Mr Majestyk

  "It's cops! Jesus, don't you know a cop when you see one!"

  Kopas was turned, trying to see the guy, but it was too late. Looking past Renda, trying not to meet his eyes, he said, "You sure? I thought if there wa s a ny cops around I'd recognize them."

  And he remembered as he said it and turned back around to stare at th e w indshield. Christ yes, the guy was a deputy. He'd seen him in Edna, at th e s tation. He'd seen him in the pickup earlier today, across the street, when h e w as talking to Majestyk.

  Kopas gave himself a little time, trying to relax and sound natural, before h e s aid, "Well, I figure after a while they get tired waiting, they'll pick up an d l eave."

  Nobody said anything.

  "Then we can run off those Mexicans he's got. No sweat to that."

  There was a silence again before Renda said, "Pull over."

  Lundy looked up. "What?"

  "Pull over, for Christ sake, and stop the car."

  Lundy braked, bringing the Olds to a gradual stop on the shoulder of the road.

  They sat in silence, waiting for Renda.

  "Hey, asshole. Get out of the car."

  "Me?"

  Kopas turned enough to look over his shoulder. Renda was staring the way he ha d s tared before--as if not even seeing him--and he knew the man wasn't going to sa y a nything.

  "What did you want me to do?"

  "Get out," Lundy said. "That's all you have to do."

  Kopas grinned. "Is this a joke or something?"

  Nobody was laughing. The girl had a book open and was reading, not even payin g a ny attention.

  Kopas said to Lundy, "I mean I left my car in Edna, where you picked me up.

  That's a six-mile hike just back to Junction."

  Lundy didn't say anything.

  Kopas waited another moment before he got out and turned to the car to close th e d oor. He saw the window next to Renda lower without a sound.

  "Come here," Renda said.

  Kopas hunched over to look in the window. The girl was still reading the book.

  "You hear me all right?"

  "Yes, sir, fine."

  "The way you come on," Renda said, "I don't like it. I don't know you a hal f h our you start talking shit out the side of your mouth. I say I don't wan t a nybody working for him, he's got a dozen people living there. The cops set up a f ucking grandstand to watch the show, you don't know they're cops. What I'm s aying, I don't see you're doing me a lot of good."

  "Mr. Renda, I been watching, seeing he doesn't run off."

  "I'll tell you what," Renda said. "You go home, maybe we'll see you, maybe not.

  But listen, if it happens don't ever talk shit to me again, okay? Don't eve r t ell me what I'm going to do."

  "I sure didn't mean anything like that, Mr. Renda."

  But that was the end of it and he knew it. The window went up, the Olds drov e o ff and Bobby Kopas was left standing there, six miles from Edna, feeling like a d umb shit who'd blown his chance.

  Chapter 9.

  RENDA'S LAWYER was a senior partner in a firm that represented a number o f b usinessmen and business organizations who shared related or complementar y i nterests. Renda's lawyer looked out for his clients, helping them any way h e c ould, and liked to see them help one another, too. For example, he had a c lient, a mortgage broker, who was spending twelve months in the Federal Penitentiary at Lewisburg for willfully conspiring to defraud the United State s g overnment. All right, the mortgage broker had a hunting lodge-weekend funhous e u p in the mountains that he wasn't using. Frank Renda, he was informed, wante d s ome solitude, a place to rest where no one would bother him. So Renda's lawye r a rranged for Frank to lease the place from the mortgage broker for only si x h undred dollars a week.

  That was all right with the lawyer, Frank wanting a place in the mountains. Bu t i t wasn't all right if he was going to sit up there on his ass worrying about a 160-acre melon grower when he should be attending to his commercial affairs: hi s r estaurant linen service, his laundry and dry cleaning supply company, hi s m odeling service, and his string of massage parlors. That's where the money wa s t o be made; not in shooting people.

  The lawyer knew Frank Renda very well--his moods, his inclinations--so he knew i t w as sometimes hard to get through to him, once he had made up his mind. He bega n c alling Frank at the mortgage broker's hunting lodge an hour after the Cessn a w as scheduled to drop him in the desert. There was no answer at the place unti l l ate afternoon, and then he had to wait another ten minutes before Renda came t o t he phone.

