You're lucky," the bum said. "You can get work. A guy stops near here every morning with a truck - picks up guys to do yard work, but he only takes Mexicans. Says whites are too lazy."룸알바
"Are they?" Samson asked. He figured that after persecuting blacks, hiding money, stealing land, breaking treaties, and keeping themselves pure, maybe the whites were just tired. He was glad he was Mexican.
"You speak pretty good English for a wet."
"Where does the guy with the truck stop? Has he been by today?"
"I'm not lazy," the bum said. "I earned a degree in philosophy."
"I'll give you a dollar," Samson said.
"I'm having trouble finding work in my field."
Samson dug a dollar out of his pocket and held it out to the bum, who snatched it and quickly secreted it among his rags. "He stops about a block from here, in front of the all-night diner." The bum pointed down the street. "I haven't seen him go by today, but I was sleeping."
"Thanks." Samson rose and started down the street.
The bum called after him, "Hey, kid, come back tonight. I'll guard your back while you sleep if you buy a jug."
Samson waved over his shoulder. He wouldn't be back if he could avoid it. A block away he joined a group of men who were waiting at the corner when a large gate-sided truck pulled up, the back already half full of Mexicans.
The man who drove the truck got out and walked around to where the men were waiting. He was short and brown and wore a straw Stetson, cowboy boots, and thick black mustache over the sly grin of a chicken thief. The men who worked for him called him patron, but ironically, the common term for his profession was Coyote.