Harold Ritchie was a pallbearer at his partner's funeral. Bob Almont, good gu y t o ride with in a squad car, and goddamn he'd miss him. Shot down in the stree t b y some creepy son of a bitch. Ritchie hoped it was the one he'd shot coming ou t o f the station wagon. He went to Bob Almont's house after the funeral, with Bob's close friends and a few relatives that'd come from Oklahoma. They sa t a round drinking coffee and picking at the casserole dishes some neighbors ha d b rought over, while Evelyn Almont stayed in the kitchen most of the time or sa t w ith her two little tiny kids who didn't know what the hell was going on. Afte r a couple of hours of watching that, it was a relief to get back to the post.
The deputy at the counter tore off a teletype sheet and handed it to him. "Wha t y ou asked for. Just come in."
He read it as he walked over to Lieutenant McAllen's office, knocked twice, an d w alked in. McAllen was sitting at his desk.
"You're right," Ritchie said, "Phoenix had a sheet on him. Robert L. Kopas , a . K. A . Bobby Kopas, Bobby Curtis. Two arrests, B and E, and extortion. On e c onviction. Served two years in Florence."
"I could feel it," McAllen said. "The guy's up to something."
"Changed his mind and dropped the charge. The way I read it," Ritchie said , "he's decided it'd be more fun to get back at the guy himself."
"Maybe. But is he smart enough? Or dumb enough to try it? However you want t o l ook at it." McAllen paused. "Or did somebody put him up to it?"
Ritchie was nodding. "That's a thought."
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" McAllen said. "You got any more on Majestyk?"
"On my desk. I'll be right back." Ritchie went out and returned within th e m inute with an open file folder in his hands, looking at it.
"Not much. He lived in California most of his life. High school education. Truc k d river, farm laborer. Owned his own place till he went to Folsom on the assaul t c onviction. Here's something. In the army three years, a Ranger instructor at Fort Benning."
McAllen raised his eyebrows. "An instructor."
"Combat adviser in Laos before that," Ritchie went on. "Captured by the Pathet Lao, escaped and brought three enemy prisoners with him. Got a Silver Star."
Looking up at McAllen he said, "Man doesn't fool, does he?"
"Well, he's a different cut than what we usually get."
"Doesn't seem afraid to take chances."
"Doesn't appear to." McAllen was thoughtful a moment. "Let's talk to him an d f ind out."
He said to Majestyk, "You look better than the last time I saw you."
"Thank you, but I'd just as soon wear my own clothes." He was dressed in jai l d enims with white stripes down the sides of the pants. The scrapes and cuts o n h is face were healing and he was clean-shaven. "What I'd like to know whic h n obody'll tell me, is when I'm going to court."
"Why don't you have a seat?" McAllen said.
"I've been sitting for four days."
"So you're used to it," McAllen said. "Sit down."
He watched Majestyk take the chair then picked up a pack of cigarettes an d m atches and leaned over to hand them across the desk.
"Have a smoke."
As Majestyk lighted a cigarette, McAllen said, "I guess what you want most is t o g et out of here."
He waited, but Majestyk, looking at him, said nothing. "Well, I think it migh t b e arranged."
Majestyk continued to wait, not giving McAllen any help.
"The guy you hit, Bobby Kopas?" McAllen said finally. "He dropped the charg e a gainst you."
When Majestyk still waited, McAllen said, "You hear what I said?"
"Why'd he do that?"
"He said he thought it over. It wasn't important enough for him to waste a lo t o f time in court. You think that's the reason?"
"I met him once," Majestyk said. "I can't say I know him or what's in his head."
"He's got a record. Extortion, breaking and entering. Does that tell yo u a nything?"
"You say it, I believe it."
"I'm saying he could have a reason of his own to see you walking around free."
"Well, whatever his reason is, I'll go along with it," Majestyk said. "If i t m eans getting my crop in."
"You can stay if you want," McAllen said.
"Why would I want to?"
"Because Frank Renda's also walking around free."
Majestyk saw him waiting for his reaction and he said, "Why don't you just tel l m e what you're going to anyway, without all the suspense."
