The Ninth Wave (29 page)

Georgia looked slowly around the desert, to the burning edge of the
horizon, over the shimmering dunes.
Hank saw the excitement start across her face. She looked from the blue
hulk of the mountains, across the stretch of sand and burnt earth and
her eyes glittered. She can see it already, Hank thought. An irrigation
canal, rows of lettuce, enormous sweet melons, everything ordered and won.
Mike kicked the sand. She watched him. It was not a casual kick. It
was hard, deliberate, done with meaning. He kicked again and the sand
sprayed away from his foot and fell in a shapeless heap. Mike grinned.
Georgia's excitement deepened. She knew it was not her own excitement. It
was something borrowed from Mike. It was a paler, more austere, thinner
version of what he felt, but it was still important and big. She knew,
suddenly, that her perceptions were more diminished than Mike's and she
was aware of the larger, harder things that he felt. As if Mike were
an instrument through which she could gather impressions of things that
she would not otherwise perceive.
And she sensed something of what Mike was unable to transmit to her. She
knew that he did not care about the fruit and vegetables and trees and
greenness that would come from the desert. She knew that what he wanted
was to fight the white still sand, to cut the hot dead surface with
bright strips of water, to rip it with tractors, to make it yield. When
that was done he would no longer be interested. She understood why he
had not wanted to buy land that was already worked or easy to develop.
She understood why he did not need an expert, not for the farm land or
anything else. He went at a problem directly, like a physical assault,
reaching for the heart of it. Then he reordered the whole thing, reshaped
it, made it his. He did not want an expert around to take the edge off the
victory. She was certain that he was right about the desert and the water.
Dimly she knew that her own excitement lacked something powerful and
violent that Mike felt. But what she did feel was sufficient to make
her tense, expectant, excited.
"Let's go and call Morris, my brother," Georgia said. "He can find out
if this land is for sale and how much it costs. Are you sure we could
get the water in here?"
Mike grinned at her and nodded his head. He threw the butt of the cigar
into a cholla and it caught on the spikes, A thin blue spiral of smoke
rose in the hot still air; foreign, different from everything else, it
was like a sign of domination. Mike turned and got in the car.
On the way back to Los Angeles they stopped at a drive-in outside of
Barstow. It was a huge red and gold affair, built in a great clump of
eucalyptus trees. It was late afternoon when they stopped. Mike and Hank
went inside.
The carhops were all girls and they wore cowboy outfits with red pants
that tucked into white cowboy boots. Their jackets were cut short and
buttoned tightly in front. Two inches of flesh showed between the pants
and the jacket. The pants were very tight.
Most of the cars were filled with Mexicans, six or seven in each car. The
trays fastened to the windows were filled with beer bottles. The Mexicans
pressed their faces against the windows and watched the carhops. From one
of the cars came the sound of singing in Spanish.
"You look busy," Georgia said when the carhop gave her a menu.
"Usual Saturday night crowd," the girl said. Her face was heavily made
up, as if she were a starlet getting ready to go on a set. Her hair
was a bright peroxide blond. "They're mostly Mexicans. They bring 'em
up to do the stoop labor. They can't get in the regular bars in town
so they all chip in and buy a car together and spend Saturday night in
the drive-ins." She looked around quickly and leaned forward. "Fact is,
honey, they're all horny. They just like to see a girl's ass wobble is
all. It's these outfits. The boss orders them from one of those fancy
places in Hollywood. They cost a hundred and seventy-five bucks each and
they fit across your ass so tight that it feels like a girdle. The boss
does it because it brings in the Mexican trade. He only hires blondes
because he says they like blondes better. I had to dye my hair. I'd be
sore except that the Mexicans always leave big tips." She smiled and
touched her hair softly. "What're you gonna have? Hamburger's good here."
"Three hamburgers and three beers," Georgia said.
Hank and Mike came out and got in the car.
"Mike, if everything goes all right, who will work the farm?" Georgia
asked. "Mexicans? Like the men in those cars?"
Mike glanced at the other cars. The Mexicans stared out, their brown
faces gently sweating, their mouths open and singing softly. The leaves
flickered, moved by a sudden breeze, and the faces became more distinct
in the green light.
