The hose snaked to life, as the concrete flowed through it to the far end of the pool deck. The Amigos were like worker bees, their wiry brown arms pulling and leveling the concrete.
Soup leaned on a bull float attached to two aluminum poles, a rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth, one eye shut against the smoke and croaked in his raspy voice. “Need more water, Clay.” “No more water, Soup.”
Soup, Levi and Big Al cut the joints, kneeling on kneeboards, each man on the opposite side of eight-foot 2x4s, running their jointers along the edge, the nosing cutting one-inch deep grooves.