McAllen looked over at Ritchie and back again. He said, "The eyeball witness wh o s aw Frank Renda commit murder was an off-duty police officer."
"I heard that."
"He was a member of this department."
Majestyk waited.
"He was killed during Renda's escape. Shot dead. So there's no witness. The gun Renda used--is alleged to have used--can't be traced to him. That means there's n o c ase."
"If you want him so bad," Majestyk said, "why don't you arrest him for th e e scape?"
"Because there's no way to tie him in with the attempt. His lawyer made tha t c lear and the prosecutor had to agree. Technically--and tell me how you lik e t his?--he was kidnapped. We can stick you with that if we want. Or let you go.
Or, we can hold you in protective custody."
"Protective custody against what?"
"Frank Renda. What do you think he's going to do when he finds out you're on th e s treet?"
"I don't know. What?"
"He might've already found out. Though right now we don't know where he is o r w hat he's doing."
Majestyk took a drag on the cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. "Are yo u t rying to tell me my life's in danger?"
"You should know him by now. What do you think?"
"Why would he risk getting arrested again? I mean just to get me."
"Because it's his business. Now you've given him a personal reason to kill,"
McAllen said. "And I can't think of anything that would stop him trying."
"You're that sure."
"He might even think it would be easy. Get careless again, like he did the las t t ime."
"Something's finally starting to get through," Majestyk said. "You'll let me g o i f I'll sit home and act as your bait."
"Something like that."
"Maybe even you'd like him to shoot me, so you can get him for murder."
"That entered my mind," McAllen said, "but we'll settle for attempted."
"Attempted, huh? And if he pulls it off, you try something else then?"
"I believe you're the guy who wanted to make a deal," McAllen said, "so yo u c ould get your melons picked. All right, go pick them."
"And where'll you be?"
"We'll be around."
"He could send somebody else."
"He could." McAllen nodded. "Or he could wait a few months, or a year. Shoot yo u s ome night while you're sleeping. Or wire your truck with dynamite. One morning you get in and turn the key--" McAllen paused. "No, you're right, we don't kno w f or certain he'll try for you himself, just as we can't guarantee we'll be abl e t o stop him if he does. It's a chancy situation any way you look at it. Bu t r emember, you got yourself into it. So, as things stand, it's the best offer I can make."
"Well then"--Majestyk got up from the chair, stubbing out the cigarette--"I gues s t here's no reason for me to hang around, is there?"
Chapter 7.
IT WAS STILL COOL at 6:00 A . M., the vines were wet and darkened the pants leg s o f the pickers as they worked along the rows with their burlap sacks. Somebod y s aid it was insecticide, the wetness, but most of them knew the fields had no t b een sprayed in several days and that moisture had settled during the night.
Their pants and the vines would be hot and dusty dry within an hour. The sun , which they would have all day, faced them from the eastern boundary of th e f ields, above a tangle of willows that lined an arroyo five miles away. The su n s eemed that close to them.
Larry Mendo
za stood by the pickup truck counting the stooped, round figures i n t he rows. He had counted them before, but he counted them again and got the sam e n umber. Twelve, including Nancy Chavez and the ones from Yuma--thank God fo r t hem. But he wasn't going to get any crop in with twelve people. Some of the m h ad never picked before--like the two Anglo kids he'd been able to get becaus e n obody else wanted them.
He saw one of them stretching in his white T-shirt, rolling his shoulders t o w ork the ache out of his back, and Mendoza yelled at him, "Hey, how you going t o p ick melons standing up!"
He crossed the ditch and went out into the field, toward the white T-shirt tha t s aid Bronco Athletic Dept. and had a small numeral on it, 22, in a square.
"I was seeing how much I had in the sack," the white Anglo kid said.
"Fill it," Larry Mendoza told him. "That's how much you put in. Then you stan d u p."
"I'm getting used to it already."
A colored guy he had hired that morning, who was working the next row, wa s w atching them. Mendoza said to him, "You need something? You want some help o r s omething?"
The colored guy didn't answer; he turned and stooped over and went back to work.
