The Way We Die Now (14 page)

"You make me one. Smoking no good for me, too." She giggled again.

Hoke rolled a cigarette, licked the paper, and handed it over. He lit her cigarette with his lighter. As soon as she had it going, she reversed the cigarette and put the fire side inside her mouth, holding it between her lips, and allowing the smoke to escape through her broad, flat nose. She removed the cigarette and smiled. "My way, Filipino way, no waste smoke."

"Don't you burn your tongue?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes." She replaced the fire side inside her mouth and puffed away.

"D'you live around here?" Hoke asked.

"Why? You want to fuck?" She removed the cigarette from her lips and spooned up the last of her tomato and okra stew. Chewing slowly, she looked into Hoke's eyes.

Hoke looked at her a little differently now. He didn't know whether she was a good-looking woman or not, nor could he guess her age. It had always seemed to Hoke that Oriental women looked about eighteen for many years, then suddenly turned forty overnight. There were a few crow'sfeet around her slightly slanted eyes, but her thick hair was so black it had tints of blue in it when the light caught it. Her skin, the color of used sandpaper, was smooth, however, and she wasn't wearing makeup, not even lipstick. She wore a pale blue elastic tube top, and her breasts were barely discernible beneath the stretchy material. Her arms were as thin as a British rock musician's but were more wiry than skinny. On the ring finger of her left hand she wore an aluminum skull-and-crossbones ring, with tiny red glass eyes. Hoke remembered having had one just like it in junior high school. All the guys wore them then; they sold these rings in Kress's for a quarter. The teachers had hated the rings for some reason, making them even more popular.

"To answer your invitation, miss, that's just about the last thing I have on my mind right now. D'you know what -peristalsis- means?"

"You show me. I try it."

"No, it's something I have to do all by myself. After this load of lentils I have to go down to the pepper tree to take a crap."

"Pepper tree's for Mexicans." She pursed her lips and lifted her chin, pointing to the cash register. The proprietor was examining a dwarf's check before allowing him to fill up his bowl again with collards. "You are white man. He'll let you use his john."

"Okay," Hoke said, getting to his feet, "I'll ask him."

"You ask Mr. Sileo. I wait. I save table for us."

"You don't have to wait for me."

"I wait."

"I'd like to use your john, Mr. Sileo," Hoke said when he reached the register.

"It's for employees only."

"And the pepper tree's for Mexicans, right? Where do white men go? I don't have a car, so I can't use the gas station."

"You want a job?"

"Sure. I'm looking for work."

"Okay, then." Sileo took a key out of his front pocket and handed it to Hoke. "The door next to the storeroom back there. Wash your hands when you get through, and start on the pots and pans. Marilyn'll need more pans soon, and then get going on the dishes."

When Hoke came out of the john, there were a half dozen dirty pots and pans in the sink. He turned on the hot water and went to work. His cuffs got wet, and he removed his shirt, which was already soaked through with perspiration. He hung it on a nail beside the storeroom door. When he finished a pan and dried it, he placed it on the counter. Marilyn, the fat black cook, would immediately start chopping vegetables into it. She chopped zucchinis, summer squash, onions, and potatoes with equal rapidity. The potatoes, Hoke noted, weren't peeled, nor were they entirely clean. But Marilyn knew exactly what she was doing, and she had several pots working on the stove. Hoke began on the dishes. He washed them in soapy water, rinsed them in clear hot water, and then carried the still-damp stacks of dishes to the counter beside the steam table. His job reminded him of the KPs he had pulled during basic training at Fort Hood, back in the Vietnam War, except that he was the only kitchen policeman here and soon found out that he was the dining room orderly as well. When he got caught up on the dishes, Mr. Sileo sent him out to clear and wipe the tables. The diners were supposed to bring theii' own trays and plates to the pass-through to the sink. Most of them did; but some didn't, and those who didn't left the messiest tables. Hoke got into the rhythm of the work and forgot all about the Filipino woman. Later, when he was mopping the kitchen floor, he remembered her, but by that time she was gone.

The cafeteria was open from six to six, but at five-thirty Mr. Sileo locked the front door. He let the diners inside finish but didn't allow any more in.