The peroxided carhop went to the closest car and picked up the empty
bottles.
"You can't just sit here," she said in a hard voice. "You have to have
something on your tray."
She tapped her booted foot on the asphalt. The Mexicans talked in
Spanish. They ordered another round of beers. When the carhop turned
around she winked at Georgia.
"Sure, we'll use Mexicans or whoever can do the work," Mike said. "Maybe
we can use machines for most of it. But there aren't any machines invented
that will pick things like lettuce or melons or artichokes. So we'll use
Mexicans, I guess."
"Have you made any plans for them?" Georgia asked. "I mean for their
families? Like housing facilities, laundries, that sort of thing."
"Now, Georgia, don't go getting' sentimental," Hank said. "Don't expect
Mike to elect a governor, bring in irrigation, raise the biggest crops
in the world and also take care of the Mexicans. Not old Mike, not old
Mike the big wheeler and dealer."
Mike looked at both of them uncomprehendingly.
"That's right," he said. "You can't plan for people. They come or they
don't. If they don't come you raise your wages."
"Maybe we should plan something for them," Georgia said. "I'll talk to
Morrie about it."
"No you won't talk to Morrie about it," Mike said. "That's one thing
you can't plan. You can plan roads and irrigation and parity prices,
but you can't plan for people. They're not like a road, for example. Any
engineer can tell you what is the best topping and how much rolling and
scraping a road needs. But you can't do that for people. You don't plan
for them. You just make them an offer and see if they take it or not."
The carhop brought them the beer and hamburgers. They ate quickly. Before
they were finished the Mexicans in the next car had finished their beers.
They tooted their horn for the carhop. When she took the tray from their
car, there were three one-dollar bills on it. As she walked back to the
drive-in, she held the tray low so Georgia could see the size of the tip.
Mike paid their bill and they swung out on the road that led to Los Angeles.
CHAPTER 18
Memories
On the table in front of Cromwell was an untouched martini.
He could smell its chilled, lemon-scented surface. It was a thin odor
and he knew the sensation of thirst and tightness in his chest would
be eased when he drank. But he waited. He looked at the Board members;
made himself smile.
Kelly put his hand around his old-fashioned glass, started to lift it
and then thought of a joke.
"Did you hear the one about the woman who saw the bull outside the
kitchen window?" Kelly said. "Well, the woman is mixing bread . . . "
Kelly took his hand away from his glass without drinking and Cromwell
felt a sharp disappointment. He did not look down, but he turned the
cold thin stem. Saliva gathered around the back of his mouth; dry,
cottony flecks that stuck to his teeth. He opened his mouth, worked
his lips. Costello, the Mexican, lifted his old-fashioned and took
a sip. Cromwell raised his glass and drank half the martini. The cold
tasteless liquid flowed through dry passages and into his stomach with a
soft stunning sensation. Instantly it was in his blood. His head cleared,
a nervousness disappeared, the saliva vanished from his mouth. He bent
forward eagerly to hear the rest of Kelly's story.
"And there the woman is, kneading and kneading away at the bread and
muttering, 'Damn that husband of mine; never around when I want him,'"
Kelly said.
Kelly lifted his hand and smashed it down on the table. They all
laughed. Cromwell finished his drink and signaled to the waitress for
another round. The Jonathon Club dining room was slowly filling. Cromwell
looked at the Board men.
Kelly was the strongest member, he thought. Costello was a Mexican with
a bland face and a pattern of smallpox scars across his nose. He claimed
to have great influence with the Mexican voters and no one could prove
whether he did or didn't. Franwich was a small wiry farmer from the north
of the state and he was very attractive to the prohibitionists. He was
reputed to be the most corrupt member of the Board. Smithies was from
the north. He was a huge sprawling man. Buttons, belts and suspenders dug
into his flesh like strings that held his baggy shape together. But the
flesh edged around its bonds. The suspenders disappeared in fat. The tips
of his shirt collar stuck out from a drooping roll of flesh. His mouth
was a pink gash among folds of flesh. He had an enormous knowledge of
California politics and he was scrupulously honest.
"I remember your father, Cromwell," Kelly said. "I went to San Francisco
once to see him. Just before he died. Wanted to get him to invest in a
pet project of mine. You were just out of law school then."