At least the colored guy had picked before, not melons, but he had picked an d k new what he was doing. The Anglo kid, with his muscular arms and shoulders an d c ut-off pants and tennis shoes--like he was out here on his vacation--couldn't p ick his nose.
"This one"--Mendoza took a honeydew from the Anglo kid's sack--"it's not ready.
Remember I told you, you pick the ripe ones. You loosen the other ones in th e d irt. You don't turn them so the sun hits the underneath, you just loosen them."
"That's what I been doing," the Anglo kid said.
"The ones aren't ready, we come back for later on."
"I thought it was ripe." The Anglo kid stooped to lay the melon among the vin e l eaves.
Larry Mendoza closed his eyes and opened them and adjusted the funneled brim o f h is straw hat. "You going to put it back on the vine? Tie it on? You pick it, i t s tays picked. You got to keep it then. You understand?"
"Sure," the Anglo kid said.
Sure. How do you find them? Mendoza asked himself, turning from the kid wh o m ight last the day but would never be back tomorrow. Walking to the road hi s g aze stopped on another big-shouldered, blond-haired Bronco from Edna and h e y elled at him, "Hey, whitey, where are you, in church? Get off your knees or g o h ome, I get somebody else!" Christ, he wasn't paying them a buck forty an hou r t o rest. He yelled at the guy again, "You hear me? I'll get somebody else!"
"Like it's easy," Nancy Chavez said. She was going over to the trailer with a f ull sack of melons hanging from her shoulder. Pretty girl, thin bu t s trong-looking, with a dark bandana and little pearl earrings.
"I may have to go to Mexico," Mendoza said. "Christ, nobody wants to wor k a nymore. And some of the ones I got don't know how."
"Teach them," the girl said. "Somebody had to teach you."
"Yeah, when I was eight years old." He went over to the pickup truck and got in.
"Now I got to tell Vincent. He don't have enough to worry about."
"Tell him we'll get it done," the girl said. "Somehow."
Majestyk came out through the screen door of his house to wait on the porch.
When he saw the pickup coming he walked out to the road. Larry Mendoza move d o ver and Majestyk got in behind the wheel.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Too long."
"Man, you need it."
Majestyk swung the pickup around in a tight turn. When they were heading bac k t oward the field that was being worked, on their right now, Mendoza said, "I tr y a gain this morning, same thing. Nobody wants to work for us. I talk to Julio Tamaz, some of the others. What's going on? What is this shit? Julio says man, I don't have a crew for you, that's all."
"He can get all he wants," Majestyk said.
"I know it. He turn some away, says they're no good. I hire them and find ou t h e's right."
As they approached the trailer, standing by itself on the side of the road , Mendoza saw the girl with the dark bandana and pearl earrings coming out of th e f ield again with a sack of melons. He glanced at Majestyk and saw him watchin g h er.
"That one," Mendoza said, "Nancy Chavez. She wasn't here, we wouldn't have an y g ood workers at all. She got some more friends drove over from Yuma. She pick s b etter than two men. But we got to have a full crew, soon, or we never get i t d one."
Mendoza got out by the trailer. He slammed the door and said through the window , "I hope you have better luck than me."
"Least I'll find out what's going on," Majestyk said. He could see the girl b y t he trailer, unloading her melon sack. That was something, she was still here.
She didn't know him or owe him anything, but she was still here.
Harold Ritchie was leaning over the fender of the State Highway Departmen t p ickup truck, holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He was looking acros s t he highway and across a section of melon field to where the dust column wa s f ollowing Majestyk's yellow truck all the way up the side road.
"It could be him this time," Ritchie said. "Hang on."
He was speaking to another deputy who was sitting inside a tool shed by a p olice-frequency two-way radio. It was hotter than hell inside and the door wa s o pen so he could get some air. The shed hadn't been built for people to sit in , but it was the best they could do. Besides the shed, there was a mobil e g enerator, a tar pot, some grading equipment, a pile of gravel, a portabl e t oilet that looked like a rounded phone booth without windows, wooden barricade s a nd lanterns and a sign that said ROAD CONSTRUCTION 500 FT., though nothing wa s g oing on. The only ones here were Ritchie and the deputy operating the radio , both of them in work clothes.