  Wiley handed it to him, the phone and a scotch, and went over to a bearski n c ouch where her reading glasses and her novel were waiting.

  Renda stood looking around the room, at the Navajo blankets and mounted heads o f a ntelope and mule deer, the shellacked beams and big wagon-wheel chandelier , antique guns and branding irons. Christ, western shit all over the place. He ha d n ever met the mortgage broker friend of his lawyer, but he could picture the gu y n ow: little Jewboy with a cowboy hat, string tie and high-heeled boots, an d h orn-rimmed glasses and a big fucking cigar.

  He said into the phone, "Yeah."

  His lawyer's calm, unhurried voice came on. "How are you, Frank? How was th e t rip?"

  "Great, and the weather's great if it doesn't rain or snow. Come on, Harry, wha t d o you want?"

  "You like the place all right?"

  "It looks like a fucking dude ranch."

  "I called a few times this afternoon." The tone was still calm, unhurried.

  "Where've you been?"

  "On the can," Renda said. "I come here to get away, I'm in the fucking place te n m inutes and the phone starts ringing."

  "I'm not going to bother you," the lawyer said. "I want to let you know how th e s ituation stands."

  "I thought I was clear."

  "You are at the moment. Technically you're free on a five-thousand-dollar bond , pending your appearance at an investigation in ten days. It's a formality , something to inconvenience us. Though there is the possibility they'll try t o d ream up a lesser charge."

  "No they won't," Renda said. "They don't want to touch me unless it's for th e b ig one."

  "I'm glad you understand that," the lawyer said. "So you know this is not th e t ime to do anything"--he paused--"that would bring you under suspicion. Frank , they want you very badly."

  "What else is new?"

  "You must also have figured out why they released the melon grower."

  Renda didn't say anything.

  "All right," the lawyer said, "then let me mention that you have busines s m atters that need your attention."

  "Anything I was doing can wait."

  "And you have business associates," the lawyer went on, "who may not feel lik e w aiting. It's been my experience that the general reaction is one of impatienc e w ith anyone who puts his personal affairs ahead of the . . . common good, if yo u w ill."

  "I've got something to do," Renda said. "I think they understand that. If the y d on't, tough shit."

  "All right, you're saying you're going to do what you want," the lawyer said. "I want it on record that I'm advising you to wait--"

  "You got your machine on?"

  "Getting every word. As I was saying, I want it on record that I'm advising yo u t o wait. I'm suggesting that any dealings you might have with the melon growe r w ould be extremely ill-timed."

  "Harry," Renda said, "don't fuck with me, okay? I need you, I'll call you."

  He hung up.

  Wiley rested her book on her lap and looked over the top of her reading glasses.

  "What did he want?"

  "The usual shit. Lawyers, they talk and talk, they don't say anything."

  "I'll bet he told you not to do anything hasty," Wiley said. He didn't answer.

  She watched him sit down with his scotch and take a drink, sipping it, thinkin g a bout something.

  She tried again. "After all, you pay him for his advice."

 
He looked over at her. "And you know what I pay you for. So why don't you shu t t he fuck up?"

  "You don't pay me."

  "It's the same thing."

  She was starting to annoy him. Not too much yet, but she was starting. He ha d d umped a wife who had bored the shit out of him, talking all the time, buyin g c lothes and showing them to him, and now he had a girl who was a colleg e g raduate drama major, very bright, who read dirty books. Books she thought wer e d irty. He said to himself, Where are you? What the fuck are you doing?

  Five years ago it had been better, simpler. Get a name, do a study on the guy, learn his habits, walk up to him at the right time, and pull the trigger. It wa s d one. Take a vacation, wait for a call, and come back. L. A ., Vegas, whereve r t hey wanted him. Now it was business all the time. The boring meetings , discussions, planning, all the fucking papers to sign and talking on the phone.