"I remember," Cromwell said. "It was your avocado idea."
The other men at the table laughed and Kelly's face tightened up
defensively.
"That's right. And it was a hell of a good idea," Kelly said.
Cromwell remembered how shocked his mother had been by Kelly. Cromwell's
father had brought Kelly to dinner just once at their home in Atherton
and after that his mother had refused to entertain Kelly again.
Kelly came to San Diego from Dublin. He stepped off a ship in San Diego
Harbor in 1910, and two weeks later he was in the avocado business. He
looked at the crisp green skin of the avocado, tasted its bland rich
flesh and it seemed the most exotic and beautiful of fruit. In 1910
avocado trees were used mostly for decoration and only Mexicans and
bums ate the fruit. Kelly bought 250 acres of avocados. After working
twelve hours a day in a foundry, he went out to the grove and tended
his trees. On Sundays he worked in the hot dry soil, digging irrigation
grooves, hoeing around the trees, trimming the limbs back. He wore out
his cheap Dublin tweeds, bought cheap blue denims and wore out three
suits before the trees bore fruit.
The fruit came out heavy and green, hanging with a peculiar richness from
the thin branches. Kelly used to stand and stare at the trees, lifting
the fruit delicately with his stubby fingers, unable to believe that
dirt and water and sun could do anything so wonderful. The California
sun burned his hands mottled brown and his neck cherry red and wove tiny
triangles of bloodshot in the corners of his eyes and he forgot entirely
about Dublin and its rain and mist and cold.
But no one wanted the avocados. The Mexicans bought a few and squashed
them up with onions and ate them on folded tortillas. And the bums from
the harbor drifted out on sunny days and stole avocados and spooned
their bellies full and fell asleep beside Kelly's trees. Most of the
avocados rotted in great stinking heaps; going soft and flowing together
and making a brown-green mound that hummed with flies and gave off a
queer sweet smell that was enough to make strangers vomit when they
first caught wind of it.
Kelly decided to make cold cream out of the avocados. For months he
ground the flesh of the avocados into a thick paste, mixed it with perfume
and musk and preservative. But the paste always turned brown and stank.
Until one day a druggist told him about a new preservative and he added
it to the avocado paste and the paste stayed green and sweet. Then Kelly
sold the cold cream from door to door. He sold it in white pots with a
little brochure which told women how the oil would rejuvenate the skin
of the face and neck and hands. One day something happened, and like a
breeze the knowledge of avocado cold cream spread all over California and
movie stars and housewives and great women were using it. The magazines
ran articles showing pictures of Kelly mixing the cold cream and quoting
him as saying "It's nature's way to nourish the skin."
A neat little factory grew up beside the grove and Kelly stopped working
at the foundry. He bought newspaper ads and the white pots started to
carry a gold label. He picked up 2500 acres in Seal Beach and planned
to plant it to avocados. He bought a car and had cases of Irish whisky
shipped over directly from Dublin. But he still worked in the groves;
his head bare, and grinning as his face and chest were burnt by the
sun. The Mexicans who worked the groves laughed and thought he was
crazy; made mad by the sun. He roared and bellowed among the trees,
jabbing his shovel at the irrigation canals, softly testing the fruit,
kicking the dry rich soil.
Then one night a Hollywood starlet woke up, ran her pink tongue over a
cupid-bow mouth made tender by avocado cold cream. She swallowed some
of the cold cream. She died the next morning, screaming in agony. Like
a dropping breeze, the avocado cold cream business vanished, although
Kelly went from door to door again, arguing and scolding and fighting
with the women, telling them that the cold cream was wonderful. He would
reach into the pots and scoop out huge fingerfuls of the green paste
and eat it to show them it was harmless, but they were not buying.
Kelly went broke trying to save his avocado cold cream. He believed
in it fanatically, blindly, with an Irish single-mindedness. He spent
money on newspaper ads and he hauled seven different people into court
for libeling his product. Finally he lost his original avocado grove
when he couldn't meet the mortgage.
In the end it made no difference, for they found oil on the land he
owned at Seal Beach. With a canny insight he refused to sell the land
to Standard or Shell or Richfield or anyone. He held on to it and as
the land sprouted derricks and black tank farms, he grew rich.