Gwen, in Green

For Jack Flores, things were getting to be too much. First of all, it was hot. The early August temperature readings were setting all-time records for the state, and with the humidity, it was hell on Flores. He was used to the baking heat of the desert, where the sweat evaporated as fast as it formed. Here, it was like living in a fucking steam bath. Then you walked into the main construction office and the air conditioning hit you and dried the sweat and you shivered. He was reading the first draft of a report by the company’s tame egghead, a youthful Ph.D. in Oceanography who had come in answer to an ad. Jack’s immediate superior was seated across the desk, drinking a Coke and looking at Jack’s furrowed brow.

“The sonofabitch is selling us out,” Flores said, throwing the paper down onto the desk. “What are we paying him for, to give the nuts more ammunition against us?”

“It’s not all that bad, Jack,” the supervisor said.

“Bad enough.” He sighed, leaned back, and lit up a Lark. “Producing marsh, shit. What does that marsh produce besides marsh grass and mud?”

“We’re caught in the middle of a fad,” the supervisor said. “All of a sudden people are in love with every acre of salt marsh on the eastern seaboard. But I don’t think we have to worry. The new recommendations should handle all the federal boys’ objections. They want a change here.” He stabbed at a map of the canal route, indicating a salt-­water creek. “They say we can’t run right down the creek line, that would be altering the natural flow of a navigable waterway or something.”

“Listen, you can’t get a rowboat up that creek except on high tide. And if we move over, we’re going to take that tobacco farm here.” He pointed.

“Actually, we’ll be better off. The engineers have come up with some new estimates,” the supervisor said. He smiled. “In fact, I was the one who told our tame scientist to suggest that the creek was worth saving.”

“Any particular reason?” Flores asked.

“When we move to the west, onto solid ground, we’re getting an anchor for the canal. If we come down the middle of that marsh, she’s going to be floating in the middle of a sea of mud. We’d have to go down thirty or fifty feet to anchor the dikes.”

“Well, actually, it won’t make much difference to me,” Flores said. “We’re not down to that point yet with the clearing. I can get the survey party out—”

“They’re already out.”

“Good.”

“Go ahead with it, Jack. The thirty day injunction is just a nuisance, that’s all. It should give you enough time to finish the clearing and get the diggers going. When we get the go ahead from the federal people, we can concentrate on the marsh.”

“Right.” Flores rose. He was already thinking ahead. He was halfway to the door when he was stopped.

“What’s this about losing four dozer pushers over on the island?”

Flores said, “Goddamn.” He turned. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Are you trying to cover up something, Jack?”

“Hell, no. I’m just trying to head something off. You know what a stupid bunch of shitheads construction bums are.”

“I heard a group discussing it,” the supervisor said. “I’m afraid you’ve got a legend going, whether you want it or not. The men are saying that something is happening to the operators over on Pine Tree Island.”

“Yeah,” Flores said. “They’re bugging out.”

“Are you sure, Jack? Four of them?”

“Hell, you don’t know these bums like I do. Cramer will probably be back. When he really goes on one, he’s good for two weeks and then he’s so fucking messed up he can’t work for another week. The first two were just drifters.” He sighed. He didn’t mention the kid. That one he couldn’t figure. The kid had had an opportunity to pick up a good, solid piece of extra cash with overtime, and he’d looked damned interested. Then he’d bugged out, after working late Friday and all day Saturday, without even turning in the time.

“What are you going to do about it?” the supervisor asked.

“Put two men on the machines tomorrow morning. We’re not pushed over there.”

“Do you think it would be a good idea to send a guard along?”

“Hell, no.”

“The men—”

“The men do what I tell them to do,” Flores said. “They know the country’s full of construction bums.”

“Jack, we’re in the red on this project as far as accidents are concerned.”

“Fights, stupidity.”

“I don’t think a man falling into the reactor hole was the result of a fight,” the supervisor said. “And it was stupid of that fellow to get under a fresh load of cement, all right, but the fact is, we’ve had too many fatalities already. This company has always been proud of its safety record. We’re able to get men with that record and I don’t want it ruined. And I didn’t like the way those men were talking about the four fellows who have disappeared from the Pine Tree clearing area. I think I’d feel better if you sent along a guard.”

“And admit that we think something might be fucked up over there?”

“What if we lose another man or two?”

Flores shrugged. “You’re the boss.”