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hard to find. He was as strapping and handsome as Vicki Arduino had said. At least six-feet-four, with floppy blond hair and a granite jaw. He wore a pair of denim overalls cut off at the knees and Nikes without socks.
    He smiled at me when I approached him and said, “I’m John. Thanks for coming out.”
    â€œGlad to be here.” I shook his work-roughened hand. “I’m Benji Golden.”
    â€œAre you here to lend a hand, Benji?”
    â€œNot exactly. I’m a private investigator.”
    â€œYou’re messing with me, right?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. A client has hired me to find Jonquil Beausoleil.”
    Farmer John’s face fell. He pulled a blue bandana from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Is it her mom? Did Boso’s mom hire you?”
    â€œThat information’s confidential, I’m afraid. But why do you ask?”
    â€œWho else would be looking for her? And it’s about time, too. Boso took off from there at least four months ago.”
    â€œBy ‘there’ you mean…?”
    â€œRuston, Louisiana. That’s where she’s from.” He studied me curiously. “You don’t know much of anything, do you?”
    â€œIt’s true, I don’t.”
    â€œStep into my office.” He led me over to a shaded area under a canvas overhang. We sat down on a couple of overturned crates and he popped the lid off an ice chest, rummaging around in it. “How about a cold beer?”
    â€œNot right now, thanks.”
    â€œBottle of water then. Got to stay hydrated in this weather.”
    He removed two bottles of Poland Spring and handed me one.
    I unscrewed the top and took a long drink. “You’re making quite a go of it here,” I observed.
    â€œI’ve had so much help,” he said modestly. “The Central Park Conservancy donated all sorts of shovels and wheelbarrows. Not to mention volunteers to help me clear the land and haul the trash away. The teachers at PS 323 have been incredibly supportive. And would you believe the Department of Sanitation donated over a hundred cubic yards of compost?” He gulped down some water. “It’s been a struggle, but just look how much fun these kids are having.”
    â€œThis is a not-great neighborhood. Do the gangs give you any trouble?”
    â€œNone,” he replied. “As far as they’re concerned I’m like a priest. Somebody who’s strictly here to help. A lot of the younger guys even pitch in. That’s why I keep a couple of six packs in the cooler. I tell them, hey, if you put in an hour hauling compost you get a beer. It’s a win-win.” He grinned at me. “Besides, there are a lot of cute girls here. The neighborhood girls are my Summer Stewards. It gives them somewhere to be, and they stay out of trouble here. No drugs are allowed. And the police steer clear unless I reach out, which I don’t.” He took another gulp of water. “I’d like to build a hen house next so they can have fresh eggs. I’ll let you in on a dirty little secret, Benji. Violence isn’t the biggest problem in this neighborhood. Poor nutrition is. These people have unbelievably high rates of obesity, high blood pressure and diabetes. A lot of that has to do with what they’re eating, which is too much greasy fast food.”
    Vicki Arduino was right. He was trying to save humanity one mouthful at a time.
    â€œHow did you end up doing this?”
    â€œSomebody has to atone for the sins of my father. That’s my name on his office door, too, you know. My father’s the managing partner of Wall Street’s most heinous foreclosure mill. His law firm is on the side of the big banks and mortgage lenders when they kick honest, hardworking people out of their homes. He has hundreds of lawyers working for him. They have no scruples. And they learn everything they know from him, ” he said with