"You sure get on the muscle easy. I don't care if you're union or not, long a s y ou know melons."
"Intimately. I've been in the fields most of my life."
"You sound like you went to school though."
"Couple of years. University of Texas, El Paso. I took English and History and Economics. Psychology 101. I went to the football games, learned all the cheers.
Yeaaa, team--" Her voice trailed off and she added, quietly, "Shit."
"I never went past high school," Majestyk said.
"So you didn't waste any time."
He looked at her again, interested, intrigued. "You haven't told me your name."
"Nancy Chavez. I'm not related to the other Chavez, but I'll tell you something.
I was on the picket line with them at Delano, during the grape strike."
"I believe it."
"I was fifteen."
He glanced at her and waited again, because she seemed deep in thought. Finall y h e said, "Are you from California?"
"Texas. Born in Laredo. We moved to San Antonio when I was little."
"Yeah? I was at Fort Hood for a while. I used to get down to San Antone prett y o ften."
"That's nice," Nancy Chavez said.
He looked at her again, but didn't say anything. Neither of them spoke unti l t hey were passing melon fields and came in sight of the packing shed, a lon g w ooden structure that looked like a warehouse. It was painted yellow, wit h m ajestyk brand melons written across the length of the building in five-foo t b right green letters.
As the pickup slowed down, approaching a dirt road adjacent to the packing shed , the girl said, "That's you, uh?"
"That's me," Majestyk said.
The pickup turned off the highway onto the dirt road and passed the front of th e p acking shed. There were crates stacked on the loading dock, the double door s w ere open; but there was no sign of activity, the shed stood dark and empty.
Next to it was a low frame building with a corrugated metal roof that resemble d a n army barracks. The girl knew what it was, or what it had been--living quarter s f or migrants. It was also empty, some of its windows broken, its white pain t p eeling, fading gray.
The farmhouse was next, another fifty yards down the road, where three smal l c hildren--two boys and a little girl--were standing in the hard-packed yard , watching the pickup drive past, and a woman was hanging wash on a clotheslin e t hat extended out from the side of the house. The children waved and Nancy pu t h er hand out the window to wave back at them.
"Are they yours, too?"
"My foreman, Larry Mendoza's," Majestyk said. "That's my house way down there , by the trees."
She could see the place now, white against the dark stand of woods, a small , one-story farmhouse with a porch, almost identical to the foreman's house. Sh e c ould see the blue school bus standing in the road ahead and, off to the lef t b eyond the ditch, the melon fields, endless rows of green vines that wer e f amiliar to the girl and never changed, hot dusty rows that seemed to reach from Texas to California, and were always waiting to be picked.
"You must have a thousand acres," she said. "More than that."
"A hundred and sixty. The man that owned this land used to have a big operation , but he subdivided when he sold out. This is my second crop year, and if I don't m ake it this time--"
When he stopped, the girl said, "What?"
She turned to see him staring straight ahead through the windshield, at th e s chool bus they were approaching and the men standing in the road. She could se e t he car now, a new model of some kind shining golden in the sunlight, parke d b eyond the bus. Beyond the car was a stake truck. At the same time she was awar e o f the figures out in the melon field, at least twenty or more, stooped figure s d otted among the rows.
She said, "You have two crews working?"
"I only hired one," Majestyk said.
"Then who's out there working?"
He didn't answer her. He pulled up behind the bus and got out without wastin g a ny time, feeling a tenseness now as he walked past the bus, past the faces i n t he windows, and saw Larry Mendoza's serious, concerned expression. His forema n s tood with Julio Tamaz by the front of the bus, both of them watching him , anxious. Only a few of Julio's crew had gotten out. The rest of them were stil l i nside wondering, as he was, what the hell was going on.
He was aware of the two men standing by the gold Dodge Charger that was parke d o n the left side of the road--long hair and Mexican bandit moustaches, one o f t hem wearing sunglasses. A skinny, hipless guy with a big metal belt buckle , bright yellow shirt and cowboy boots, watching him, seeming unconcerned, lounge d a gainst the rear deck of the Charger with his arms folded. There was another gu y h e had never seen before standing by the stake truck that, he noticed now, had a h orn-type speaker mounted on the roof of the cab.
