The next morning, everyone was back, a few clearly a bit the worse for wear, but they all filed out and climbed aboard the flatcar. Work went on normally for the rest of the week. On Friday, Flannery drove his truck to the mine site and got out, but he didn’t say much to anyone. He just stood and leaned against the tailgate, a morose expression on his pudgy face. One of the Latino men came with him, but the one with the pockmarked face was missing.
“Chuy’s prob’ly on a drug run,” someone muttered. “Creep offered to sell me some last week, real cheap, he said.”
Roane thought it was Jimmy, who hated the other two Latinos with a passion.
“Damn pendejos, they make the rest of us look bad. Nothing but lazy, druggie wetbacks…”
Roane saw Mike Hale and nodded to him, but tried not to appear an
