“I need two,” Tom said, holding up two fingers. He spoke in a low, modulated, mildly ironic voice, amused by the flare- up of activity his arrival had caused. How often did a balding, middle-aged Asian guy in a Porsche hit the labor corner? Usually it was Russian contractors and gay guys and local farm bosses in pickups who did the hiring. Asians dealt with their own yard work. Or they had the kids do it. Or they paved the yard so there was only the occasional hosing to do, and you didn’t need Latinos for that.

“Whatever you need, boss,” said a moonfaced man in the passenger window. “I’m your guy.”

“Painting? Yard work?” said another man with reddish eyes and an unshavable cleft in his chin. “You need work? I’m ready.”

Among the selection—the wiry and the potbellied, the tattooed and the tired—Tom’s eye landed on one man in particular, a big guy with shaggy, black hair, mocha skin, and a beefy, squared-off head, like a gallon jug set on broad shoulders. He was not fat but wide all the way through, with a barrel chest and thick arms and a face that was fleshy but handsome, dominated by heavy, liver-colored lips and long eyelashes. He seemed slightly older than the rest of the guys, and he held a glimmer of self-possession in his eyes that suggested he was somehow above his current circumstances. He might be selling himself on the corner, but he was prideful, even regal, in his clean white T-shirt and blue jeans.

“How much?” Tom said, meeting his eye. “You. How much?”

“Ten an hour, boss,” the man said. He shifted his weight to indicate his readiness, but not so far as to assume he was yet hired.

From behind him another, slightly younger man appeared, squatter and darker, with severe Mayan features. His face was all harsh angles and flat planes, black bangs cut straight across his broad forehead, and his mouth was a wide gash, parting to reveal tiny, well-spaced teeth. He wore a soiled yellow T-shirt with a logo too faded to read and high-top sneakers at least six years old. He crossed his arms and stared at Tom’s car with glowering intensity, and then he squatted, a signal of his own readiness to be hired.

Tom scanned the group again. Already, a few of the men were turning away, retaking their positions along the fence. He came back to the big man and his smaller, darker friend. It seemed his decision was being made for him.

“How much, you?” Tom said to the small one.

“Ten dolares,” the man said.

Tom gestured at the passenger door, waving them both inside. “Come on. Hop in, both of you. Los dos. We go.”