"We get here," Larry Mendoza said, "this guy's already got a crew working."
Julio Tamaz said, "What are we supposed to do, Vincent, go home? Man, what i s t his?"
Majestyk walked over to the ditch, behind the Charger, and stood looking out a t t he field, at the men standing among the rows with long burlap sacks hangin g f rom their shoulders. Only a few of them were working. All of them, he noticed , were white. And all of them, that he could make out clearly, had the sam e w orn-out, seedy look, skid row bums taken from the street and dropped in a melo n f ield.
But not my melon field, Majestyk was saying to himself. He turned to the skinn y d ude with sunglasses lounged against the car.
"I don't think I know you."
He watched the guy straighten with a lazy effort and come off the car extendin g h is hand.
"I'm Bobby Kopas. Come out from Phoenix with some top hand pickers for you."
Majestyk ignored the waiting hand. "I don't think I've ever done business wit h y ou either. What I know for sure is I never will."
Bobby Kopas grinned at him, letting his hand fall. " 'Fore you say anything yo u m ight be sorry about--how does a buck twenty an hour sound to you? Save yoursel f s ome money and they're already hard at it."
"I hire who I want," Majestyk said. "I don't hire a bunch of winos never slippe d m elons before."
Kopas glanced over at the bus, at Larry Mendoza and Julio and Nancy Chavez. "I don't know--you hire all these Latins, no white people. Looks like discriminatio n t o me."
"Call them out and get off my land," Majestyk said.
"These Latins buddies of yours? What do you care who does the job, long as i t g ets done?"
"I just told you, I hire who I want."
"Yeah, well the thing is you want me," Kopas said. "Only it hasn't sunk in you r h ead yet. Because everything is easier and less trouble when you hire my crew.
If you understand what I'm saying to you."
There it was, a little muscle-flexing. Hotshot dude trying to pressure him, sur e o f himself, with two strong-arm guys to back him up. Majestyk stared at him an d t hought about it and finally he said, "Well, you're making sounds like you're a m ean little ass-kicker. Only you haven't convinced me yet it's true. Then again , if you say anything else and I don't like it, I'm liable to take your head off.
So maybe you ought to consider that."
Majestyk stared at him a moment, as Kopas began to say, "Now hang on a minute , dad--" but that was all. Majestyk turned away, ignoring him, looking out at th e f ield again and began yelling at the winos.
"Come on, time to go home! Leave anything you picked or messed up and haul as s o ut, right now! Come on, gents, move it!"
The few that were working stopped, straightened, and now all of the men in th e r ows were looking this way, not sure what to do. Kopas saw them. He had to sto p t hem before they moved. He turned to the guy behind him and nodded toward th e s take truck. The guy took off. The other one, standing by the truck, saw hi m c oming and quickly got into the cab.
"You hear me?" Majestyk yelled out. "Time to go home. Man made a mistake. Yo u c ome to
the wrong place." As he began to say, "Come on, move!" his words wer e d rowned out by a blast of rock music, intense hard rock, the sound o f e lectrified, amplified guitars wailing out over the melon fields.
Majestyk looked toward the truck, at the horn speaker mounted on the cab. Hi s g aze shifted to Bobby Kopas. He saw him grinning and saw the grin fade as h e m oved toward him. He saw him get around to the side of the Charger, reach i n t hrough the open window and come out with a pump-action shotgun. Kopas put th e g un under his arm, pointing down slightly, holding it with both hands, and Majestyk stopped.
Nancy Chavez, staring at Bobby Kopas, came away from the bus. She said, "Man , what're you going to do now, shoot us?"
"I'm gonna talk to him and this time he's gonna listen," Kopas said. "That's w hat I'm gonna do."
She was moving toward him, taking her time. "Buck twenty an hour--you going t o s hoot people for that? Man, you need another hit of something."
"He threatened me," Kopas said, "and all your people heard it. But I'll tel l y ou, he ain't gonna threaten me again."
