Linda Warren - On The Texas Border

“Mr. Jonas, I—”

“Handle it, Juan, I’ll be back later,” Jonas threw over his shoulder as he made his way to his truck, which was parked out back.

In less than five minutes he pulled up in front of Mick’s Tavern in town. He got out of the truck and went inside. The place was a dive—peanut shells littered the worn floor, a jukebox hummed in a corner and a Mexican couple necked at a table that could have used a good cleaning. Jonas came here often to unwind. God, he needed to unwind today. That Duncan woman was beginning to get to him.

“Coke and peanuts,” he said to Mick, who stood behind the bar. Jonas and Mick were old friends. Mick had been there for him when no one else had—not even his own parents. In fact, Jonas thought, Mick was probably the only person who’d cared about him when he was a kid.

Mick had married a Mexican woman, and they’d settled in this small border town so his wife could be close to her family. Mick was a die-hard Texan with rough edges and a spit-in-your-eye attitude. He was equally at home with the locals and the Mexicans. Everyone knew that Mick was a good man to turn to in times of trouble. He had helped many other people as well as Jonas.

Not all of Mick’s endeavors were on the up-and-up, though. Even as a kid Jonas had figured that out. A brothel was illegal in Texas, yet Mick operated one in plain sight of the sheriff and the town. Jonas knew that Mick had some sort of arrangement with the sheriff. For a certain amount of money, the sheriff turned a blind eye. A lot of illegal activity—drugs, prostitution, smuggling—went on in this town, yet nothing was ever done about it. Brewster was the only one who could put a stop to it—and he chose not to.

Illegal immigration was also a big problem. No matter how tight the security, Mexicans always managed to find a way to get across the Rio Grande undetected. It was routine for illegals to show up at Brewster farms wanting work. Brewster had always hired them, and Jonas continued that practice. If they proved to be good workers, he tried to help them get a Green Card so they could continue to work without fear of being caught. It was a lengthy process, but worth waiting for. Many extended families—parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts and cousins—came to work for Brewster. Once here, they usually stayed—only going home for visits.

Some went farther into Texas or other states. It made Jonas sick when he heard of illegals dying from heat, exhaustion and thirst while hiding from the border patrol. Then there were the “coyotes”—as the Mexicans called them—who smuggled illegals across the border for a price and transported them deeper into Texas. They jammed as many people as they could into a concealed truck. If the Mexicans didn’t die from suffocation, and if the driver managed to slip through the checkpoints without suspicion, they had a ticket to freedom. It was a roll of the dice and the Mexicans took it.

Jonas remembered the first time he had helped to burn the sugarcane for harvesting. Three bodies were found huddled together. No identification, nothing on them, and everyone knew they were illegals. Unfortunately, it was something that happened too often. When Jonas took over Brewster Farms, he warned the Mexicans when the cane was going to be burned. He wanted the word spread on both sides of the border. He then had Juan use a foghorn and circle the fields, informing everyone in Spanish that the burning was about to begin. So far he hadn’t had to witness such an awful scene again.

During peak season, temporary Mexican laborers came by the busload with a special pass to work. They couldn’t go farther than twenty-five miles from the border and they had to return to Mexico at night. It was a good arrangement and it helped everyone. In the winter months, seasonal workers came from up north to avoid the bad winters. The trailer park was a hive of activity during that time. Some workers came regularly and a reunion took place every year. All in all, everyone got along. Everywhere there was Mexican music mixed with country.

Mick slid an iced cola can and a bowl of roasted peanuts across the bar. Jonas took them and sat at one of the tables, propping his feet up on a chair. He took a swig of the cola and began to break the peanut shells.

Mick came over to the table. A white apron covered his large form. He chewed on a cigar. He never lit the thing, but he always had one in his mouth. “Why do you come in here, Jonas? You never buy any liquor or make use of my girls.”

“I don’t drink and I don’t need to pay for sex,” Jonas said, popping a peanut in his mouth. He glanced at Mick. “You got a problem with that?”

Mick held up his hands. “No problem. Just bad for business. In the old days I couldn’t keep you outta here.”

Jonas removed his worn hat and plopped it on the table. “The old days, Mick? I’ve forgotten what the hell they were like.”

“No, you haven’t,” Mick said, pulled up a chair and rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You made a mistake. You were young. Now it’s time to say adios to all that.”

Jonas ran his thumb over the sweat on the cold can. “Yeah, if only it were that easy.”

“Brewster can’t control you forever,” Mick told him. “Not unless you let him.”

Jonas looked at his friend.

“You’ve paid your dues,” Mick added forcefully.

Jonas went back to rubbing his thumb over the can. He didn’t want to talk about Brewster or the past. It was over, but his dues would never be paid, not until…

Mick caught that stubborn look and changed the subject. “I got two illegals over at my place. They’re scared but they need work.”

“How old are they?”

Mick sighed. “Why do you always have to ask that?”

“Because I’m not working kids.”

Mick chewed on the cigar. “They’re both sixteen.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” Mick knew that sixteen was the youngest age that Jonas would allow.

“I haven’t lied to you since you were eight years old. I told you the truth even when it hurt.”

He had. Mick had always been straight with him, so there was no reason to doubt him. Jonas had a strict rule about children. He refused to work them. Brewster gave him enough leeway to enforce it.

“Send them over,” he said. “I think there’s a couple of beds in a trailer. Make sure they’re aware of the rules—no liquor or drugs on the premises. As long as they behave, they’ll have a safe place to work. Tell them to ask for Juan and fill out papers, and they can start work tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Jonas,” Mick said. “How about another Coke?”

“Sure, why not.”

On his way to the bar, Mick asked, “What’s Brewster got you in a snit about today?”

“It’s not Brewster.”

Mick set another can in front of him. “Then, it has to be a woman.”

Jonas took a swallow. “Women, Mick? How in the hell do you figure them out?”

“I don’t. I just enjoy them.”

Jonas laughed. “That’s very good advice.”

“Then, why the hell don’t you take it?”

Jonas didn’t answer. Mick wouldn’t understand, anyway. Jonas tipped his head back and drank thirstily.

Mick watched him for a moment. “Why don’t you get on your Harley and head for parts unknown. What the hell can Brewster do?”

Jonas pushed hair away from his forehead. “In my dreams, Mick…only in my dreams.”

Neither spoke for a moment, then Mick said, “Is this about the pretty Duncan woman who’s been hanging around the Brewster mansion? She’s a nice piece of—”

Jonas stopped him. “Don’t talk trash.”

“Then, it is about Abigail Duncan.”

“Brewster’s using her, and I can’t figure out why.”