Part 9 (1/2)

He looked over at her. ”And you know what I pay you for. So why don't you shut the f.u.c.k 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 had dumped a wife who had bored the s.h.i.+t out of him, talking all the time, buying clothes and showing them to him, and now he had a girl who was a college graduate drama major, very bright, who read dirty books. Books she thought were dirty. He said to himself, Where are you? What the f.u.c.k 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 was done. Take a vacation, wait for a call, and come back. L.A., Vegas, wherever they wanted him. Now it was business all the time. The boring meetings, discussions, planning, all the f.u.c.king papers to sign and talking on the phone. Phones all over the place. He used to have one phone. It would ring, he'd say h.e.l.lo, and a voice would give him the name. That was it. He didn't even have to say 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 had never done before in his life or trusted anybody who did. A hundred and fifty grand plus a year to talk on the phone and sign the papers. He used to take a contract for five grand and had got as much as ten when it was tricky or the guy had a name.

That's what he missed. The planning and then pulling the trigger, being very steady, with no wasted motions. Then lying around after, drinking all the scotch he wanted for a while and thinking about how he'd pulled the trigger. He was good then. During the last few days he had caught himself wondering if he was still good and would be good enough to hit the melon grower clean. He hadn't hit the guy coming out of the bar very clean and that was probably why it was on his mind. He hadn't hit anybody in a while and had taken the job because he missed the action and had talked them into letting him hit the guy, who wasn't anybody at all to speak of. But he had been too up up, too anxious to pull the trigger and experience the feeling again, and he hadn't blueprinted the job the way he should have. Christ, an off-duty cop sitting there watching. Empty the gun like a f.u.c.king cowboy and not have any left for the cop. Or not looking around enough beforehand. Not noticing the cop. Like it was his first time or like his f.u.c.king brains were in his socks. They could be wondering about him right now. What's the 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 you made it work. They'd think it was dumb luck the cop was there and dumb luck the cop was killed and couldn't finger him. So the two canceled each other out and he was okay.

Except somebody had talked to the lawyer and that's why the lawyer had talked to him. 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 somebody had told him to. Their lawyer, they they, were telling him not to go after the melon grower. Because they thought he was wasting time or because it might involve them in some way or because they didn't have anything against the guy. The guy had not done anything to the organization. If he had, sure, hit him. They could pay him to do it and he wouldn't think any more about it. That was the difference. He was was thinking about it and this time they couldn't pay him to hit the guy. He wouldn't take it. That was the thing. He couldn't get the melon grower out of his head he wanted to hit him so bad, and he wasn't sure why. Not because the guy had belted him a couple of times; though that could be reason enough. No, it was the way the guy had looked at him. The way he talked. The way he pulled that cheap cool s.h.i.+t and acted like he couldn't be bought. thinking about it and this time they couldn't pay him to hit the guy. He wouldn't take it. That was the thing. He couldn't get the melon grower out of his head he wanted to hit him so bad, and he wasn't sure why. Not because the guy had belted him a couple of times; though that could be reason enough. No, it was the way the guy had looked at him. The way he talked. The way he pulled that cheap cool s.h.i.+t and acted like he couldn't be bought.

How do you explain that to them?

Look, I want want to hit the guy. I got to. I want him-listen, I never gave a s.h.i.+t about anybody before in my life, anybody I hit. It was never a personal thing before like this one. to hit the guy. I got to. I want him-listen, I never gave a s.h.i.+t about anybody before in my life, anybody I hit. It was never a personal thing before like this one.

Or try this.

Listen, if n.o.body gives a bunch of s.h.i.+t 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 the guy, 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 we talk about it, you know, see what you got in mind, I make a call and we get whatever we need.”

”I think we need a truck,” Renda said. ”Good-size one. I'm not sure, but just in case 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. s.h.i.+t, I don't want him around. Get the truck tell him you're going to borrow it you'll bring it back, and get ... four, five guys who know what they're doing.”

”For when?”

”Tonight,” Renda said. ”Let's get it done before the f.u.c.king phone starts ringing 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 the corners. A string of 100-watt bulbs, hanging beneath tin shades, extended the length 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 the conveyor.

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 deftly feeling, rolling the melons on the canvas belt, pulling out the ones that were badly bruised or overripe. Majestyk and Larry Mendoza were at the end of the line, packing the melons in cardboard cartons that bore the majestyk brand label. Two other men in the crew were stacking the cartons, building a wall of them as high as they could reach.

By the time the trailer was unloaded it was almost ten o'clock. There were still melons on the conveyor, but Majestyk shut it down and said that was enough for one 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 know, Vincent, but I think we're going to do it.”

Nancy said, ”If we can keep the grower working instead of goofing off, laying around in jail.”

Majestyk was tired, but he felt good. He felt like talking to her and getting to know her. He said, ”I remember-it seems to me somebody mentioned having a beer after 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? How about you and Helen?”

”No, me and mama got more important things to do,” Mendoza said, and slapped his wife on the can, making her jump a little and grin at them. ”We're going to bed.”

Nancy was still looking at Majestyk. ”Maybe you'd rather do that.” As she saw him 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 still smiling at her.

Harold Ritchie watched the headlights of the pickup approaching the highway and said to the deputy over by the tool shed, ”Now where in the h.e.l.l'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 door handle 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 radioed the 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 nice, clean, lighted bathroom down the hall from him, empty, n.o.body even using it.

Walking over to the portable toilet he was thinking, h.e.l.l, he should've tailed the pickup this time, probably could've stopped at a gas station somewhere, or a bar. Unbuckling his belt, the deputy stepped inside the toilet and closed the door.

Less than a hundred yards east of the construction site three pair of headlights popped on.

The stake truck came first, followed by the two sedans, picking up speed, the truck reaching forty miles an hour by the time it got to the barricades, swerved in and sideswiped the portable toilet, the right front fender glancing off, sc.r.a.ping metal against metal, but the corner of the stake body catching it squarely, mas.h.i.+ng 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 end over end into the ditch. The stake truck kept going and turned into the road that led to Majestyk's place.

The two sedans, Lundy's Olds 98 and a dark-colored Dodge, came to a stop by the barricades, 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 of the cars and walked into the beam of light. When Lundy got the twisted door of the toilet open, straining to pull it free, the third man aimed his machine gun into the opening. Lundy pushed him aside, reached in with one arm and when he straightened again looked at Renda.

”Dead.”

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

Pus.h.i.+ng open the screen a little, Mendoza could see the stake truck in front of the migrant quarters and hear the low rumble of its engine. Just sitting there. n.o.body had got out of the truck. n.o.body had come out of the migrant quarters. They were all inside or around someplace close by because their cars were there, the three old junk heaps. When the two pair of headlights came down the road from the highway and pa.s.sed the migrant quarters, Mendoza moved away from the doorway. He was wearing only his jockey shorts-maybe he should hurry up and put some clothes on. But the cars weren't coming to his place. They kept going.

Behind him his wife whispered, ”Who are they? Do you know them?”

He knew. He was pretty sure he knew. But he said to her, ”Stay with the children.”

When she stepped into the doorway to look out he pulled her back because of the slip she wore as a nightgown. It showed dull white in the moonlight and he was afraid they would see her, even though he knew they were all the way to Vincent's house by now.