  Phones all over the place. He used to have one phone. It would ring, he'd sa y h ello, and a voice would give him the name. That was it. He didn't even have t o s ay good-bye. Now he had six phones in his house, four in the apartment. He took Librium and Demerol and Maalox and even smoked reefer sometimes, which he ha d n ever done before in his life or trusted anybody who did. A hundred and fift y g rand plus a year to talk on the phone and sign the papers. He used to take a c ontract for five grand and had got as much as ten when it was tricky or the gu y h ad a name.

  That's what he missed. The planning and then pulling the trigger, being ver y s teady, with no wasted motions. Then lying around after, drinking all the scotc h h e wanted for a while and thinking about how he'd pulled the trigger. He wa s g ood then. During the last few days he had caught himself wondering if he wa s s till good and would be good enough to hit the melon grower clean. He hadn't hi t t he guy coming out of the bar very clean and that was probably why it was on hi s m ind. He hadn't hit anybody in a while and had taken the job because he misse d t he action and had talked them into letting him hit the guy, who wasn't anybod y a t all to speak of. But he had been too up, too anxious to pull the trigger an d e xperience the feeling again, and he hadn't blueprinted the job the way h e s hould have. Christ, an off-duty cop sitting there watching. Empty the gun lik e a fucking cowboy and not have any left for the cop. Or not looking around enoug h b eforehand. Not noticing the cop. Like it was his first time or like his fuckin g b rains were in his socks. They could be wondering about him right now. What's t he matter with him? Can't he pull a simple hit anymore?

  No, they wouldn't be thinking that. They didn't know enough about it, how yo u m ade it work. They'd think it was dumb luck the cop was there and dumb luck th e c op was killed and couldn't finger him. So the two canceled each other out an d h e was okay.

  Except somebody had talked to the lawyer and that's why the lawyer had talked t o h im. It wasn't the lawyer's idea to call--he realized that now without any doubt.

  The lawyer wouldn't do anything unless he was getting paid to do it or somebod y h ad told him to. Their lawyer, they, were telling him not to go after the melo n g rower. Because they thought he was wasting time or because it might involv e t hem in some way or because they didn't have anything against the guy. The gu y h ad not done anything to the organization. If he had, sure, hit him. They coul d p ay him to do it and he wouldn't think any more about it. That was th e d ifference. He was thinking about it and this time they couldn't pay him to hi t t he guy. He wouldn't take it. That was the thing. He couldn't get the melo n g rower out of his head he wanted to hit him so bad, and he wasn't sure why. No t b ecause the guy had belted him a couple of times; though that could be reaso n e nough. No, it was the way the guy had looked at him. The way he talked. The wa y h e pulled that cheap cool shit and acted like he couldn't be bought.

  How do you explain that to them?

  Look, I want to hit the guy. I got to. I want him--listen, I never gave a shi t a bout anybody before in my life, anybody I hit. It was never a personal thin g b efore like this one.

  Or try this.

  Listen, if nobody gives a bunch of shit about this, if you let me hit him, then I'll give you the next one, anybody you want, free.

  He said to himself, For Christ sake, you going to ask permission? You want th e g uy, do it.

  And he yelled, "Gene."

  Wiley looked up from her book.

  Lundy came in from wherever he had been with a can of Coors in his hand.

  Renda said to him, "How many we got?"

  Lundy wasn't sure at first what he was talking about, if he meant beers or what.

  But as he looked at Renda, he understood and said, "You and me for openers. I don't know when we're going, so I don't have anybody here. I thought after w e t alk about it, you know, see what you got in mind, I make a call and we ge t w hatever we need."

  "I think we need a truck," Renda said. "Good-size one. I'm not sure, but just i n c ase we got to haul some people."

  Lundy nodded. "Bobby Kopas's got one. Stake truck, open in back."

  "All right," Renda said, then immediately shook his head. "No. Shit, I don't w ant him around. Get the truck tell him you're going to borrow it you'll brin g i t back, and get . . . four, five guys who know what they're doing."

  "For when?"

  "Tonight," Renda said. "Let's get it done before the fucking phone start s r inging again."

  There was enough light in the packing shed to work by, but it was a dreary , bleak kind of light, like a light in a garage that didn't reach into th e c orners. A string of 100-watt bulbs, hanging beneath tin shades, extended th e l ength of the conveyor that was bringing the melons in from the dock outside.

