Mr Majestyk Read online

  "I was four years. My wife divorced me while I was in prison."

  "Run out on you, huh? How come? Didn't you get along?"

  "You want to talk about my marriage? Find out what we did in bed?"

  McAllen didn't say anything for a moment. He stared at Majestyk, then turned t o l eave, dropping the folder on the desk.

  "I think you better talk to a lawyer."

  "Lieutenant, I got a crop of melons to get in." He saw the man hesitate and tur n t o look at him again. "Let me get them picked, I'll come back right after."

  McAllen took his time. "That's what you're worried about, melons?"

  "I get them in and packed this week or I lose the crop. I'm asking for a fe w d ays, that's all."

  "The court'll set a bond on you," McAllen said. "Pay it, you can go out and pic k a ll the melons you want."

  "Except if I put up bail I won't have any money left for a crew. And I can't p ick a hundred and sixty acres by myself."

  McAllen was thoughtful again, studying him. He said, "I don't know anythin g a bout you but the fact you've been arrested for assault and have a previou s c onviction. So I don't have any reason to feel sorry for you, do I?"

  "I give you my word," Majestyk said. "I'll come right back."

  "And even if I did feel sorry for you, if for some reason I believed you, th e l aw doesn't happen to make any provision for your word," McAllen said. "That's h ow it is." He turned and walked out.

  Larry Mendoza waited three and a half hours on the bench by the main desk , looking up every time one of the deputies came out of an office. They woul d s tand around drinking coffee, not paying any attention to him. Finally they tol d h im no, it was too late to see his friend now, he'd have to come back tomorrow.

  They told him the charge was felonious assault and the bond was set at fiv e t housand, which would cost him five hundred, cash, if he wanted to go to th e c ounty seat and get a bondsman to put up the money. Or wait a couple of days fo r t he examination. If the court set a trial date and appointed a lawyer, maybe th e l awyer could get the bond lowered.

  Christ, he didn't know anything about bonds or examinations. He didn't know wha t t he hell was going on--how they could arrest a man for throwing somebody off hi s p roperty who didn't belong there. It didn't make sense.

  When he got back Julio had already picked up his crew and was gone. He asked hi s w ife, Helen, and Nancy Chavez and the four men who were with her--the group o f t hem sitting on the front steps of his house in the shade--if it made any sense.

  Nancy Chavez said, "Cops. Talking to cops is like talking to the wall. The y d on't tell you anything they don't want to."

  Of course not, it didn't make sense. Christ almighty, who ever expected cops t o m ake sense? All they could do was keep working, do that much for him while h e w as in jail, then all of them tell at the examination, or whatever it was, wha t h appened and maybe, if the judge listened, he would see it didn't make any sens e a nd Vincent would get off. Maybe.

  Helen Mendoza let Nancy use her kitchen and gave her some green beans and beet s t o go with the Franco-American spaghetti she fixed for her friends and herself.

  Larry Mendoza said why didn't they stay in Vincent's house while he was in jail.

  Vincent wouldn't mind. In fact he'd want them to. Nancy Chavez said all right , for one night. But tomorrow they'd get the migrant quarters in shape, clean u p t he kitchen and a couple of rooms and stay there. They had cots and bedding i n t he car. For a week it wouldn't be so bad. They'd lived in worse places.

  Larry Mendoza went back to the Edna Post the next day, Saturday. They searche d h im good and put him in a little closet of a room that had a table, two chair s f acing each other and a metal cabinet. He waited about a half hour before a d eputy brought Majestyk in and closed the door. The deputy waited outside. The y c ould see him through the glass part of the door.

  "Are you all right? Christ, it doesn't make any sense."

  "I'm fine," Majestyk told him. "Listen, what we got to think about's the crop.

  You're here visiting me, you should be working the crew."

  "Man, we're worried about you. What if they put you in jail?"

  "I'm already in jail."

  "In the penitentiary. For something that don't make any sense."

  "We're going to court Monday," Majestyk said. "I'll see if I can talk to th e j udge, explain it to him."

  "And we'll be there," Mendoza said. "Tell them what happened."

  "I'll tell them. You'll be out in the field."

  "Vincent, you need all the help you can get. You got to have a lawyer."