"Yeah, it's him," Ritchie said now, lowering the glasses and watching Majestyk's p ickup come out of the side road without stopping and swing onto the highway.
"Jesus Christ, I could arrest him for that," Ritchie said. "Tell them he jus t d rove out in his truck, yellow four-wheel-drive pickup, heading toward Edna. I'm g etting on him right now."
Ritchie slid behind the wheel of the State Highway Department truck and took of f a fter him.
Majestyk parked across the highway from the blue school bus and the stake truc k a nd the old junk cars the migrants would return to later in the day. In th e s tillness he could hear the jukebox out on the street. Tammy Wynette, with a t wangy Nashville backup, telling about some boy she loved who was in love wit h s omebody else.
Majestyk followed the sound of the music to the cafe-bar and had the screen doo r o pen when the State Highway Department truck slowed down at the Junctio n i ntersection and came coasting by. He gave the truck a little wave before h e w ent inside.
A waitress was serving Julio Tamaz and another Chicano labor contractor thei r b reakfast. They were sitting at a table, the only customers in the place.
Another woman, wearing a stained white apron, was sweeping the floor, movin g c hairs around, banging them against the formica tables. The two men didn't loo k u p as Majestyk approached them. They were busy with the salt and pepper an d p ouring sugar and cream. Julio was dousing his fried eggs dark brown with Lea & Perrins.
"Julio?"
He looked up then, with a surprised expression he had prepared as Majesty k w alked over.
"Hey, Vincent. They let you out, huh? Good."
Majestyk pulled a chair out but didn't sit down. He stood with his hand on it , as though he had changed his mind.
"How come I can't hire a crew?"
"Man, you been away, in jail."
"Larry Mendoza hasn't. Last two mornings you turned him down. How come?"
"It's the time of the year. I got too much business." He poked at the eggs wit h h is fork, yellow appearing, mixing with the brown. "Other people need crews too.
They ask me first."
"All right," Majestyk said, "I'm asking you righ
t now for thirty people tomorro w m orning. Buck forty."
Julio kept busy with his eggs and didn't look up. "I got crews signed more tha n a week. Vincent, you too late, that's all."
Majestyk watched him begin to eat his eggs before turning his attention to th e o ther man at the table. He was already finishing, wiping the yolk from his plat e w ith a piece of toast.
"How about you?" Majestyk said. "You get me a crew?"
"Me?" With the same helpless tone as Julio's. "Maybe in ten days," the labo r c ontractor said. "I can't promise you nothing right now."
"In ten days my crop will be ruined."
"Like Julio says, other people ask first. We can't help that."
"What is this, stick-up time? You want more money? What?"
"It's not money, Vincent." Julio's tone was sad as well as helpless. "How can w e g et you people if we don't have any?"
Majestyk pulled the chair out a little farther. This time he sat down and leane d o ver the edge of the table on his arms.
He said quietly, "Julio, what's going on?"
"I tole you. I got too much work."
"You'd drive to Mexico if you had to. Come on, somebody pay you, threaten you?
What?"
"Listen," Julio said, intently now, his voice lower, "I got to work for a livin g a nd I can't do it in no goddamn hospital. You understand?"
"I'm beginning to. You could help me though."
"I'm not going to say any more. Man, I've said enough."
Majestyk stared at him a moment. Finally he said, "Okay," got up and walked awa y f rom the table.
Julio called after him, "Vincent, next season, uh?"
The contractor at the table with him, eating his piece of toast, said, "If he's s till around."
Coming out of the place into the sunlight he was aware of the State Highway Department truck parked across the street and the deputy sitting in the cab , watching him. Tell him you're going back home, Majestyk was thinking. Put hi s m ind at ease. He started for the street, through the space between the back o f t he school bus and the stake truck, when the voice stopped him.
"You looking for a crew?"
He saw Bobby Kopas then, leaning against a car with his arms folded, a familia r p ose, a tight lavender shirt; sunglasses and bandit moustache hiding a thin , bony face. The car, an Olds 98, was at the curb in front of the school bus.
Mr Majestyk Page 6