 20
 
Airboats were first used in warfare in the Vietnam War, and as several Vietnamese Americans have told me, the Mekong Delta is a lot like the Everglades.  The first to tell me so was my roommate one summer while I was getting a master's degree.  He was from Saigon.
 
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Buck must find two college students Ch.19

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 19

Nevertheless, there was one thing I could do: Take Iris home. I went to her room where she was working math problems from another book. She really did have the absence management program worked out.

I knocked and she opened the door.

I said, “Iris, it’s time to go home.”

She scrunched her nose at me. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Just before the action gets good?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to be there.”

“Very well. I’ll get my stuff.”

I waited outside the door. Five minutes later she came out. She was dressed in her usual road attire and carried the backpack like a piece of luggage.

We walked to the car and she threw the backpack behind the seats. I hadn’t expected her to go so willingly, although she sat glumly silently and stared out her window as if I were taking her to prison.

I took the quick route: up I-75. She had me exit into North Fort Myers, past a new subdivision and down a gravel road beside which were ample lots with either an older wooden home or a doublewide trailer.

“Stop!” she said suddenly.

I stopped the car. We were between an old wooden house on the river south and a doublewide trailer off the road north. Iris started to get out.

I said, “I can drive you to the door.”

She pushed the door open and said, “Not necessary.”

“I’d like to talk to your mother.”

“She’s probably not home.”

That eliminated the doublewide, which had a truck and a small car parked next to it. Iris’s home was the old wooden house on the river, no vehicles in the drive, and only a rowboat and a canoe on the bank of the river. The lawn was unmown and some weeds were becoming brush.

I let out the clutch and turned slowly right into the dirt drive leading to the river house. “Close your door.”

She shut the door until we were stopped beside the house.

Then she opened her door and got out and pulled her backpack out. I turned off the engine and got out.

She said, “Thanks for the ride. It was interesting.” She had a defiant glint in her eyes.

“You know I can’t let you hang around because that would be irresponsible. You are only fifteen.”

“So they tell me.”

“Things could get dicey from here on out.”

“At least you won’t be bored.”

“I can’t believe your life is that bad. A lot of kids would give an ear to live on a river. Don’t you have any friends?”

“I have friends.”

“Let’s go see if your mother is home.”

“I’ll go see.” She went up the steps onto a screened porch, pulled open the screened door, dropped her backpack on the porch and disappeared into the interior.

I took the liberty of going up the steps and onto the porch. I knew she was reluctant for me to meet her mother and I wanted some hints as to why. The porch had a musty smell that reminded me of dank alleys in Miami. I looked around the porch and soon realized why Iris was shy regarding her mother. The porch was swept and neat, with two wooden armchairs and a swing couch hanging from rusting chains, a couple wooden tables – all of them could have used a little touch-up paint; her mother was maintaining but not improving things. A trashcan squatted near the door. I went over and looked inside. Beneath some tissue paper and junk mail was an empty bottle of wine – the stale wine odor was what had reminded me of alleys in Miami.

I looked into the interior. The door from the porch led into a living area with worn throw rugs, a television, dusty knick-knacks on wall shelves, a couch covered with a faded blanket, a couple stuffed easy chairs. The interior also had that stale wine aroma, although I couldn’t see any bottles. The smell came from spills and splatters over a long period, stains that had soaked into the rugs and the upholstery, that despite wiping and sponging could not be entirely eradicated.

Then I understood why she was good at interpreting the chatter of intoxication.

I walked back to the front of the porch and looked out. A car was approaching the drive and slowing. It was a fifteen-year-old brown Chevy sedan missing all its hubcaps. It turned with practiced ease onto to the drive and homed in on the house. My guess was that mother was coming home.

Iris came out and said, “Mother isn’t . . .” saw the car pull up and finished, “. . . that’ll be her.”

A middle-aged woman with brown hair got out of the brown sedan, pulled two brown grocery sacks from the car, closed the door, and seemed to notice the Z3 for the first time. She looked at the car a moment, then at the house, saw Iris and me watching her. She shaded her eyes and said, “Iris? You home?”

Iris said, “Yes, Mom. Mr. Jaspers brought me home.”

“Thank god.”

I stepped down to help her with the sacks. I said, “Buck Jaspers. We talked on the phone.”

She smiled and shook my hand. “Nice to meet chya. Olivia Channing.”

Up close she looked older because of her puffy brown eyes and wrinkles. I grabbed the bags and carried them up the stairs for her. One bag contained four bottles of cheap wine. The other had assorted chips and dips – carbohydrates and fat with hints of other food values.

When I stepped onto the porch, Iris took the bags and said, “I’ll take them in.” She went inside. I held the screened door open for Ms. Channing.

She stepped in and said, “Thanks. Would you like something to drink or eat? I owe you something for taking care of my little genius. I hope she wasn’t much trouble. She can be a handful.”