  "I need pickers more than I do a lawyer," Majestyk said, "and they both cos t m oney."

  "The deputy says the court will appoint one."

  "Maybe. We'll see what happens. But right now, today and tomorrow, the melon s a re out there, right? And they're not going to wait much longer. You don't ge t t hem in we'll lose a crop, two years in a row."

  Mendoza was frowning, confused. "How can something like this happen? It doesn't m ake any sense."

  "I don't know," Majestyk said. "If it isn't a drought or a hailstorm it's s omething else. Skinny little dude comes along thinking he's a big shooter--"

  "Bobby Kopas," Mendoza said. "This morning Julio says he saw the guy's ca r p arked at a motel."

  "Where?"

  "Right here, in Edna. He's still hanging around."

  "I can't think about him," Majestyk said. "I would sure like to see him agai n s ometime, but I can't think about him. I do--I'm liable to get it in my head t o b ust out of here."

  Mendoza reached across the table to touch his arm. "Vincent, don't do anythin g f oolish, all right?"

  "I'll try not to," Majestyk said.

  Chapter 4.

  MONDAY MORNING, early, they brought Majestyk and four other prisoners out of th e j ail area to a tank cell, near the back entrance, that was used for drunks an d o vernighters. There were no bunks in here, only a varnished bench against two o f t he light green cement block walls, a washbasin, and a toilet without a seat.

  The fluorescent lights, built into the ceiling and covered with wire mesh , reflected on the benches and waxed tile floor. For a jail the place was clea n a nd bright; that much could be said for it.

  The food wasn't too good though. A trusty, with a deputy standing by, slippe d t he trays in under the barred section of wall, next to the door. Five trays, for Majestyk, two Chicanos, a black guy, and a dark-haired, dude-looking guy in a s uit and tinted glasses who hadn't said a word all morning.

  One of the Chicanos passed the trays around and went back to sit with the other Chicano, probably a couple of migrants. The black guy was near the corner, wher e t he two benches met. The dark-haired guy looked at his tray and set it on th e b ench next to him, between where he was sitting low against the wall and where Majestyk sat with his tray on his lap.

  Stiff-looking fried eggs and dried-up pork sausage, stale bread, no butter, an d l ukewarm coffee. Majestyk ate it, cleaned the tray, because he was hungry. Bu t h e'd have a word for the deputy when he saw him again. The one with the tattoo.

  Ask him if they ruined the food on purpose. Christ, it was just as easy to do i t r ight. Where'd they get the idea food had to be stiff and cold?

  He looked down at the tray next to him. The guy hadn't touched anything. He sa t w ith his shoulders hunched against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Long dark wav y h air that almost covered his ears and a two-day growth of beard. Striped colla r s ticking out of the rumpled, expensive-looking dark suit. Shirt open, no tie. No e xpression on his face behind the lightly tinted wire-frame glasses.

  Looking at him, Majestyk said, "You going to eat your sausage?"

  The guy drew on his cigarette. He didn't look at Majestyk. He moved his hand t o t he tray, behind it, and sent it off the bench to hit with a sharp meta l c latter, skidding, spilling over the tile floor.

  The two Chicanos and the black guy were poised over their trays,
eyes raised , but watching only for a moment before looking down again and continuing to eat.

  "You're not going to eat it," Majestyk said, "then nobody does, uh?"

  The dark-haired guy was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of another, th e p ack still in his hand.

  He said, "You want it? Help yourself."

  "I guess not," Majestyk said. He looked at the guy as he put the pack o f c igarettes in his coat pocket. "You got an extra one of those?"

  The guy didn't say anything. He drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke ou t s lowly.

  "I'll pay you back when I get out," Majestyk said. "How'll that be?"

  The guy turned now to look at him, and another voice said, "Hey, you want a s moke?"

  The black guy was holding up a cigarette package that was almost flat.

  Majestyk put his tray on the bench and walked over to him. They both took on e a nd Majestyk sat down next to the black guy to get a light.

  "Man, don't you know who that is?"

  "Some movie star?"

  "That's Frank Renda." The black guy kept his voice low, barely moving his mouth.

  "He looks like an accordian player," Majestyk said, "used to be on TV."

