Mud Puddlers

By Shaun Bailey

William Black may be the first racketeer to ever hit Las Vegas. He isn’t content “puddling mud,” or pouring Hoover Dam's concrete. He’s more concerned with running “the Black Bank,” an underground lottery complete with runners, middle men—the works. The only thing standing in his way is Simeon Eliason, the boomtown's dictatorial mayor. But does Black fall in line? No, instead he doubles down, and the reason is simple. If Black succeeds, he may never again have to perform hard labor. But if he fails, Eliason will have the proof he needs to send Black to the very back of the bread line, or worse. He could cement Black's legacy as a warning to every gangster intent on creating Sin City.

This is the first book to set the Hoover Dam's biggest myth as fiction, so what are you waiting for? Start your adventure now. Scroll to the top of the page and buy your very own copy today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shaun Bailey
• Release date: Jun 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370184927

Shaun Bailey

Shaun Bailey was born in Flint, Michigan, where boomtowns had a big influence on him. Finding little work, he left these to pursue writing in the style of his role model, John Steinbeck. This migration, together with his career writing about estuaries, led him to pen the novel "Mud Puddlers"; a book about hard-working migrants altering the course of arguably the grandest river of them all: the Colorado.Bailey lives in Michigan with his wife and two children. He has yet to lay eyes on the Hoover Dam, though he does marvel at its grandeur. What he doesn't marvel at are small, obsolete dams. That's why he is donating five percent of this book's profits to American Rivers. This way, every reader will help waterways flow freely to the sea once again.

Book preview

Mud Puddlers

By Shaun Bailey

For Lucas and Lauren,

so that they may know perseverance

This book, being about work, is, by its very nature, about violence to the spirit as well as the body; it’s above all about daily humiliations; it’s about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread; for recognition as well as cash; for astonishment rather than torpor. In short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying…

─Studs Terkel, 1974

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

First edition

Published by Shaun Bailey at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Shaun Bailey, all rights reserved

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER ONE

Step inside, folks! Roll the dice ’n’ watch the money flow like water!

William heard this from an alley across the street from the Boulder Club. Standing there, alone, he saw smile after smile disappear behind yellow mugs of frothy beer. He, meanwhile, gritted his teeth as neon-red light danced across his face.

The casino’s entrance featured an artist’s vision of its namesake: the Boulder Dam. Waitresses skirted this by with trays crowded with clanking cocktails, pitchers and shots. These, of course, were reserved for big spenders intent on becoming big winners. Wall-to-wall signs enabled them with claims of Jackpot! and Bonanza!, yet no shouts disturbed the murmur. The only exception was William, who marched up and down the sidewalk pleading with all who passed. In his hand he waved a stack of leaflets, many dotted with sweat dripping from his brow.

It’s class warfare, ain’t you heard? he said, blending his words like a true San Franciscan. Join me ’n’ the Industrial Workers of the World! We ain’t your pappy’s AFL!

Few Las Vegans accepted his leaflets. Many who did tossed them in the gutter. This was so much the case that he began shoving them into every open palm he saw.

William was pushing a flyer on a skeptical migrant when a hand clapped down on his shoulder, spinning him around. He flinched at the sight of a pointed finger in his face. Then he shook free and complained, Say, what gives you the right to─

I thought I warned you last week, but maybe I didn’t make myself clear, a deputy yelled, his lips curled beneath a wrinkled nose. Now I’ll be damned if this happens again. Come with me! It’s off to the Blue Room with you.

The sheriff and two deputies walked William west down Fremont Street. Along the way they shouted insults like Commie, Pinko and Red, as if saying so made it true. William, meanwhile, dragged his feet. This spurred his captors to shove his shoulders, jolting him forward every step or two. Rather than lash out, though, William uttered an appeal. But he had to shout it, lest the bells of First U.M.C. muffle his voice. Of course, it didn’t help that his protests had left him hoarse. Nevertheless, he drew in a deep breath and hollered, See this, friends? This here’s what happens when you demand your rights! But those looking on just pointed and stared, their heads turning like fans during the Now batting announcement. One even threw a bottle, which grazed his neck before shattering into a thousand shards outside the Northern Club. Undaunted, he continued, Why they─

Something lashed out from William’s blindside and struck him behind the ear. It hit him so hard he staggered into the street, his knees jerking as if running through muck. A few strides later he collapsed to his knees and elbows, face to face with burning-hot pavement. That’s where blood spilled from his stinging scalp, prompting him to curse aloud. And curse he did. He tried his best to rise and retaliate, but somehow he couldn’t. Instead his limbs flailed as if the blacktop was a swimming hole. He watched in disbelief as his vision blurred and faded, making everything, from the sidewalks to the straightaway, appear cockeyed and catawampus. Meanwhile, he winced at the cops’ laughter booming in his ears. He was so preoccupied with these and other symptoms that he scarcely fought back. Instead deputies dragged him down the street, his leaflets blowing in the breeze.

