Beyond This Point Are Monsters by Margaret Millar Page B

operation.”
    â€œWhat happened in September with regard to this op­eration?”
    â€œPlenty, all of it bad. My second son, Rufo, got married and went to live in Salinas so his wife could be near her family. My third son, Felipe, left to try and find employ­ment in another line. I lost even Jaime, because school started and he could only help on Saturdays. The border- crossers had their minibus stolen off a street in Tijuana and couldn’t come to work without transportation. By the end of the month only Cruz, my oldest son, was still with me working full-time. We were putting in sixteen-hour days until that old G.M. truck arrived with the men in it.”
    â€œYou’re referring to the men you subsequently hired to harvest tomatoes and dates.”
    â€œâ€˜Subsequently’ makes it sound like I sat around think­ing about it first. I didn’t. I hired them as soon as they could pile out of the truck. Then I phoned Lum Wing at his daughter’s place in Boca de Rio and told him he had a job cooking for a new crew.”
    â€œHow many men were in this crew, Mr. Estivar?”
    â€œTen.”
    â€œWere they strangers to you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThey were not, as far as you knew, wetbacks or alambres.”
    â€œNo. They were viseros, Mexican nationals registered as farm hands with visas that allowed them to work in this country. Anglos usually called them green-carders because the visas are in the form of green cards.”
    â€œDid the crew present their visas, or green cards, to you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat did you do then?”
    â€œI told the men they were hired and entered their names and addresses in my books. My son, Cruz, showed them where they were to eat and sleep and store their gear.”
    â€œDid they have much gear?”
    â€œMigrants travel light,” Estivar said. “They live light.”
    â€œDid you examine the visas carefully when they were presented to you?”
    â€œI looked at them. Like I mentioned before, I’m not a cop, there’s no way for me to tell by looking at a visa whether it’s genuine or not. If I hadn’t hired those men they’d have just gone over to Mr. Bishop’s place across the river or to the Polks’ ranch east of that. All the small growers were desperate for help because of the huelga, the grape strike, and because it was the height of the harvest­ing season.”
    â€œDid the crew have a leader?”
    â€œI’m not sure you could call him a leader exactly, but the man who drove the truck did most of the talking.”
    â€œYou said it was an old G.M. truck.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow old?”
    â€œVery. It was burning so much oil it looked like a smokestack.”
    â€œWho owned the truck?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDidn’t you check the vehicle registration?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI never thought of it. Why should I? If you drove up to the ranch and asked for a job picking tomatoes, I wouldn’t check your car registration.”
    Ford raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Would you give me a job, Mr. Estivar?”
    â€œI might. But you wouldn’t last.” There was a burst of laughter from the spectators. Estivar did not join in. Color had spread across his face again except for a thin white line around his mouth. “You’re too tall. Tall men have a rough time doing stoop labor.”
    â€œWhat day was it when the crew arrived at the ranch in the old G.M. truck?”
    â€œSeptember twenty-eighth, a Thursday.”
    â€œSo that by the time Robert Osborne disappeared, Oc­tober thirteen, the men had been working at the ranch for two weeks.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDid you get to know any of them personally?”
    â€œI don’t run a social club.”
    â€œStill, it’s possible that one or two of the men might have told you about their wives and