  The sound in the packing shed was the steady hum of the motor that drove th e c onveyor.

  Most of the crew were outside, unloading the trailer. Nancy Chavez and Larry Mendoza's wife, Helen, did the sorting and were good at it, their hands deftl y f eeling, rolling the melons on the canvas belt, pulling out the ones that wer e b adly bruised or overripe. Majestyk and Larry Mendoza were at the end of th e l ine, packing the melons in cardboard cartons that bore the majestyk bran d l abel. Two other men in the crew were stacking the cartons, building a wall o f t hem as high as they could reach.

  By the time the trailer was unloaded it was almost ten o'clock. There were stil l m elons on the conveyor, but Majestyk shut it down and said that was enough fo r o ne night, more than he'd expected they'd get done.

  Mendoza came along the line to where his wife was standing and said, "I don't k now, Vincent, but I think we're going to do it."

  Nancy said, "If we can keep the grower working instead of goofing off, layin g a round in jail."

  Majestyk was tired, but he felt good. He felt like talking to her and getting t o k now her. He said, "I remember--it seems to me somebody mentioned having a bee r a fter work."

  Nancy looked across the conveyor at him. "You still buying?"

  "Sure, I'm going to be rich in about a week." He said to Mendoza, "Larry? Ho w a bout you and Helen?"

  "No, me and mama got more important things to do," Mendoza said, and slapped hi s w ife on the can, making her jump a little and grin at them. "We're going t o b ed."

  Nancy was still looking at Majestyk. "Maybe you'd rather do that." As she sa w h im begin to smile, she added quickly, "I mean if you're tired."

  Majestyk said, "Come on, let's go get a couple of cold ones." He was stil l s miling at her.

  Harold Ritchie watched the headlights of the pickup approaching the highway an d s aid to the deputy over by the tool shed, "Now where in the hell's he going?"

  "If it's him," the deputy said.

  "I guess I'm going to have to find out, aren't I?"

  Ritchie walked over to the State Highway Department truck, grabbed the doo r h andle and looked around again. " 'Less you want to this time. You been sittin'

  all day."

  "You can talk plainer than that," the deputy said. "I'm about to go sit again. I think I got me some bad enchiladas or something."

/>   He waited until Ritchie drove off before he went into the tool shed and radioe d t he Edna Post to let them know what was going on--which would be relayed to Lieutenant McAllen probably sitting home reading the paper or watching TV, a n ice, clean, lighted bathroom down the hall from him, empty, nobody even usin g i t.

  Walking over to the portable toilet he was thinking, hell, he should've taile d t he pickup this time, probably could've stopped at a gas station somewhere, or a b ar. Unbuckling his belt, the deputy stepped inside the toilet and closed th e d oor.

  Less than a hundred yards east of the construction site three pair of headlight s p opped on.

  The stake truck came first, followed by the two sedans, picking up speed, th e t ruck reaching forty miles an hour by the time it got to the barricades, swerve d i n and sideswiped the portable toilet, the right front fender glancing off , scraping metal against metal, but the corner of the stake body catching i t s quarely, mashing into the light metal as it tore the structure from its base , carried it with forward momentum almost to the tool shed before it bounced en d o ver end into the ditch. The stake truck kept going and turned into the roa d t hat led to Majestyk's place.

  The two sedans, Lundy's Olds 98 and a dark-colored Dodge, came to a stop by th e b arricades, the Olds bathing the battered toilet in its headlight beams.

  Renda and Lundy, and a third man with a machine gun under his arm, got out o f t he cars and walked into the beam of light. When Lundy got the twisted door o f t he toilet open, straining to pull it free, the third man aimed his machine gu n i nto the opening. Lundy pushed him aside, reached in with one arm and when h e s traightened again looked at Renda.

  "Dead."

  "Must've got hit by a truck," Renda said.

  Pushing open the screen a little, Mendoza could see the stake truck in front o f t he migrant quarters and hear the low rumble of its engine. Just sitting there.

  Nobody had got out of the truck. Nobody had come out of the migrant quarters.