William awoke to cold water splashing across his body. That’s when he gasped and recoiled in shock, rubbing his shivering arms. These felt foreign to him, what with their goose bumps and grit, the latter of which he recognized as river silt. And he twinged at the touch of scrapes, each inflicted by others for a change.

Call off the doctor, won’t you, Roy? He’s comin’ to, said a monotone voice.

William opened his eyes to see a concrete floor and wall, both painted sky blue. He raised his head just enough to see a blurry crowd milling about. The only thing separating them was a shallow pool ripe with urine, feces, and vomit. One man was even adding to it—within arm’s reach, no less—his privates in plain view. This stirred up its scent, causing William to cough and drop his head with a clunk on the concrete.

William groaned and shifted his shoulders despite the sweaty shirt stuck to them like wet T.P. He smacked his lips for the first time in hours and tasted the distinct flavor of blood. Reaching for his handkerchief, he also noticed someone had spared him the heavy burden of his wallet and keys. That’s when he rolled onto his back, looked to the ceiling and noticed a noose fashioned into the cord from which a single light bulb hanged. He was now in the Blue Room; he and every vagrant guilty of loitering outside the Six Companies Employment Office.

William spent the next fifteen minutes attempting to sit up. When he did, he rubbed his throbbing temples for what seemed like another fifteen minutes. It wasn’t until he attempted to stand that he noticed shackles spanning his ankles. These contained no less than thirty links of chain, or so he counted, over and over.

You know why we’re in here, don’t you? he said to no one in particular. They’re scared, that’s why.

A few men turned and looked. One even nodded in agreement. For the most part, though, they continued their conversations. This prompted William to raise his voice; so much so that he spoke over those plunging into a protest song.

"On’y reason we’re in here’s ’cause we’re poor ’n’ ‘uncivilized.’ Those who ain’t are panicked; can’t you tell? They think we’re desperate; desperate ’nough to take from those with plenty, an’ crude ’nough to kill. Well they can’t have that, so they throw us in here. What’s it to them if some rumdums rot in cages? Tax dollars? Shoot, ain’t you heard? This here’s the greatest city in the world─generocity.

Come now, raise your hand if this here’s your first time up the river, William said, his eyes surveying his cellmates. Just as I thought; one, maybe two newcomers. The rest have been harassed since the first days of construction, an’ for what? Vagrancy─just for waitin’ to hear your names called. Well if that ain’t a blow upon a bruise; I tell you what. Well I say─

From the next room a jailer yelled, Hey, pipe down in there, ’fore I ride you roughshod clear to the county line!

William looked back to see men shuffling across the dank floor. Some turned their bodies. Others rolled over rather than provoke the guards’ ire. But that’s assuming they had their wits about them. More than one laid shivering and sweaty; alcohol withdrawal, or so he assumed.

Across the cell someone muttered Typical—all talk, no walk. Meanwhile, a trio of voices resumed singing. The only man to dare approach him whispered, An’ what do you suppose we do ’bout it? His eyes, meanwhile, remained fixed on the door, as if jailors may burst through it at any moment, guns drawn.

"Well think about it, friends. What’d our bosses do when they was too small to bid on the dam? They banded together. Yes, sir, this job required six companies, so Big Six is what you got. Let me ask you then, why can’t we do the same?"

William moved to the corner so everyone could see his face, sweaty brow and all. This caused the dangling light bulb to cast his shadow on the cinderblocks separating him from freedom. Others gathered round, shuffling through a fine layer of sand tracked in from the desert. This, together with their rattling chains, scoured the floor, its flaking paint calling out to be swept. Their smell, meanwhile, screamed for a fan, or better yet, a bath.

William lowered his voice almost to a whisper as he asked, Do you realize we outnumber folks in Boulder City ’n’ Las Vegas combined? All we got to do is organize ’n’─shoot─we’ll have ourselves a horde so overwhelming. What choice will they have; they’ll have to negotiate. An’ if they don’t, well then, we’ll bring everyone to a standstill, from the machine operators all the way on down to the lowliest water boy. We don’t need no contract neither, know why? This here’s industrial warfare, that’s what this is─a revolution. All we got to do is start small, you know? You can’t just attack the social fabric ’n’ expect─

The metal door rattled when it swung into the wall separating the Blue Room from booking. Through it stepped two guards, and they weren’t there to deliver chow. One carried a baton. The other, lacking such a weapon, carried a lead pipe. Both peered into the cell while waving at flies and fumes. The pipe wielder even plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and clutched it to his nose. The other slapped his baton against his palm to the rhythm with which he chewed his last morsel. He swallowed this while standing on his toes to see William and the audience he commanded. But he didn’t yell at first. Instead he belched before producing a toothpick with which to pick his front teeth.