  "Jesus Christ, I said Frank Renda."

  "I don't know--I might've heard of him."

  "He's in the rackets. Was a hit man. You know what I'm saying to you? He shoot s p eople, with a gun."

  "But they caught him, huh?"

  "Been trying to for a long time," the black guy said. "Other night this off-dut y c op pulls up in front of a bar, some place up on the highway. He sees a man com e o ut. Sees Renda get out of his car, walk up to the man, and bust him five time s w ith a thirty-eight."

  "Why didn't the cop shoot him?"

  "Didn't have to. Renda's gun's empty."

  "He doesn't sound too bright. Pulling a dumb thing like that."

  "They say he wanted the man bad, couldn't wait."

  Majestyk was studying Renda. Maybe he was dumb, but he looked cool, patient , like somebody who moved slowly, without wasted effort. He didn't look like a n a ccordian player now. He looked like some of the guys he had seen in prison, at Folsom. Mean, confident, hard-nosed guys who would give you that look no matte r w hat you said to them. Like who the fuck are you? Don't waste my time. How di d g uys get like that? Always on the muscle.

  "They got him this time," the black guy said. "Gonna nail his ass fo r n inety-nine years--you ask him is he gonna eat his sausage."

  Because of Renda they brought the five prisoners out the back way to the parkin g a rea, where the gray county bus and the squad cars were waiting. Get them ou t q uick, without attracting a lot of attention. But a crowd of local people ha d a lready gathered, along with the reporters and TV newsmen who had been in Edn a t he past two days and were ready for them. A cameraman with a shoulder-mounte d r ig began shooting as soon as the door opened and the deputies began to brin g t hem out in single file, the two Chicanos first, startled by the camera and th e p eople watching, then the black guy. They held up Renda and Majestyk in th e h allway inside the door, to handcuff them because they were felons. A deput y t old them to put their hands behind their backs; but the deputy named Ritchi e t old him to cuff them in front--it was a long ride, let them sit back and enjo y i t.

  When Renda appeared, between two deputies, the TV camera held on him, pannin g w ith him to the bus, and a newsman tried to get in close, extending a hand mike.

  "Frank, over here. What do you think your chances are? They got a case agains t y ou or not?"

  Renda held his head low, turned away from the camera. A deputy stuck out hi s h and, pushing the mike away, and two more deputies moved in quickly, from th e s teps by the rear door, to stand in the newsman's way and restrain him if the y h ad to. This left Majestyk alone at the top of the steps. He watched them put Renda aboard the bus. Four, five deputies standing now with their backs to him.

  He watched the newsman with the mike come around and mount the steps. Th e n ewsman turned, facing the bus, and the TV camera swung toward him.

  Majestyk was close enough to hear him and stood listening as the TV newsma n s aid, "Today, Frank Renda is being taken to the county seat for pretria l e xamination on a charge that will undoubtedly be first-degree murder. Renda, a f amiliar name in organized crime, has been arrested nine times without a c onviction. Now, it would appear, his luck has finally run out. The prosecutor's o ffice is convinced Renda will stand trial, be convicted of the murder charge , and spend the rest of his life in prison. This is Ron Malone with TV-Action New s c oming to you from Edna."

  Majestyk walked down the steps past the newsman, came up behind the deputie s s tanding by the bus door and said, "Excuse me."

  The two deputies nearest him turned, with momentary looks of surprise. One o f t hem took his arm then and said, "Get in there."

  He got in, moved past the driver and the deputy standing by him, and took a sea t o n the left side of the bus, in front of the black guy, who leaned forward as h e s at down and said over his shoulder, "You get on TV? Your mama'll be proud t o s ee you."

  Renda sat across the aisle, a row ahead of him. The two Chicanos sat together on Renda's side, two rows closer to the front. When the door closed and the bu s b egan to move, circling out of the parking area with a squad car leading an d a nother following, the deputy standing by the driver moved down the aisle t o t ake a seat in the back of the bus. Both he and the driver, Majestyk noticed , were unarmed.