Marilyn took all of the leftover vegetables from the steam table (but not the meat) and poured them all--mixed as they were--into a twenty-gallon pot. She held open the back door for him, and Hoke carried the heavy pot out to a tree stump that had been cut across the top to form a flat surface. The men in the lot were already lined up at the stump and were more orderly than he would have expected them to be. They came by with coffee cans, tin cups, and other receptacles (one guy had a cardboard box, lined with Reynolds Wrap foil), to dip out of the pot. When the pot was empty, Hoke brought it inside and washed it. He swept and mopped the dining room floor and carried out two cans full of garbage to the Dumpster. The lot was empty. After eating, the alfresco diners had disappeared.

Mr. Sileo handed Hoke a five-dollar bill. "Want to work tomorrow?"

"Not for only five bucks I don't, no."

"You only worked a half day. All day you get ten, plus you eat free."

"Hell, that isn't even a buck an hour."

"Sure it is, if you count what you eat."

"I don't know, Mr. Sileo. I'll have to sleep on it. \Vhat kind of retirement plan have you got?"

Marilyn laughed, throwing her head back. Her body, including her massive buttocks, shook all over.

"What's so funny?" Sileo turned on Marilyn. "No man ever stays more'n three or four days! I'd be crazy to set up any kind of retirement plan." He turned back to Hoke, a little calmer. "You want to work tomorrow, old-timer, be here at five-thirty. Otherwise, forget it."

Marilyn had eight slices of bread on the worktable, and she made four roast beef sandwiches. She sliced the beef into quarter-inch slices, and each sandwich had two layers of sliced meat. She put two sandwiches into a brown paper bag for Hoke and wrapped her two in waxed paper. She had a vinyl shopping bag, and it was half filled with canned goods, mostly pork and beans and canned pineapple slices. She added her wrapped sandwiches to the bag.

"I got carryin' privileges," she said, smiling at Hoke. "But I been here for almos' six months now."

"I noticed," Hoke said.

Mr. Sileo padlocked the walk-in freezer, the refrigerator, and the storeroom. He hit the No Sale key on the antique cash register, placed a twenty-dollar bill in the till, and left the drawer open. There was no other money in the till, but Hoke hadn't seen him remove it. Either it was in his pockets, or he had locked it away in the freezer while Hoke watched Marilyn make the sandwiches.

Sileo frowned at Hoke. "Somebody breaks in and don't find any money, he gets mad and breaks things up. So I always leave a twenty, just in case. It's cheaper'n buying new tables and equipment."

"Have you had many break-ins?"

Sileo shook his head. "Not since I been feedin' the homeless any leftovers. They kind of watch out for me now."

"I heard down at the pepper tree that Mr. Bock's been looking for a crew chief. That's what I do, you know. I haven't worked in a kitchen for years."

"You did a good job here. Mr. Bock's always lookin' for help, but you'll have a much easier life workin' here for me."

"I need at least forty bucks a day, Mr. Sileo. I've got a sick wife up in Lake City to support."

"You'll make that much with Bock, but you'll earn it-- that is, if you've got the belly for it."

"What d'you mean by that?"

"He works Haitians, that's why. And he specks to get as much out of them as Mexicans. So his crew chiefs have to produce, that's all I mean. I don't hold nothin' against Mr. Bock. He eats in here sometimes. You're big enough to run a crew, but I didn't figure you for a hard man."

"How do I get to his farm?"

"You don't want to go out there tonight. He'll be down at the farmers' market in the morning around five. I'll be there too, buying produce, and I'll point him out. I think once you talk to him or his foreman you'll come back here with me."

"I'll be there."

Marilyn and Hoke sent out the back door, and Sileo barred it from the inside. Sileo left by the front door and double-locked it. Hoke said good-bye to Marilyn in the parking lot. She squeezed her body into a fenderless whaleshaped VW Beetle wth oversize tires and drove away. The sun was down, but there would be at least another hour of daylight. The western sky was a mass of purple clouds, each of them edged in gold, and there was a slight breeze from the Glades.

The Filipino woman Hoke had eaten lunch with rose from a wooden crate beside the Dumpster. She came over and plucked at Hoke's arm.

"You come home wih me now?"

"Sure. In fact, if you've got a beer at home, I'll even share my sandwiches with you."