You there! You got some real guile, you know that? Rilin’ up these moneyless wonders ... You keep talkin’ ’n’ you’ll need that medic after all.

William bit his lip and looked to the men surrounding him. They watched to see if he continued, cocksure as he was, but he didn’t. Instead he capitulated like all the rest, his face flushed red, in contrast to the room.

Listen here, everyone needs to know their place! Everyone needs to remain in their place!

As the guard spoke, he slapped his baton against his palm as if it was a drumhead. He paced back and forth before the bars, like a caged tiger at feeding time. And he scowled as he continued, "It’s comforting to know your place, in a lot of ways, so long as you’re content with that. An’ if you ain’t content with that, well then … you’re gonna have a hard go of it.

Say, that reminds me. One of you jailbirds got a telegram.

The guard reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and peered into the cell, as if taking an eye exam. He then looked back to its print and asked, Which one of you is William Black?

William raised his hand and frowned, his free hand on his hip.

Well don’t that fig’re. Here, said the guard, passing it through the bars. Can’t say I’m surprised.

William snatched the telegram and retreated round the cesspool, unfazed by its stench. The guard, in turn, stomped off, warning, Don’t nobody get comfortable! His companion followed close on his heels, but not before rapping the bars with his pipe. This made several men flinch, or worse. One even ducked and threw up his arms, as if construction debris was barreling down from some escarpment on high. There were a few though who didn’t budge, but instead eyed the pair as they exited into the comfort of their office, its radio briefly audible until they slammed the door.

William squinted at the typewritten telegram, a fly buzzing around his head. Those around him said What news? and Read aloud, but William didn’t respond. Instead he pulled its paper close to his face and mouthed its words, one agonizing syllable at a time. That’s when a bystander tapped him on the back and said, Give it here, friend.

William passed him the telegram, said Thanks and added, Reckon it’s time I get some eyeglasses.

The man looked from the telegram to William and back again. He rubbed his hand across his stubbled jaw and, again, his eyes surveyed William only to return to the telegram’s type. He then placed his hand on William’s shoulder, ushered him to a corner and, in a low voice, informed him, I’m afraid your brother has passed. My deepest sympathies.

William placed his hand high above his head on the wall. With his other he gripped the telegram and wiped his eyes, though this did little good. Tears streamed past his runny nose, raining onto the roaches at his feet. He tried his best to suppress these emotions and regain his earlier resolve, but they bubbled to the surface all the same, producing sniffles and sobs which echoed off the walls in short, gasping bursts. This continued for a minute or more until both guards returned, this time with reinforcements. Together they stood shoulder to shoulder before the cell, its inhabitants looking to one another for guidance. Only a few ignored them. They knew the drill.

"Listen up, vagrants! I can see the fog of alcohol has lifted, so here’s the score: Each of you will board the truck outside! Any man tries to flee will discover one of two things; either you’re dead or you’ll wish you was dead pullin’ five to ten in state prison! Those of you searching for work can just consider this your first transporter ride! Any complaints?"

Again the men looked for signs of protest, especially from William. When none rang out the sheriff continued, I didn’t think so! Alright then, we hope you enjoyed your stay here at the Black Hole of Calcutta! I’d just like to offer you one piece of parting advice, and that is don’t let the sun set on your freeloadin’ ass in Las Vegas! Henry …

With that, a door opened to reveal light so bright it masked the outdoors in shades of yellow and white. The rhythmic sound of a diesel engine filled the cell, and its smoky exhaust soon followed. One man ventured to ask for some water before their journey, but this was met only with a stern nod toward the truck. Others took no such liberty, instead darting for the door as if a dinner bell rang just outside.

The prisoners filed out with William at the rear. Along the way he raised his hand to his eyes, which he clenched when the door slammed behind him. Greeting him there were two guards, both with their pistols drawn. Each stood on a corner of the truck’s long flatbed. That’s where they studied William as he pulled himself onto its repurposed railroad ties, knelt at their feet, and grasped for a handhold or two. Finding none, he eventually laid down on his back.

Several minutes later the truck departed at a snail’s pace. Some pointed as the perps paraded past, but most scattered on sight of police nearing the state employment office. William sat up and shook his head as he departed their presence. This prompted his neighbor to engage him in a voice just louder than the engine, saying, I agree with what you said back there. You know how it is though … can’t risk bein’ reported to the superintendant. You see, I ain’t an ol’ worthy like you. Otherwise, ain’t nobody nor nothin’ could keep me from joinin’.

William cocked his head and knit his brow. Ol’ worthy, he scoffed. Maybe round the dance halls. Let me tell you somethin’, ’em foremen see me as nothin’ more ’n a waterman marooned in the Mohave; a real fish out of water. You’re right to be cautious though. Everyone is. That’s why I need me some bait … somethin’ gets ’em flockin’ to me rather ’n the other way around.

