Duval smiles thinly. ‘You think these men would risk their lives and freedom smuggling themselves backwards and forwards over the border every single day just for the privilege of working for you?’

‘That’s not—’

‘So they can build a resort?’

I’m so angered and embarrassed by the contempt in his voice, I can barely get the words out. ‘Do you have the paperwork, Duval, yes or no?’

‘Why, I surely do,’ he drawls, in full hick mode. ‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to see it. I’d like a copy, please, so I don’t have to have my afternoons ruined by people like Jeff Hogan.’

Duval pulls a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket.

‘H2 work visa.’ He hands it to me. ‘There’s already one copy in the back of your file with the plan revisions and a second copy pinned to your photographic “montage” in the boarding house.’

I scan down the tiny print. An official-looking seal is dated and stamped by USA Customs, Nogales. ‘And this covers everyone?’ I say lamely.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says. He folds the visa and puts it back in his pocket. ‘Now, if that’s everything, I’ll leave you with these,’ he hands me the rolls of plans, ‘and be on my way.’

He ambles down the steps, tipping his hat, but I cannot curb a childish impulse to have the last word.

‘Actually, there is one thing.’

‘Ma’am?’ He turns with exaggerated civility.

‘If one more person round here calls me ma’am, I’ll kick them in the fucking teeth.’

He stops for a moment, his boot on the bottom step, and into his eyes comes a flash of pure amusement.

14

Ague’s town hall is a red-brick building set back from the main street by a flight of wide steps dividing two rectangles of all-year-round grass. Banners hang across the windows of the ground floor, presenting passers-by with those comforting reminders – ‘United we Stand’ and ‘Proud to be American’.