Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) by Mark Wheaton Read Free Book Online Page A

tinkering in the garage. He partnered with the viticulture and enology program at the University of California at Santa Barbara and brought students to these fields as well. His earthy humor and unaffected humility soon made him a favorite of faculty and students alike.
    Henry had one son, Jason, but the boy was born with his uncle’s head for business, not his father’s love of the fields. The heir apparent to the Marshak empire was often mistaken for Glenn’s son rather than Henry’s.
    Henry didn’t mind.
    As he drove through the fields that had borne his family’s name for almost a century, he inhaled every scent coming through his open window. It was the height of the strawberry harvest. The rows were peppered with workers, moving from plant to plant, carefully plucking the fruit. He smelled the berries, sure, but also the sweat of the workers, the scents released from the soil as they broke it up with their feet, and the occasional hint of green, likely from a broken stem the workers would then try to hide. It was backbreaking labor, as there was no easy or machine-driven way to bring in strawberries. He didn’t begrudge them a couple of damaged plants.
    After another mile or so, the Marshak campus appeared up ahead. It looked like any large-scale office park, albeit one dropped in the middle of endless farm fields. He had his own barely used parking space a few steps from the front door and slid his rumpled ’85 Ford pickup into the spot.
    Henry’s one real contribution to the building of the campus was the landscaping. He’d asked that all plants inside and out be California natives—huckleberry shrubs, flannelbush, California poppies, cactus, and so on. He paused on his way up the sidewalk to admire a spectacular desert agave, its budding stalk rising from a porcupine of succulent leaves at its base. He inhaled and could smell the beginnings of the buds’ acrid fragrance.
    “Morning, Mr. Marshak,” the front desk security guard said, as if Henry’s appearance was a regular occurrence. “How are you today?”
    “Can’t complain,” Henry said with a smile. “How are you?”
    The guard extracted a key card from his pocket as he flanked Henry on his way to the elevator bank.
    “Going all the way up?”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
    As the elevator ascended the four floors, Henry had his first moment of hesitation.
    What am I doing here? It isn’t too late to let this be. Going home would be the easiest thing in the world.
    But since when do I do things the easy way?
    “Good to see you, Henry,” Marge Babbitt, the senior receptionist, said as Henry emerged from the elevator.
    “Morning, Marge. Glenn in yet?”
    Henry knew the answer. When he’d called the house, Glenn’s wife, Charlene, told him where he was.
    “He is. Does he know you’re coming?”
    “No, no,” Henry said. “Just wanted to see if I might catch him.”
    Before Marge could reply, the door leading to Glenn’s office swung open and its occupant appeared, arms outstretched.
    “Henry! What a pleasant surprise.”
    Though the brothers had long been a study in contrast, the last couple of decades had made this more pronounced. At some point Henry’s aging seemed to accelerate even as Glenn’s appeared to slow. Henry’s skin was tanned and weathered from years in the sun, his thinning hair an unkempt bristle brush atop his head to match the fuzzy gray mustache above his top lip. He wore thick wire-rimmed bifocals, and his clothes were pulled from the store-brand bins at Walmart.
    Glenn, on the other hand, was rarely without a suit coat, or at least a sports jacket with a tailor-made dress shirt underneath. At one time he favored Barneys or Brooks Brothers, but these days he preferred a personal tailor. Now, almost every outer garment he owned had been made to his exact measurements. He was the best-dressed man on any occasion.
    “Hope I’m not interrupting,” Henry said, raising his palms.
    “Not at all!” replied Glenn.