Staring at him, moving toward him, Nancy Chavez said, "I don't know--guy bring s w ine heads out, plays music for them. He must be a little funny."
Majestyk was past the trunk of the car, two strides from the muzzle of th e s hotgun.
"You say you come from Phoenix? What do you do there, roll drunks and hire the m a s pickers?"
Kopas kept his eyes on him, holding onto the shotgun. "I'm telling you, kee p b ack. Stay where you are."
"Mean little ass-kicker like you," Majestyk said. "What do you need a gun for?"
"I'm warning you!"
Majestyk stepped into him as he brought the shotgun up, grabbing the barrel wit h h is left hand, and drove his right fist hard into Bobby Kopas's face, gettin g s ome nose and mouth, staying with him as Kopas went back against the car door , and slammed the fist into him again, getting his sunglasses this time, wipin g t hem from his face, and pulling the shotgun out of his hands as Kopas twiste d a nd his head and shoulders fell into the window opening.
The other one with the hair and heavy moustache who had been with Kopas wa s c oming back from the truck, coming fast, but not in time. He stopped and raise d h is hands, three yards away, as Majestyk put the shotgun on him.
The loud rock music continued, the wailing guitars wailed on, until Majesty k s tepped into the middle of the road, raised the shotgun and blew the hor n s peaker off the top of the stake truck.
The sound stopped. Majestyk looked at the man with his hands half raised. He p umped a shell into the chamber of the shotgun and walked past him to the truck.
When he opened the rightside door he could hear the radio music again, the roc k g uitars. The man sitting behind the wheel stared at him.
"Get those wine heads out of my field," Majestyk said, and slammed the door.
He came back to the Charger, nodded toward Kopas hanging against the door an d s aid to the one with his hands raised, "Put him inside and get out of here." He w aited, seeing the blood coming out of Kopas's nose, staining his yellow shirt , as the guy pulled Kopas around, opened the door and eased him onto the seat.
"You got the key?" When the guy nodded Majestyk said, "Open the trunk."
He had to wait for him again, for the guy to walk back and unlock it. As th e t runk lid swung up, Majestyk stepped over, threw the shotgun inside and slamme d i t closed. He stood one stride away from the guy with the hair and the heav y m oustache who was staring at him and maybe was on the verge of doing something.
Majestyk said, "Make up your mind."
The guy hesitated; but the moment was there and passed. He walked around to th e d river's side and got in the car.
Majestyk walked up on the other side to look at Kopas holding a handkerchief t o h is face. He said, "Hey," and waited for Kopas to lower the handkerchief an d l ook out at him.
"You want my opinion, buddy, I think you're in the wrong business."
Chapter 3.
HE WAS ARRESTED that afternoon.
Nancy Chavez saw it happen. She was crouched in the vines working a row , slipping the ripe honeydew melons off, gently turning the ones that would b e r eady in a day or two, pushing them under the vines so they would not be expose d t o the sun. Her sack, with the rope loop digging into her shoulder, was almos t f ull. A few more melons and she would carry it over to the road and hand it u p t o Vincent Majestyk in the trailer that was hooked to the pickup truck. Mayb e t hey would talk a little bit while he unloaded the sack and she got a drink o f w ater from the canvas bag that hung from the side of the trailer. He had bee n c urious about her, admitting it, and she was curious about him. There wer e q uestions in her mind, though she wasn't sure she could come right out and as k t hem. She wondered if he lived alone or had a wife somewhere. She wondered if h e k new what he was doing, if he could harvest a hundred and sixty acres within th e n ext week, sort and pack the melons and get them to a broker. Even for a lat e c rop he was running out of time.
When her sack was full and she looked up again, straightening, the squad car , with blue lights flashing, was standing in the road by the pickup truck. She sa w t he two policemen, in khaki uniforms and cowboy hats, talking to Majestyk in th e t railer. When he came down and one of them took him by the arm, he pulled hi s a rm free and the other policeman moved in close with his hand on his holster.
What the hell was going on?