CHAPTER 10

Mrs. Elena Osborne, nee Elena Espenida, lived in the Lucky Star Trailer Park with her son, Warren, about nine sparsely settled blocks away from the cafeteria. As they walked together, Elena told Hoke a few things about her life. She was from San Fernando, Luzon, in the Philippine Islands, and had married a retired army staff sergeant. One of her friends in San Fernando had obtained a copy of a magazine called -Asian Roses-. The magazine was published and edited in Portland, Oregon. The subscribers were Americans, Australians, and New Zealanders who wanted to marry Asian women. Girls and women from Hong Kong, the Philippines, Japan, and Hawaii sent in their photographs, short biographies, and five dollars and were listed in the magazine. She and her girlfriend both had sent in snapshots, biographies, and five-dollar money orders. Her girlfriend had received three letters, and Elena had received only two. Her girlfriend was too timid to answer her letters, but Elena had answered one of hers. She hadn't answered the other because it came from a seventy-one- year-old man who had recently lost his wife, and he had merely wanted a young woman to keep him warm at night. But the other letter, from Sergeant Warren Osborne, was very persuasive. He was a very handsome man who wanted a mother for his children and a companion to share his life in Immokalee, Florida. He had been retired from the army for two years, owned his own mobile home in the Lucky Star Trailer Park, and worked as a checker for Sunshine Packers. He also owned a Toyota pickup, only two years old, and he had never been married before. His mother had lived with him in the mobile home, but she had been dead for more than a year, and he was very lonely. He also felt, now that he was forty, that it was time to get married and have a son to carry on his name. He had told the truth about Immokalee, explaining that the town was in a rural area, with the same climate as the Philippines and that there were cities nearby--Naples and Fort Myers--where they could go and shop on weekends and see first-run movies and major-league baseball games during spring training.

They had corresponded, and after a few airmail letters back and forth, and discussions with her mother, Elena had agreed to marry him. She was twenty-one years old, and although she had an eighth-grade diploma and could read and write English very well, her opportunities to find a husband in San Fernando as well-off as Sergeant Osborne were nonexistent. When she agreed, he made all the arrangements for her visa through a lawyer in Fort Myers and sent her two hundred dollars and her airplane ticket from Manila to Fort Myers, Florida. She had given her mother one hundred dollars of the two, packed a suitcase, and made the long flight, changing planes in San Francisco. He met the plane in Fort Myers, and they were married three days later in Immokalee. Her son, Warren, Junior, was born ten months later. Her husband began to drink then, after her son was born, and, after three or four months, was fired from his job at Sunshine Packers. After he lost his job, he drank even more than he had before, and when he got drunk, he would sit at the little table in their trailer and cry.

One morning he went to the bank, drew out all his savings, and gave her five hundred dollars. He was going to drive upstate, he told her, and look for work. When he found a job, he would come back for her, Warren, Junior, and the trailer. No one in Immokalee, he told her, would hire him now, so they had to move away. That was almost three years ago, and she hadn't heard from him since. His army retirement checks were no longer deposited electronically in the bank, and the teller at the bank didn't know his new address.

When her money was exhausted, she had applied for welfare, and she got an extra allowance because of Warren, Junior. She also got food stamps, but there was very little cash left to live on after she paid her mobile home space rent and utilities. To make extra money, which she needed for Warren, Junior, she occasionally turned a trick.

Hoke was puzzled mildly by her story. But not for long.

There were twelve trailer homes in the dusty park. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the lot, which had a single entrance gate. Only residents had a key to the gate, and those residents who owned cars parked them outside the fence in a graveled lot. The manager lived in the first trailer beside the gate, and when Elena opened the gate with her key, he poked his grizzled head out of his front door to see who it was and then slammed his door again when he recognized Elena.

Elena's trailer was small, with one bedroom and a double bed, a combination living room and galley, and a short corridor to the bedroom. There was a bathroom off one side of the corridor and an alcove closet across from the bathroom door. The furniture was mobile home standard, with an eating nook and cushioned seats. A window airconditioner labored away above the table. A thirteen-inch black-and-white TV set was bolted to the wall beside the entrance door, and Elena switched it off when she ushered Hoke inside. There was a nose-tingling odor of urine and feces, but the trailer was clean. A framed black-and-white photo of Warren Osborne in his uniform was on the wall. The man was handsome enough, Hoke noted, but the photo of the soldier had been taken when he was nineteen or twenty years old.