BY JOEL TAGERT BEST OF BIRDY 054 I tell ya, it’s getting so you can’t take a dame to an abandoned beach no more without some giant bug trying to crunch you between its mouth-hooks. There I was with my client, Ms. Harriet Flores, when this giant ant comes over the rise, and it looks red, mean, huge and hungry. I stand up lickety-split, pulling my bean-squirter. I look once at Flores, who’s looking right back at me, and then the ant is rushing us. But I didn’t spend six years in Uncle Sam’s shooting club for nothing, so I put a slug right in one of its ugly eyes, and down it goes, flailing its legs and stirring up a cloud of sand right in our faces. When I’m done spitting grit, I grab Flores’ hand. “Come on, we gotta run.” She stands, but none too quickly. “What for? It’s dead.” “You ever see just one ant at a picnic? Come on!” Seems like lately I been seeing ants everywhere. Must be how some hop-heads feel, always scratching imaginary bugs, only mine are real and oversized. Last Wednesday, this guy by the name of Selva comes into my office. He’s clean-cut and in a good suit, so I figure maybe he’s got some dough. Then he says he’s a civil rights lawyer, so I reconsider. But I hear him out. No. 136 “People are dying in the fields,” he says. “Three so far. The others are terrified, but they don’t want to talk to the police.” “What people?” “Migrant workers. Fruit pickers.” “I thought that was all done by ants these days.” You see ‘em all the time, driving around California — little black knee-high buggers tending the crops. Helluva lot cheaper than paying any kind of human. “Ants are best for low plants.” He puts his hand at his waist. “For orchards, not as good. So there are still humans. This is in the orange orchards in Riverside.” Seems three workers are picking oranges in the sky now. He shows me pictures, and they aren’t pretty. Looks like someone went at ‘em with a machete. “Hard to believe the police aren’t looking into it.” “They think it’s maybe gangs from Mexico, drugs. But it’s not. And right next door to the orchards is a military base, and they don’t answer questions.” I’m about to tell him if the Army’s involved, there isn’t much I can do — I’m a private dick, not a spy — but he pulls out three C-notes and I shut my yap. I promise no results, but for that many berries, I’ll give it the old college try.
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