Ryan smiled and laughed a little bit, but he wasn’t picturing any Polacks eating corn; he was watching the dark-haired girl coming back from the ladies’ room, recognizing her and suddenly having a funny feeling shoot through him from his scalp right down to his hind end.
Ryan let the smile fade and said, “You know Bob Rogers, works for Ritchie?”
With a heavy knuckle Mr. Majestyk was wiping the moisture from his eye. “Bob Junior? Sure, his old man and I play pinochle.”
“He’s down at the end of the bar.”
Mr. Majestyk glanced around. “Yeah, I see him.”
“Who’s the girl with him?”
Now Mr. Majestyk straightened and looked over his shoulder again. He came back slowly, gazing around, so no one would think he was staring. He took a sip of beer. “That little lady’s in some trouble.”
“Who is she?”
“I forget her name. Nancy something. She’s supposed to be like a secretary to Ritchie, but that’s a bunch of crap.”
“He keeps her here?”
“That’s the word, buddy. He keeps her.”
“Whereabouts?”
“In this place he’s got on the beach. His wife comes up, he moves the broad over to his hunting place up by the farm.”
“She looks young.”
“How old do you have to be?”
“I mean for him. Ritchie.”
“Ask him—how should I know?”
“What’s she doing with Bob Junior?”
Mr. Majestyk glanced around again. “That dumb bastard. He’s got a good job, a nice family, a speedboat. His old man leases all the cucumber land to Ritchie Food and all Bob Junior’s got to do is work the crews—”
“He’s a horse’s ass.”
Mr. Majestyk shrugged, making a face. “He’s all right, he’s a big kid. He thinks he’s the Lone goddamn Ranger or something.”
“You said the girl was in some trouble.”
“Reckless driving. She’s got to appear in my court sometime next month.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
Mr. Majestyk leaned over the table on his forearms. “I’m not talking about running a red light. She almost killed a couple of kids.”
“You know it was her fault?”
“All right. These two Geneva boys are out in their car, a piece of junk just riding around looking to raise some hell, you know, or somebody to race. They spot the broad cruising along in her Mustang, so naturally they pull up alongside and start giving her the business, making remarks, asking her if she wants to race or go in the bushes, I don’t know.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, they don’t get a rise out of her, so they pass and go on wherever they’re going. But a couple of miles later they’ve turned off the Shore Road and they’re on this county road, gravel, and they see these lights coming up behind them. They expect the car to pass, but the car doesn’t pass, it bangs into their rear end. They don’t know what’s coming off. They speed up and the car—it’s the broad—gets right on their bumper and guns it. These guys they try to go faster, they try to shake her off, you know, swerving, but she hangs on and now she’s pushing them sixty, seventy miles an hour.”
“Yeah?”
“They try to brake and they burn the linings right off. They can’t do anything, this crazy broad keeps pushing, gunning it, and she’s going a good seventy—they both swear to it—when she backs off. She must have seen it: the road dead-ends at a crossroad and beyond is this plowed field. Well, these guys try to swerve, they fly over the ditch and hit the plowed field and roll over three times.”
“What happened to the guys?”
“One of them’s okay, a few cuts. The other kid’s got two broken legs and some internal injuries.”
“How’d they know it was her?”
“They saw her, for Christ sake.”
“I mean they could be lying.”
“Yeah, with her front end all banged the hell in.”
Nancy said, “I thought you told him to leave.”
“Who?”
She brushed the hair from her eye, nodding toward Ryan’s table. “The one today. You know.”
“Son of a gun. I don’t believe it,” Bob Jr. said.
As Bob Jr. looked around, his broad back, the checkered shirt tight across his shoulders, was close to her and she rested her hand lightly on his arm.
“He’s taking his time about it, isn’t he?” the girl said.
“He’s taking more’n I gave him.”
“Maybe he’s decided to stay.”
“He’ll leave if I got to run him down the highway with a stick.”
“Maybe he’s not afraid of you.” She ran her hand up his arm to the shoulder. “Look what he did to the Mexican.”
“He doesn’t have to be afraid,” Bob Jr. said. “Just have some sense.”
“Are you going to talk to him?”
“If he isn’t out of here before we leave.”
“I’m ready anytime,” Nancy said.
Mr. Majestyk was studying his glass. He said, “Listen, what I was thinking—what if you came to work at the Bay Vista?” He looked up at Ryan, as if surprised at what he had said. “Hey, what about it? Forty bucks a week—no, I’ll pay you fifty, also you get room and board, nice room you can fix up.”
“Doing what?”
“Anything needs to be done. Painting, taking care of the beach, repairs. I got this arthritis in my hands. See them knuckles?”
“For the rest of the summer?”
“Rest of the summer, maybe longer. I’m thinking of staying open for hunting season. Get these guys up from Detroit, give them nice rooms, feed them. You ever cook any?”
“I worked in a place once. Like a White Tower, only bigger.”
“You cook, huh?”
“Fry chef.”
“After hunting season, I don’t know. If we had good hills for the skiers, but that’s all up by Petoskey.”
“Who’s there, just you and your wife?”
