The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols Page B

dirty.
    After an avocado salad lunch on the day Joe Mondragón first began to irrigate his beanfield, Ladd Devine’s starched and prissified personal secretary, Emerson Lapp, scuttled like a nervous crayfish into the Devines’ private den.
    â€œBad news downtown,” he said. “Something funny is happening, Mr. D. It looks like trouble to me.”
    â€œCalm down, Em,” Devine urged quietly. “You want a bit of Irish coffee? Flossie and I were just having a cup, weren’t we, Flossie?”
    â€œMaybe you better hear about this right away,” Lapp wheezed. “You know this guy downtown, his name is Joe Mondragón? He worked up here once, maybe four, five summers ago. He was on that cesspool crew you hired and during the time they worked we kept missing things, remember? A couple of aluminum siding panels, a few tools, some of that roughcut lumber we were using on the stables extension. After maybe three weeks you narrowed the thefts down to Joe and fired him.”
    â€œOh yes.” Devine nodded. “He was a real wise guy.”
    â€œWell, he’s cutting irrigation water into his father’s piece of property over there on the west side.”
    â€œWhat was his father’s first name? A lot of Mondragóns lived over there.”
    â€œI don’t remember. But you don’t own it, Mr. D. This Mondragón was one who wouldn’t sell, remember? The old man—Joe’s father—he went around raising a big stink back then, telling people not to sell. His son is a troublemaker, first class.”
    â€œThen what you’re saying, Em, is that this Joe Mondragón is illegally irrigating his father’s land, or his own land as the case may be, over there on the west side.”
    â€œExactly. And I don’t like it. He could stir up something nasty. Those people down there, they’re tense enough as it is over this dam proposition—you know, and the conservancy district. If you ask me, and you’ll pardon my French I’m sure, Flossie, he could start a fucking war if this isn’t handled correctly and disposed of quickly and efficiently.”
    Devine pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. Then he picked up the telephone at his elbow and called the sheriff.
    â€œHello, Bernie? Ladd Devine. Say, listen, my friend, my secretary Mr. Lapp just came in with a story about this character, what’s his name? this Joe Mondragón fellow he says is diverting irrigation water into one of those fields on the west side.”
    â€œHe speaks the truth,” Bernabé said, covering the mouthpiece as he whispered to his wife, “Carolina, get me a couple aspirins, will you? This is getting worse.”
    â€œWell, tell me then, Bernie. Do you think there’s any possibility an apparently random action like this could have serious consequences?”
    â€œMaybe. I dunno, Mr. Devine. But that’s been on my mind, I can promise you.”
    â€œDid you go have a talk with Joe?”
    â€œWell, it’s this way, sir. Joe would have told me to jump in a lake before I opened my mouth.”
    â€œYou could arrest him, couldn’t you?”
    â€œI figure until I understand better how the people here feel, Mr. Devine, and whether there’s more than just one person involved, it might be foolish to start driving folks down to the Chamisa V. cooler. You know, some fanatics in town are just a little bit tense about your dam, sir—”
    â€œIt isn’t my dam, Bernie. It would be controlled and operated by the people.”
    â€œSure, sure. But of course you’re aware of some of the sentiments floating around down here anyway.” Masochistically, the sheriff chewed up the aspirin in his mouth, making a horrible face that startled his wife.
    â€œI see.” Devine thought for a moment. At length he said, “Bernie, I suppose you’re right. At least for now.”
    â€œBasically, there’s