  He said to himself, How does that help you? And settled back to stare out th e w indow at the familiar billboards and motels and gas stations, the tacoburge r p lace, the stores that advertised used clothing, Ropa Usada. Railroad tracks ra n p arallel with the highway, beyond a bank of weeds. They passed the warehouse s a nd loading sheds that lined the tracks, platformed old buildings that bore th e n ames of growers and produce companies. They passed the silver water tower tha t s tood against the sky--edna, home of the broncos--and moved out into miles o f f ences and flat green fields, until the irrigation ditches ended and the subdue d l and turned color, reverted to its original state, and became desert country.

  Looking out at the land he wondered when he would be coming back. When, or if h e w ould be coming back. He said to himself, What are you doing here? How did i t h appen? Sitting handcuffed in a prison bus. His fields miles behind him. Goin g t o stand trial again. The chance of going to prison again. Could that happen?

  No, he said to himself, refusing to believe it. He could not let it happen , because he could not live in prison again, ever. He couldn't think about i t w ithout the feeling of panic coming over him, the feeling of being suffocated , caged, enclosed by iron bars and cement walls and not able to get out. He r emembered reading about a man exploring a cave, hundreds of feet underground , who had crawled into a seam in the rocks and had got wedged there, because o f h is equipment, and was unable to move forward or backward or reach the equipmen t w ith his hands to free it. Majestyk had stopped reading and closed the magazine , because he knew the man had died there.

  Prison was for men like Frank Renda--sitting across the aisle with his ow n t houghts, slouched low in his seat, staring straight ahead, off somewhere in hi s m ind. What was he thinking about?

  What difference did it make? Majestyk forgot about Frank Renda and did not loo k a t him again until almost a half hour later, when the land outside the bus ha d c hanged again, submitting to signs and gas stations and motels, and the empt y h ighway became a busy street that was taking them through a run-down industria l a rea on the outskirts of the city.

  He noticed Renda because Renda was sitting up straighter now, stretching to se e a head, through the windshield, then turning to look out the windows as the bu s m oved along in the steady flow of traffic. The man had seemed half aslee p b efore. Now he was alert, as though he was looking for a particular store o r b uilding, a man looking for an address written on a piece of paper. Or maybe h e h ad lived around here at one
time and it was like revisiting the ol d n eighborhood, seeing what had changed. That was the feeling Majestyk had. He wa s c urious about Renda again and continued to watch him and glance off to follo w h is gaze. Through the windshield now--to see the intersection they wer e a pproaching, the green light and the man standing in the middle of the street , caught between the flows of traffic.

  Later, he remembered noticing the man moments before it happened. Maybe te n s econds before--seeing the man in bib overalls holding a paper bag by the neck, a f armer who'd come to town for a bottle of whiskey, guy from the sticks wh o d idn't know how to cross a busy street and got trapped. He remembered thinkin g t hat and remembered, vividly, the man in bib overalls waiting for the lead squa d c ar to pass him and then starting across the street, weaving slightly, walkin g d irectly into the path of the bus.

  There was a screeching sound as the driver slammed on the brakes and the tire s g rabbed the hot pavement. Majestyk was thrown forward against the seat in fron t o f him, but pushed himself up quickly to see if the man had been hit. No , because the driver was yelling at him. "Goddamn drunk--get out of the way!"

  He saw the man's head and shoulders then, past the hood of the bus, the ma n g rinning at the driver.

  "Will you get the hell out of the way!"

  The deputy who'd been in the rear was coming up the aisle, past Majestyk, an d t he driver was standing now, leaning on the steering wheel.

  The man in the overalls, whose name was Eugene Lundy, was still grinning as h e t ook a .44 Colt magnum out of the paper bag, extended it over the front of th e h ood, and fired five times, five holes blossoming on the windshield as th e d river hit against his seat and went out of it and the deputy was slamme d b ackward down the aisle and hit the floor where Majestyk was standing.

  Lundy drew a .45 automatic out of his overalls, turned and fired four times a t t he squad car that had come to a stop across the intersection. Then he wa s m oving--as the doors of the squad car swung open--past the front of the bus an d d own the cross street.

  Harold Ritchie knocked his hat off getting out of the lead squad car, swingin g o ut of there fast and drawing his big Colt Special. He put it on Lundy, trackin g w ith him, and yelled out for him to halt, concentrating, when he heard hi s p artner call his name.