“No, Ma’m. I should be getting back to my job. I just wanted to be sure Iris got home safely. She’s quite a little woman.”

“Character, you mean.”

“She’s someone with a lot of promise.”

“I’m glad you think so. Right now, she’s just a lot of trouble.”

“She’s determined, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Stubborn and willful, you mean.”

“Well, nice meeting you. Goodbye.” I went down, got into my car and drove away. I saw no point in prolonging a painful conversation. The bright teenaged daughter and her middle-aged alcoholic mother would be at odds for some years until the daughter had matured enough to love her mother for who she was despite her flaws. My small part in their lives was over.

I drove the straight route back to the motel in Naples, stopping only to refuel the car.

Scotty and I waited. Scotty had told his men to call in every hour if possible and make the first report at eight o’clock.

The first call was from Joe, who reported that the buses made no stops from Beanland’s compound until they reached the fields that they would work that day. He said, “However, there are many places for ambush: wayside rest parks, side roads, turnoffs. I’m mapping each of them and noting their positions on my map”

Mario called in a few minutes later to inform us that not everyone had left the compound. “Cocker and Beanland stayed behind. Beanland’s truck is still here. The other guard, the custodian and the cook drove three of the buses. The cook’s wife drove the van. The fourth bus was driven by one of the workers. The dogs are in the pens.”

An hour later, Joe called again. “The least likely scenario is taking them in the fields. I’ve been watching with binoculars, but I haven’t spotted the boys for sure yet. But the buses are not all parked in the same spot, and most of the workers are at least a quarter mile from the highway. The workers are scattered over different fields, plus there are guards at the entrances to the farms. Taking them in the fields has the least chance of success.”

Then Mario called. “Beanland has left his trailer. He took out the hound and the shepherd to do a tour of the camp with him. Cocker is sitting in a chair in front of his trailer, listening to music and smoking.”

To make things even more taut, around 9:30, Suarez called. A farm worker was in his office and he had a serious complaint against Beanland.

Suarez gave the following account:

His wife had disappeared. One day about two months ago his wife hadn’t gotten on the bus with him to go to the fields. He thought that maybe she had gotten on the wrong bus. But she didn’t appear in the fields that day. And when he returned to Beanland’s compound, she wasn’t there.

This man at first thought she had left him. His wife and he had had a rather combative relationship. She had left him several times before. He spent several days going throughout Immokalee to look for her, but no one had seen her. Then he thought she might have gone back to her family in Mexico. He called to her home village, but she hadn’t appeared there and no one had heard from her, not even her older sister with whom she was closest.

Then someone else told him that Beanland sometimes took people to work in his special fields. This informant didn’t know what these special fields were or where they were, but he knew that if anyone went into the special fields, they had never come out.

The husband also claims that Beanland is rumored to have taken women for his own pleasure and the pleasure of his associates. Of course, his complaint revolves around that rumor. He thinks that Beanland raped his wife and sent her to work in the special fields. But he has no proof.
I said, “What do you think?”

Suarez said, “My gut feeling is that he’s sincere. But, once again, there is no proof.”

“But there’s getting to be a lot of evil smoke for there to be no evil fire.”

“I agree. I’m going to take this guy to the morgue. If he can identify the female body we found as his wife, then I have cause to act. By the way, the coroner’s report names blunt-force trauma as cause of death.”

“Those ‘special fields’ – could they be marijuana fields?”

“That’s interesting, too. Last night I got a call from the DEA. They said there’s been a spike in Florida-grown marijuana being distributed throughout the Southeast and wanted us to keep a look out for any unusual activity.”

“Thanks for the info, Lieutenant. Let me know what happens at the morgue

End of Chapter 19

My family doesn't have too many alcoholics.  In fact, the only one I remember is my maternal grandfather.  By the time I was old enough to remember him and encountered him, he was 72 and living in a nursing home near Jasper, Alabama.  He was extremely thin and walked with the aid of a cane.  His hands shook with a steady tremor.  He coughed a lot and spit phlegm into a handkerchief.  He had trouble maintaining a conversation and often nodded away and had to be brought back to the rest of us.  Part of the conversation was explaining who we were, although I suspected that I could have come day after day and would have had the same conversation each time.  "I am your daughter's son.  My name is Jerry."  He may have had a touch of alzheimer's to abet the debilitation of alcohol.

None of his children or grandchildren were alcoholics.  His son Spencer Jr. served in World War Two, worked as an engineer most of his life, became mayor of Oakman, the family hometown, and died at 92 and was reputed to have been lucid to the end.

Grandfather had been a blacksmith.  My theory is that as the twentieth century progressed and automobiles replaced horses and mules, he lost some self-esteen as he became less needed, got a little bored with the time on his hands and started drinking.  He was also a philanderer, which is another way to make the time pass and refurbish an ego.

