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“Well, shit,” muttered Ghost. “We’re trying to do something nice and getting our asses chewed.”
“They’ll thank us in the end,” said Gaspar. “This will all be worth it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Mornin’,” said Alec, walking toward the gray, run-down shack.
“Mornin’.”
“I’m Alec Robicheaux, sir, and this is my friend, Tailor Bongard,” he said, holding out a big hand to the older black man.
“I know who ‘ya are. Somethin’ wrong?”
“No, sir. I was just wondering who owns these homes,” he said, pointing down the row of shacks.
“Mr. Couvillion,” he said. “Owns everything here. Owns the fishin’ boats we work on. Gives us these places as part of our payment.”
“Part of your payment? What do you mean?” asked Tailor.
“Mean he gives me pay plus this to live in. Gotta have a roof if I’m gonna take care of my grandson.” He turned toward the door and yelled for the boy. “Joshua! Come on out.”
The young man walked out, looking down at his feet. This was a boy who was either used to being in trouble or used to being bullied. He did not want his face seen by these men.
“Sir, these places don’t appear safe. Do you have plumbing and electrical?” asked Tailor.
“Got plumbing out back,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the outhouse. “Electrical is spotty. We use the fire to cook most of our meals. You an inspector or somethin’?”
“This is fucking archaic,” said Alec. “No one lives like this any longer.”
“Mr. Couvillion won’t let us do nothin’ to the places,” said the old man. “Says they’re good just like they are. Wouldn’t matter. He don’t pay us enough to do nothin’ to the houses. Don’t care about me. Care about my grandson stayin’ dry and warm. We do alright together.”
“What does he pay you?” asked Alec.
“Four dollars an hour and a small allotment of the fish we catch. Plus the house,” said the old man. Alec looked at Tailor, who was shaking his head. What he was doing was illegal.
“Joshua, is it?” asked Tailor. The boy nodded. “You attend school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That’s good. Would you mind letting us take a look inside?” he asked.
“Go ahead. Ain’t nothin’ to see.”
That might have been the understatement of the year. There were two small twin beds against the wall with tattered sheets and blankets on them. If it were possible, the inside was colder and worse for wear than the outside. The floorboards were weathered, splintered, and damn near falling apart. There was no insulation between the floor and the earth below, causing cold drafts to rise up between them.
“Jesus,” muttered Tailor. “It’s like we’ve stepped back two hundred years.”
“This ain’t right,” said Alec. “We can’t let them live like this.”
“You know this man? Couvillion?”
“No, but maybe Pops has heard of him. I think we need to ask him what to do about it. We have to help these folks. Let’s go look at the others.” Stepping back outside, the boy was now seated beneath a tree, reading a book.
“He seems like a good boy,” said Alec.
“He tries,” nodded the old man. “Folks left him with me about five years ago. Never came back. I can’t let him go to a home, so I went back to work for Mr. Couvillion on the fishin’ boats. Out there ten, twelve hours a day, sometimes longer. Gives us food on the table, though.”
“Sir, working that many hours should give you a good living. This house is uninhabitable.”