“She’s been dead two years. But my daughter, she lives in Warren, comes up a couple times a year with the kids. Ronnie and Gayle—boy, those kids. It was my daughter fixed the place up for me, you know, picked out the drapes and the studio couches and all the pictures, everything.”
“Yeah, well I don’t know.” The girl with Bob Jr., Nancy, was looking at him again and it gave him a funny feeling, as if, like the waitress in the red pants, she knew all about him. More than he knew about her. He watched her slide off the bar stool and he watched Bob Jr. stand up and look right at him.
Mr. Majestyk leaned into the table. “Do you want me to tell you something?”
“Just a second. I think we got company.” Mr. Majestyk straightened and looked up as Bob Jr., coming first, edging past the people at the bar, reached the table. The girl stood by the bar, waiting for him.
“What’re you trying to pull?” Bob Jr. said to Ryan. “Are you trying to get cute with me?”
“Jesus Christ,” Mr. Majestyk said. “Who would want to get cute with you?”
“Hi, Walter.” Bob Jr. was serious. He didn’t smile.
“Hey, where’s your Lone Ranger hat?”
“Walter, you mind if I have a word with this guy?”
“Let me see,” Mr. Majestyk said. “Yes, I think I would.”
Bob Jr. was looking at Ryan, not listening to Majestyk. “You know what I told you this morning. I said at the time I wasn’t going to tell you again.”
“Then, what are you telling him for?” Mr. Majestyk asked.
Bob Jr. said to Ryan, “We better step outside a minute.”
Mr. Majestyk moved his hand across the table toward Ryan. “Stay where you are.”
“Walter, this is company business.”
“What company? Does he work for your company?”
“We paid him off and he agreed to leave,” Bob Jr. said. “On the strength of that agreement, I’m going to see he lives up to his end.”
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“Hey, Bob,” Mr. Majestyk said, “don’t give me any agreement crap, all right? You paid him because you owed him the dough. Now he don’t work for you anymore and there isn’t anything you can do to make him leave if he don’t want to.”
“Walter, you’re a friend of my dad’s and all, but this is between me and him.”
Ryan finished the beer in his glass and poured it full again. He was keeping a good hold, but it was almost too much, and it would be easy to let go, Bob Jr. standing close to the table with his hands on his hips and his big silver cowboy belt buckle shining level with his eyes.
Ryan said, not looking up, “Why don’t you quit standing there? Why don’t you and your friend sit down and have a beer?”
Mr. Majestyk smiled. “Now, that’s a nice suggestion. Bob, what do you say? It’s early.”
“We’ve had ours. We’re leaving now and I expect this fella’s leaving the same time we are.”
Ryan looked up at him. He said, “Don’t press it, all right? Not anymore.”
“Listen, boy, if I didn’t have somebody with me, I’d pick you up and carry you out.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Ryan said.
Mr. Majestyk was watching him. His gaze shifted to Bob Jr. and he said, not hurrying it but before Bob Jr. could say anything, “I invited this guy to have a beer with me. I’m not through yet and he’s not through. Maybe we’ll have a couple more pitchers, maybe we’ll have ten more. I don’t know. But what I want to know is if you’re going to stand there until we’re finished.”
“Walter, I told this guy this morning what he had to do.”
“Fine, you told him. Now, Bob, either sit down or stand someplace else, all right?”
“You’re saying I’m butting in. Walter, I’m saying this guy and I have business.”
“Let’s say we’re both right,” Mr. Majestyk said, “and neither of us will give in to the other. Meanwhile you left that nice-looking young lady standing by herself. Is that nice, Bob? What would your father say? What would your wife say?”
Bob Jr. hesitated long enough to show them he wasn’t being forced into anything he didn’t want to do. And when enough time had passed, looking at Ryan and slowly moving his gaze to Mr. Majestyk, he said, “I’ll run her home, but don’t be surprised if you see me again.” He had to give Ryan another look before turning away.
The girl waited with her arms folded, watching Ryan, then looking up at Bob Jr.’s tight, serious expression as he came toward her. She said, “Wow,” and walked out ahead of him.
“Do you want to know something?” Mr. Majestyk said. His eyes were a little watery; he was feeling the beer, but he spoke quietly, well enough controlled. “You probably wonder why I want to hire you. Why you. Do you want me to tell you why?”
“Go ahead,” Ryan said. The guy was going to tell him anyway.
“This might sound nuts, I don’t know, but I saw the movies, right? And I talked to the sheriff’s cops about you and I said to myself, ‘That’s a good kid. He stands up. Maybe he’s had a rough life, bummed around, and had to work. No chance to go to college, no trade—‘ You don’t have a trade, do you?”
“Not that pays anything.”
“Right,” Mr. Majestyk said. “No college education, no trade. I think to myself, ‘What’s he going to do? He’s a good one. He’s got something other guys don’t have. The son of a bitch stands up. But listen, I know this. It isn’t easy always to keep standing up. I mean, it’s better if you got somebody to help you once in a while. You understand what I mean?”
Just picturing the girl standing there, waiting by the bar, and the way she looked at him before she walked out, gave him the funny feeling again.
“Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“So I said to myself, ‘Do you want to see him throw his life away, bumming around, getting into trouble, or you going to help him? Give him an opportunity, a place to live, something to do.’ “
“That’s what you said to yourself.”
“Maybe not in those words.”
“I go to work at the Bay Vista.”
“Say till Labor Day, then we see what happens.”
“Janitor at a motel.”
“Not a janitor.”
“Handyman. I become your handyman and I’m all set.”
“Listen, I’m not giving you anything. You come to work for me you work. Maybe I find out you’re a bum and I got to throw you out.”
“If I take the job.”
“If you take the job, right.”
“You going to protect me from Bob Junior too? See nothing happens to me?”
Mr. Majestyk stared at him. He did not move or show anything in his eyes, though a line seemed to tighten down the sides of his nose. He sat hunched forward, not taking his eyes from Ryan, and finally he said, “You can stand up, but Jesus Christ you’re dumb, aren’t you?”
“I never asked you to stick up for me.”
“Forget it,” Mr. Majestyk said. “All right?” He said it quietly, his expression dead. “I’m going home. Come with me or stay, I don’t care. If you feel like it, think over what I said and if you want to work, come by my place tomorrow morning eight o’clock. If you don’t want to, don’t. Either way you’ll do what you want.”
He went to the bar to settle their bill and walked out without looking back.
“What’s the matter?” the Indian-looking waitress said to Ryan. “Doesn’t he feel good?”
“He went home, that’s all.”
“He said you could have whatever you wanted.”
Ryan looked at her. “I never asked him for anything.”
“Who said you did?” The Indian-looking waitress took away the empty pitcher and glasses. A few minutes later she watched Ryan pick up his bag and walk out.
6
* * *
THE PICTURE WINDOW of Cabana No. 5 looked out on the shallow end of the swimming pool, a deserted pool at nine in the morning, partly in shade, unmoving.
Virginia Murray had been up since a quarter to seven. She had eaten breakfast: orange juice, toast, and Sanka, straightened the kitchenette, made her bed, showered, removed the curlers from her hair and combed it out, and had put on her aqua bathing suit and terry-cloth robe. She had also written to her mother and father, telling them, oh, was it ever good not to have to get up and rush to work. She didn’t mind at all now the other girls not coming. It was more of a rest being alone.
Sitting on the couch across from the picture window, and with the floral print draperies drawn open, she could look straight out to the swimming pool and the cabanas across the way and see it all framed as a scene, a stage set, while she remained in the darkness of the audience. She thumbed through McCall’s. She looked at her watch: a little after nine. She pulled at the bra of her one-piece aqua bathing suit where the edge dug into her chest. She looked in the straw bag next to her to make sure the Coppertone was inside. And the Kleenex. And comb, which she took out of the straw bag now and went into the bathroom and combed her hair again in the mirror, her head turned, cocked slightly, the corner of one eye watching the movement of the comb, the eye now and again meeting the eye in the mirror and looking away. She returned to the couch and sat on the towel she had spread over an end section. As she picked up McCall’s again she saw two little boys standing at the edge of the pool.
The Fisher boys from No. 14, one of the cabanas facing the beach. In a few minutes their teenage sister would come to watch them; then the father would come and later on, about eleven, the mother. By that time most of the Bay Vista people would have appeared: the children first, the children suddenly everywhere, the adults coming out gradually, saying good morning and carefully choosing lounge chairs, moving them closer together or farther apart, turning them to face the swimming pool or the sun or away from the sun.
The Fishers would come to the pool.
The couple on their honeymoon would come to the pool. From No. 10, the cabana dir
ectly across from Virginia Murray’s.
The family with the little dark-haired children, probably Italian, would come to the pool and the mother would talk to Mrs. Fisher, the two women with heavy legs and beach coats and straw hats with ornaments in the bands that looked like pine cones.
The people in No. 1 would stay on their lawn at the umbrella table and from the shade watch their children on the beach.
The two young couples in No. 11—without children or away from them—who were building a wall of empty beer cans along the railing of their screened porch (Virginia Murray had counted and estimated over 100 cans by Sunday evening) would go down to the beach at ten; one of the men would come up for the Scotch-Kooler of beer just before noon; they would all come up for lunch at one, return to the beach at two, and begin drinking beer again at four, at ease, the men saying funny things and all four of them laughing.
The woman in No. 9, the redhead who wore makeup to the pool, would come out with her little girl about eleven, though the little girl would have come out several times before to watch the other children. Sometimes the little girl would beg to go down to the beach and play in the sand, but her mother would tell her, Cheryl Ann, it was too sunny today.
There were other people at the Bay Vista, in the cabanas and in the motel units facing the Beach Road, who would be at the swimming pool sometimes and at the beach sometimes. Virginia Murray recognized most of them, but she had not labeled them or decided anything about them.
There was Mr. Majestyk, too. He seemed nice. Friendly in a brusk, uneducated sort of way; walking around in his undershirt—always the undershirt and a baseball cap—always going somewhere to fix something or moving the diving raft farther out or driving his bulldozer around the beach.