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 shit about anybody before in my life, anybody I hit. It was never a personal thing before 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 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. Shit, 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 fucking 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 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 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, nobody even using it.
Walking over to the portable toilet he was thinking, hell, 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, scraping metal against metal, but the corner of the stake body catching it squarely, 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 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.
Pushing 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. Nobody had got out of the truck. Nobody 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 passed 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.
She said again, "Who are they?"
"I don't know," Mendoza answered. "But they don't have any business with us and they're not friends I know of. Go to bed."
She lingered, but finally moved away from him. When he heard the springs and knew she was in bed again, he pushed open the screen door carefully and went outside, holding the door to close it, so it wouldn't make noise. On the steps of the porch, looking down the road, he could see the headlights of the two cars in front of Vincent's house. He didn't know if they were waiting or if they had gone inside. He said, God, why don't they leave? He's not there, they can see that, so go on, get out of here. Vincent was with a girl, talking, drinking beer. He could be gone for hours, having a good time; stay out late he could still get up early and work. They didn't know him.
He saw them in the headlights for a moment and faintly heard the car doors slam, then went into the house again as the cars came back this way. He was sure they were going to pass his house, leave, and when the cars turned in-coming straight at his house before stopping close to the porch-he couldn't believe it and began backing away from the screen door, but not soon enough. The headlights were blinding and he knew they could see him. He could hear the engines idling. Some men, three of them, dark shapes were coming up on the porch. When they came into the house he still couldn't see them because of the headlights.