Powering on, ignoring the muttering and the catcalls, the woman elbows her way through the latecomers until she makes it to the foot of the stage. She’s short, no more than five foot three, and near obese with the sort of excess flesh which suggests either a pack of doughnuts a day or an untreatable lymph disorder. A green baseball hat embroidered with the words Bass Buster is perched high on her head under which long grey hair falls in individual greasy points down her back. As she mounts the stairs, she plucks at the waistband of her trousers, which keep slipping down at the back, revealing a gaping expanse of soft white rump.

Ignoring the three men at the table, she kicks off without preamble, ‘I’m here to raise support for the Humanity Patrol.’

‘Get on home, Nora.’

‘The Humanity Patrol leaves water and helps folk who get themselves into trouble.’

‘Hey! We don’t want no bleeding-heart liberals here!’

Nora pays no attention, simply amplifies her voice until it projects over the growing clamour of the audience. I steal another look over at Duval. He has finished with his Leatherman manicure and is watching the assembly intently.

‘Every man has the right to feed his family,’ Nora bellows. ‘Dying of thirst is too high a price to pay. These people need protection, illegals or not.’

‘Yield the floor, girl.’ It’s the same voice again, coming from somewhere in the back. I peer around the heads trying to identify the caller, as up on stage Emilio Chavez braves an approach. Nora swats him away like a blue-bottle. Chavez, smile tightening, presents the audience with a helpless shrug.

‘Now come on, people, be fair,’ she shouts. ‘Y’all are happy to have Mexicans sweep your porches up in those fancy houses of yours.’

‘Yeah,’ counters the heckler, ‘they sweep the porches, then they case the joint and rob the place.’

Nora clenches her fists as though bracing herself for another bout in the ring, but who she thinks she might win round is unclear. The tenor of the meeting is vehemently against her. Some of the audience cup hands to mouths and boo, and that’s when it happens. From somewhere deep in the back of the auditorium, a milk carton comes sailing through the air. With devastating accuracy, it hits Nora square on the shoulder, then ricochets up to her face before dropping to the floor with a soft thunk.

‘People, people.’ Bob the compère waves his arms ineffectually, but it’s too late. There’s raucous laughter as the crowd caves in to pack mentality and Nora finally cuts her losses. She fixes the room with a look of defiance then stomps offstage.

‘Hey, Nora,’ calls the persistent heckler, ‘better not stick around in the hog season lest you git shot.’