Bobby Kopas zipped up his fly and walked around to the front of the Olds where Lundy was standing, squinting up at the sky.
"Hurry up and wait," Kopas said. "I never seen a plane come in on time in my life. Not even the airlines, not once I ever went out to the airport. Everybody sitting around waiting. Go in the cocktail lounge you're smashed by the time the fucking plane arrives. You ever seen a plane come in on time?"
Staring at the sky and the flat strip of desert beyond the road, Lundy said, "Why don't you shut your mouth for a while?"
Christ, you couldn't even talk to the guy. Kopas moved around with his hands in his pockets, kicking a few stones, looking around for some shade, which there wasn't a bit of anywhere, squinting in the hot glare, squinting even with his wraparound sunglasses on. The glasses made him sweat and he had to keep wiping his eyes. Lundy stood there not moving, like the heat didn't bother him at all. Big, heavy son of a bitch who should've been lathered with sweat by now, like a horse.
They heard the plane before they saw it, the faraway droning sound, then a dot in the sky coming in low, the sun flashing on its windshield. The Cessna passed over them at about a hundred feet. As it banked, descending, coming around in a wide circle, Lundy finally spoke. He said, "Wait here," and walked out into the desert.
Kopas was excited now. He wanted to appear cool and make a good impression. He put his hands on his hipbones and cocked one leg, pointing the toe of the boot out a little. Like a gunfighter. So the guy was big time. He'd act cool, savvy, show the guy he wasn't all that impressed.
He watched the plane come to a stop about a hundred yards away. Lundy, going out to meet it, was holding up his arm, waving at the plane. Big jerk.
Renda came out first and then the girl-white slacks and a bright green blouse. Even at this distance she looked good. Blond, nice slim figure. Now they were coming this way and Lundy was talking to them, gesturing, probably telling Renda how the murder charge against him had been dropped. Renda wouldn't have known about it, though the pilot might have told him. As the plane started its engine to take off, the prop wash blew sand at them and they hunched their shoulders and turned away from the stinging blast of air. Lundy was talking again. Renda stopped and they all stopped. Renda was saying something.
Then Lundy was talking again. As they came up to the road Kopas heard Lundy say, "You could have rode up here bareass on a white horse, nobody would've stopped you."
"What about the bus thing?" the girl asked him.
She was something. Maybe the best-looking girl Bobby Kopas had ever seen.
"There's nothing they can stick you with," Lundy said. "The bus, nothing. They tried to, naturally. There're three cops involved and they don't like that one bit. But what're they going to stick you with? You didn't shoot the cops. You didn't take the bus. The guy did, Majestyk. But they don't even jam him for that. You see what I'm getting at?"
Kopas had never heard Lundy talk so much.
The good-looking girl said, "God, nothing like a little dumb luck."
"Luck, bullshit," Renda said. "Timing. Make it happen. And never run till you see you're being chased."
"With a fast lawyer available at all times," the girl said. She didn't seem to be afraid of him.
"They had to let him go," Renda said. "I could see that right away, the cops coming up with this great idea. Don't stick him with the bus, no, let him go so I'll show up and try for him."
"That's the question," Lundy said. "What're the cops doing?"
"No, the question is what's the guy doing? Is he still sitting for it or what?"
"He's around," Lundy said. "We just saw him."
Kopas stepped out of the way as they approached the Olds. He set a grin on his face and said, "Probably home by now waiting on you, Mr. Renda."
Renda looked at him. Christ, with the coldest look he'd ever gotten from a person. Like he was a thing or wasn't even there. Christ, he'd been arrested, he'd been in the can. He wasn't some lightweight who didn't know what he was doing.
He said, "Mr. Renda? I wonder if I could ask you a favor." Renda was looking at him again. "I know it's your party, but-after you finish the son of a bitch-you mind if I put a couple of slugs in him?"
Renda said to Lundy, "Who's this asshole?"
"Bobby Kopas. Boy Majestyk hit."
"You pay him to drop it?"
"Five hundred."
"Then what's he doing here?"
"He's working for us," Lundy said, "to see nobody works for Majestyk. So there won't be a crowd hanging around there. He knows the guy's place, back roads, ways in and out. I thought he might come in handy."
Kopas thought he could add to that. He said, "I been watching that Polack melon picker since they let him out. He doesn't fart that I don't know about it."
The girl said, probably to Lundy, "Is he for real?"
Kopas wasn't sure what she meant. He kept his eyes on Renda, who was staring at him, and tried not to look away.
"You're telling me you know him pretty well?" Renda asked.
"I know he's a stuck-up son of a bitch. Got a two-bit farm and thinks he's a big grower."
"How long's he lived here?"
Kopas grinned. "Not much longer I guess, huh?"
"I ask you a question," Renda said, "you don't seem to want to answer it."
Jesus, that look again. "Well, I'm not sure how long exactly he's been here. Couple years, I guess. I just got into this labor business recently, when I seen there was money in it."
"Show me where he lives," Renda said.
"Yes sir, any time you say."
"Right now."
"Frank," Lundy said, "your lawyer got the house, it's all set. Up in the mountains, nobody can bother you or know you're there. I thought maybe you'd want to go up to the house first, you know, take it easy for a while."
Renda said, "Gene, did I come here to take it easy? I could be home, not at some place in the mountains. But I'm not home."
"I know you're anxious," Lundy began.
"Gene, I want to see the guy's place," Renda said. "I want to see it right now."
The two Anglo kids in the white T-shirts quit at noon and Mendoza paid them off. That left nine. So Majestyk went out in the field and picked melons all the rest of the day with Nancy Chavez and her friends from Yuma. Maybe next year he could stand around and watch, or sit in an office like a big melon grower. Sit on the porch and drink iced tea. That would be nice.
He wasn't used to this. He could feel the soreness in his back, and each time he reached the end of a row it would take him a little longer to straighten up. All day, dirty and sweaty and thirsty-drinking the lukewarm water in the canvas bag. Tomorrow he'd get a tub of ice and some pop, cover it with a piece of burlap. He'd forgotten how difficult and painful stooped labor was. Around 5:30, after eleven hours of it, the pickers began to straggle out of the field and unload their last melon sacks at the trailer parked on the road.
Majestyk was finishing a row, finally, when Nancy Chavez crossed through the vines and came toward him, a full sack hanging from her shoulder.
She said, "I've been watching you. For a grower you're pretty good."
"Lady, I've picked way more'n I've ever grown." He got up with an effort, trying not to show it, and the girl smiled at him. As they moved off toward the trailer, where Mendoza and two of his small sons were emptying the sacks and stacking the melons, Majestyk said, "I meant to ask if you ever sorted."
"All the time. It's what I do best."
"Maybe you could start things going in the packing shed tomorrow. If you'd like to."
"Whatever you say."
"We ever get it done, I'd like to pay everybody something extra."