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With electricity still out, most homes empty and phones out of order in many neighborhoods, the locals have been arming themselves against the influx of thieves. Cynthia Hitt's husband bought her a .22-cal. pistol for Christmas; she bought him a .30-30 rifle. "What if something happens? You can't scream for a neighbor, and until recently there weren't any phones to call the cops," she says.
The roofers claim they are getting a raw deal from the locals. "There are plenty of good guys down here working," says Michigan roofer Chester Steele, a Vietnam veteran who serves as unofficial mayor and peace enforcer in Camp Hell. He contends that workers get ripped off by trailer parks (typical charge: $800 a month for a 1950s-era trailer) and hotels ($55 a day for a room without TV or hot water). Contractors regularly skip out on them, leaving them without pay.
Without savings to go home, the workers are stuck living in conditions reminiscent of The Grapes of Wrath. Douglas Davis, a 35-year-old carpenter from Pennsylvania, is living in his aging Scout van at Camp Mad Max because he can't afford a hotel. Thieves have taken his car battery, his radio, his tools, even his Penn State floor mats. His body is covered with infected mosquito bites. On his back, an antibiotic cream covers a patch of ringworm. ; Asked if he has seen a doctor, he says he cured himself by "sanding" down the skin and washing it with Clorox.
Police have increased patrols and pay special attention to convenience stores and gas stations, but recent court rulings prevent Metro-Dade police from rousting the homeless from their makeshift camps. Until construction workers finish rebuilding South Dade, a process that could take years, police are resigned to battling wave after wave of troublemakers. "We're just waiting now for the plasterers from hell and the electricians from hell," says Cory Bryan, a detective in the Keys. "With our nice climate, they may never leave."