Chapter 58

I used the Clark until one of the laborers ... more or less ... shoved me outta the seat and took over. He was Much better at it than I.

“Gonzalez?”

“Sí, Patrón,” he said.

“That’s your job.”

“Sí, Patrón.”

At the end of the day, Gonzalez, lubed the zerks, filled the gas tank, checked hydraulics and the oil reservoir, checked the engine oil and added a pint.

A thumbs up and I was off to home. It’s only a block and a half, I wanted to make sure I was there when winter struck. I could walk it.

The shower was great and the meal ... wait ... who cooked? I looked around ... the house was spotless ... who cleaned? I searched ... nobody. Who ever did it had a job for life. One of the drawbacks of North Island ... When I was done working ... I wasn’t. Same deal with the Basilisk ... I cooked and cleaned.

When I came in the next morning Gonzalez was just finishing the conversion to propane. Propane is safer in confined and inadequately ventilated quarters.

“Gonzalez!”

“Sí, Patrón.”

“Good man!”

“Sí, Patrón.”

The entire shop broke out into laughter.

Now ... about this Patrón. In the normal course of events, a woman boss was MARRIED to the boss ... she would be the “Patróness.”

“Patróness.” ... a diminutive, a deliberate belittling of a female. But I wasn’t married ... wasn’t planing TO get married ... probably, maybe in a far distant time and another universe ... I might ... consider a man to be worthy of my talents and time.

BUT NOT HERE!

And as Macho as these men were ... they knew I was “Sí, Patrón.” They accepted it ... and those who didn’t? I’d beat the living fuck outta them and see them to the door.

At least ... that was the plan.

“Maria?”

“Sí, Patrón.”

“Who cleaned my house?”

“Sofia, Patrón.”

“Who told her she could clean my house?”

Maria turned bright red.

“Guilty, guilty, guilty,” I said.

“Who cooked my dinner?”

“Bianca, Patrón.”

She blushed.

“Uh huh,” I have frowns ... and I have grins. I also have an evil grin. She got it. “Summon them.”

“I’ll send a boy,” she said.

“Where are they?”

“At your house, Patrón.”

“No. No boy. You go.”

“I?” Oops ... overstepped. “Sí, Patrón.”

She ran all the way. I know ... I watched.

The three of them ran all the way back.

When they, Bianca, Sofia and Maria, came in the door ... I was seated in MARIA’S chair...

Sofia was maybe 16.

Bianca could not have been 14.

They resembled each other ... sisters ... cousins at the very least.

“Why?” I asked.

A sad story

Mama ... Papa ... died during the journey to America. Rather than go back ... and here they were. Orphans and determined.

“What are we paying you?”

The story continued ... nothing ... they had a roof and a pallet ... and “Please ... Patrón. Don’t send us back.”

“You must go to school!”

“How will we work for you and go to school?”

“Clothes? Shoes?”

“What about... ?”

“After school.”

“Maria?”

“Sí, Patrón.”

“You are an angel ... good work.” I asked, “Fifty dollars a week?”

“You’re not mad?”

“Heck no ... but ... you get to take them shopping.”

“Gonzalez!”

“Sí, Patrón.”

“Take her chair back to her office.”

“Sí, Patrón.”

My down state lawyer, Charles William Austin lll and his secretary, ... paperwork ... paperwork, and more paperwork.

Applications for Green Cards. I think I may have spent a weeks trust fund interest getting the paperwork.

I know I signed my hand into cramps.