William again knit his brow as he looked to the edge of town. Nearby a shopkeeper scowled after dumping his bucket in the gutter with a splash. He followed this by snatching his cigar from his mouth and spitting as if his tobacco had gone stale. William watched him stare after the truck, his body rigid as his own bounced and swayed over bumps, potholes, and washboards.

What I need is a business, he continued. Somethin’ no man can resist.

William’s companion smiled, looked left, and looked right. He waved a hand at all he saw and said, Look around you, frien'. This here’s Gomorrah, complete with cantinas, gambling an’ girls. Anything else is just child’s play.

William looked across the truck and saw both guards talking. Together they shared a good laugh while gripping the backstop for balance. Then one let go, trusting his sea legs, and pulled a billfold from his pocket. From this he plucked a crisp dollar, though he delayed parting with it. This prompted the other to snatch it from his hand and, with a dubious smile, snap it between his fingertips, onlookers be damned.

"Any man pickles his gizzard is liable to rat. An’ Houdini himself couldn’t hide no workin’ girls; not in this labor camp. Suppose I was to take up numbers. There was a time I used to dabble in that you know."

Numbers? Hell, that could earn you the worst punishment of all. Ain’t you worried?

Worried? Shoot, I ain’t no heathen. Way I see it, us bookies sell hope. I can’t explain it, but, somethin’ happens when a man thinks his future’s ’bout to change for the better, ’n’ fast. Makes ’im a better person, if only for a day. But maybe that’s the day he don’t hit the bottle or, for that matter, his wife ’n’ kids. Now I know it’s a stretch, but can’t no one convince me otherwise. To me, numbers is a righteous racket.

The man’s head rocked back as he smiled and glanced at the sky.

"I’m serious. Think about it; customer after customer walks away knowin’ the odds’re stacked against ’em, yet their spirits lift all the same. Most spend their day picturin’ the countless ways their lives might improve, not the mention their kin. It’s as if each rents a positive outlook for the day, an’ who wouldn’t want to do that? To feel fortunate is somethin’ few have enjoyed in years, much less successful.

It’s sort of like union men, wouldn’t you agree? Both pay good money to feel like the future is bright.

William pondered this as the truck departed Las Vegas onto the highway. It had reached full speed only briefly when it stopped, its dust rolling by in billowing clouds. Men peered through its brown haze for a company truck meeting them mid-way, but this was nowhere to be seen. Instead they watched as both guards snaked their way to the bumper, at times stepping over reeling bodies. Neither said a word as they hopped off, walked but a few paces, and turned to face their cargo. There the hot sun glinted off their sunglasses as they stood stone-faced, their hands on their hips. The only exception was when a school bus slowed. Its high schoolers rubbernecked with intrigue, but not for long. Their driver sped off after both guards waved him through in annoyance.

What do you make of it? William asked.

His companion looked to the cab, shook his head and said, Chain gang I reckon, on’y we got no tools.

A guard shouted over the rumbling engine, saying, Alright, men! This here’s where we part ways! You best get a move on now! It’s a long way to the next town no matter which way you hoof it!

The men sat there, their protests suspended like silt carried by the Colorado. Some looked to others only to see them disembark, stand there, and wait for instruction. Others marched off as if this wasn’t their first boondoggle, but not before lining up to see their shackles unlocked. William, on the other hand, watched from the truck. He even made himself comfortable, going so far as to lay back, cross his legs at the ankles, and prop himself on one elbow. He then looked up, closed his eyes, and basked in the sunlight warming his face. He remained that way even as a red-faced guard barked orders from the roadside.

You there! You got wax in your ears? I said shake a leg, ’fore I knock you into next week!

William opened his eyes and surveyed his fellow parolees. Many had halted their hikes to see his spectacle unfold. Others continued on their way, despite those asking after the sources of their next meals.

William remained silent. This prompted the guard to scale both the tire and its wheel well. He heard the man’s boots approach from the rear, and he watched as his shadow enveloped his own. This black form loomed on the flat bed, as did a rifle extending from it. Both stood motionless against its wooden surface, which untold cargoes had rubbed smooth.

Again he ordered, Get down. I ain’t gonna ask you again.

William placed his hands on the truck as if to lift himself up. Rather than comply, though, he instead shifted his weight to make himself even more comfortable. Again, he surveyed the highway for those hiking its shoulder. He looked as many turned to watch his situation unfold. That’s when a blow to his head sent him tumbling off the truck. All he saw was blue sky after that. All he heard was the truck’s revving engine. And all he felt was pain; that and a pair of hands fumbling with his legs irons. That’s when he lashed out, kicking the air despite wishing these gone. He then grabbed the man’s holster, or what he thought was his holster, cloaked in shadows cast by the sun. William had all but focused