Nancy Chavez dropped the sack and started across the rows. Some of the othe r p ickers were watching now and Larry Mendoza was coming out of the field, not fa r a way from her. She hurried, but by the time she and Mendoza reached the road , Majestyk was in the squad car and it was moving off, blue lights spinning , raising a column of dust that thinned to nothing by the time the squad ca r r eached the highway and turned left, toward Edna.
"What's going on?" Nancy Chavez said. "They arresting him?"
Larry Mendoza shook his head, squinting in the sun glare. "I don't know. But I guess somebody better go find out."
"Is there somebody at his house maybe you better tell?"
"No, there's nobody lives there but him."
"He isn't married?"
"Not anymore."
The squad car was out of sight but Mendoza was still staring in the direction o f t he highway. "Those were sheriff's deputies. Well, I guess I better go fin d o ut."
"If there's anything you want me to do," the girl said, "don't be afraid to tel l m e. Go on, we'll take care of the melons."
The Edna post of the County Sheriff's Department had been remodeled and painte d l ight green. Everything was light green, the cement block walls, the meta l d esks, the chairs, the Formica counter--light green and chrome-trimmed unde r b right fluorescent lights. They took Majestyk into an office, sat him dow n a gainst the wall and left him.
After a while one of the arresting officers came back in with a file folder, sa t d own at a desk where there was a typewriter and began to peck at the keys wit h t wo fingers. The deputy's name was Harold Ritchie. He was built like a runnin g g uard, had served four years in the Marines, including a combat tour in Vietnam , and had a tattoo on his right forearm, a snake coiled around a dagger, with a n i nscription that said Death Before Dishonor.
Looking down at the typewriter, as if reciting the words from memory, he said , "This warrant states that you have been arrested on a charge that constitutes a f elony, assault with a deadly weapon. You may choose to stand mute at this tim e a nd of course you have a right to counsel. You can call a lawyer or anybody yo u w ant. You are allowed one phone call--"
The deputy paused, looking up, as a man in a lightweight summer suit came int o t he office and closed the door behind him.
The man said, "Go on. Don't let me interrupt."
His tone was mild, his appearance slightly rumpled. For some reason he reminded Majestyk of a schoolteacher, a man who had taught high school English or civic s f or at least thirty years, though he knew the man was a policeman.
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"After which," Ritchie continued, "you will be released on bond, if you choose , or held here till you're taken to the county seat for your pretria l e xamination."
The deputy looked up, finished. The mild-appearing man came over to the desk , his gaze holding on Majestyk.
"My name is Detective Lieutenant McAllen. Do you understand your rights unde r t he law?"
"I can keep my mouth shut, and that seems about it," Majestyk said.
"You can tell your side of it if you want. Feel free."
"A man I never saw before tried to force me to use a crew I didn't need."
"So you hit him with a shotgun."
"I hit him with a fist."
"The complainant says he was offering you a business proposition. Instead of a s imple no thanks, you assaulted him with a shotgun."
"It was his, not mine," Majestyk said. "Man was trespassing on my land."
"Lieutenant"--the deputy was holding the file folder; he handed it, open, to McAllen--"four years ago in California he got one to five for assault. Served a y ear in Folsom."
McAllen studied the folder a moment before looking up. "Vincent A. Majestyk.
What're you, a Polack?"
Majestyk stared at him in silence. The lieutenant was looking at the folde r a gain.
"He grows melons," the deputy said. "Generally keeps to himself. I mean h e h asn't given us any trouble before this."
"But sometimes you like to mix it up," McAllen said. "You use a gun the time in California?"
"I was in a bar. A man hit me with a beer bottle."
"Sitting there minding your own business, he hit you with a bottle."
"We were arguing about something. He wanted to go outside. I told him to drin k h is beer."
"So he hit you and you hit him back. If it was your first offense, how come the y p ut you away?"
"The guy was in the hospital a while," Majestyk said. "He came to the trial wit h a broken collarbone and his jaw wired up and some buddies of his that said I started it and kicked his face in when he was on the floor."
"But you never did such a thing."
"I've already been tried for it. You want to do it again?"
"Served your time and now making an honest living. You married?"