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Buck must find two college students Ch.18

Scotty's plan to supress Beanland and the guards

while freeing the boys if they are in the second shed.

ENCOMIENDA


Chapter 18



I woke around seven. Scotty was dressed and sitting at the table, looking at the map of Beanland’s compound. I struggled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, drained my bladder, washed my face, combed my hair and went and sat at the table. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot that Scotty had already made. I took a long sip and let the caffeine work.

Scotty said, “Good morning, Bucky.”

I said, “Morning. How long you been up?”

“I’ve been up and down. Got Mario and Joe off at 4:30. Got some more winks and awakened at 6:30.”

I pointed at the map. “Got any ideas?”

“Yes, first I think you ought to get dressed, and then we should get some breakfast.”

We had eggs and sausage in the motel restaurant – and more coffee.

After a few bites, I said, “Based on what we learned last night, do you think the boys are there?”

“I do. It’s very possible that they could be in the far shed – either drugged or bound. I don’t think they’re in the cabins. That or they’re already dead.”

“I agree. Your guys were very thorough. If the boys were in a cabin, I think they would’ve revealed themselves in some way last night. I think the boys are in real danger. Beanland will be extremely nervous now because of both the police visit and the Rottweilers’ disappearance. Whatever we’re going to do, we should do it as soon as possible.”

“My feelings exactly. Beanland has six effectives, counting the cook’s wife. We’ve got six. I think we should bring our heavy artillery. If we surprise them after ten o’clock, four of us can keep them in their trailers and handle the dogs while two can neutralize their heavy weapons and free the boys. In fact, I drew this while you were sleeping.” He showed me his proposed plan of attack.
“See. This gives four of us with assault rifles fields of fire to cover all the trailers while two of us break into the sheds. The two northern riflemen have primary responsibilities of suppressing the cook and custodian and guarding against any loose dogs. The southern two riflemen will suppress the guards and Beanland. Notice that the most dangerous opponent Beanland is covered front and back by all four riflemen. Also, none of the riflemen are in direct line of fire from any of the others. The two mobile men can then split so that one can destroy the weapons in the first shed and the second one can get the boys out of the second shed. We know that none of the enemy has anything more than pistols and shotguns inside his trailer. And with night-vision goggles, our supremacy is assured.”

I was impressed. The plan would work as long as all of us got into the compound undetected, and all that required was heavy chain cutters, which Scotty had brought. I said, “It’s wonderful to have you with me, Scotty. This is a terrific plan.”

“I figure that from the time we enter the compound until we leave will be no more than fifteen minutes.”

“What does the oval represent?”

“That’s where the vehicles are parked. One rifleman would be behind the vehicle closest to the trailers.”

“What do you think of hitting it during the day when only one guard will be there, probably Cocker?”

“We could try that today with the four we have. Of course, the chance of surprise will be less than at night.”

“What if the boys aren’t there?”

“Then we would’ve shown our cards, which would put the boys in greater jeopardy.”

“Damn, if only we had proof they were there, we could call Suarez and let the police take it.”

“There’s one thing you haven’t considered.”

“What’s that?”

By the way Scotty smiled his crooked half-smile, I knew he was being reasonable while knowing I wouldn’t accept his proposal. “Confront Beanland. Negotiate. Offer to just take the boys and walk away.”

“I don’t think he’d go for it. He knows he’d be up for kidnapping charges at a minimum. And who knows what else will be discovered once an investigation starts. I think his reaction to confrontation would be to strike out like an animal and get rid of any evidence.”

“Then we’ll have to wait for Mario’s and Joe’s reports.”

“How did you split them?”

“Joe is in the jeep, tracking the buses and observing the workers in the field. Mario has made an eagle’s nest and is plotting the activities at the compound.”

“Ok, let’s wait.”

Waiting is the hardest part of stake-out operations, especially if I am not out there myself. However, Scotty was right. My Z3 would stand out like a belly dancer in a blue collar bar. If Beanland saw me or my vehicle, he would be immediately on alert and the situation would become very dangerous.

End of Chapter 18
 
Migrant camps usually have small cabins with minimal facilities.  Toilets and showers are often in communal buildings.  I once taught a migrant Mexican girl Maria who had polio.  She lived in a one-room cabin with her mother and father and ten brothers and sisters.  At night they would spread mattresses over the cabin floor for all to sleep on.  During the day, the mattresses were stacked so they could cook and eat on the floor.  Since Maria was disabled, she was the only one who didn't have to go to the fields, so she stayed in school, graduated from high school with a B+ average and went to college.  Her disability turned out to be a secret advantage for a migrant child.  I wrote a poem about her:
 

Polio Scholar

 

Maria lived in a shack,

Twelve siblings back to back.

At night they spread;

During day they stacked.

What I want to know is this:

Where did she,

When did she,

How did she,

Study?

 

1977-2010

 
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