But that was not going to happen, so he'd sit here and wait and watch the crop rot in the field.
Unless you could finish it somehow, Majestyk thought, and had a strange feeling as he thought it. Instead of waiting, what if there was something he could do to get it over with?
When he saw the figure walking in from the highway he knew it was Larry Mendoza-the slow, easy way he moved-and went down to the road to meet him. As Mendoza approached he held up his hand, as if to hold Majestyk off, knowing what was in his mind.
"Don't say nothing, Vincent. I live here, I work here. I took my wife and kids to her mother's, so they'd be out of the way. Now, what are we doing?"
"They hurt you," Majestyk said, staring at Mendoza's bruised, swollen mouth. "I'm sorry, Larry. I should have been here."
"No." Mendoza shook his head. "Getting that beer was the best thing you ever did."
"They asked you where I was and you wouldn't tell them," Majestyk said. "So they roughed you up."
"Not much. I only got hit once. Nobody else was hurt."
"You don't know if Frank Renda was one of them?"
"No, I never seen him, picture or nothing."
"Did you talk to the police?"
"Sure, a cop stop me in town, take me in. They ask some questions, but what do I tell them? Some men come, I don't even know who they are. I don't even see them. They tell us leave or get our heads busted. That's all. Come on, Vincent, we got some work, let's do it."
"If you'll do one thing for me, Larry," Majestyk said. "I think we got enough good melons for a load. Take the trailer into the warehouse and leave it there. You can come back later sometime, and get your personal things, your clothes and stuff."
Mendoza frowned. "What the hell are you talking about? I'll bring the trailer back, we'll pick melons and load it again. You retiring already, or what?"
"I can't ask you to stay here," Majestyk said.
"Then don't ask. I'll get the trailer."
As he started away Majestyk said to him, "Larry… it's good to see you."
When he returned to the packing shed Nancy had already begun the sorting, separating the undamaged melons and placing them in fresh cartons. She looked up as he came in.
"Lots of them are still good, Vincent. More than I thought."
"Larry's going to take a load in," Majestyk said. "He'll drop you off in town."
"What am I going to town for?"
He realized, by her expression, he was taking her by surprise. "To get a bus," Majestyk said. God, he sounded cold and impersonal, but went on with it. "There's no reason now for you to stay. I'll pay you, give you money for the others in case you run into them." She came to her feet slowly, as he spoke.
"Last night you want to hold me," Nancy said, "see how close we can get. Today you want me to leave."
"Last night-that seems like a long time ago." He still didn't like his tone, but didn't know what to do about it. "I must've been nuts, or dreaming," he said, "believe the man'd sit and wait for me to get my crop in."
"All right, if you feel he's going to come back," the girl said, "then why don't we both leave?"
"Run and hide somewhere? He'd find me, sooner or later."
"So face it and get it over with, huh?" There was a sound of weariness in her tone. "Big brave man, has to stand alone and fight, no matter what. Where'd you learn to think like that?"
"You're not going to be here, so don't worry about it."
"Now you're mad."
"I don't have time to worry about it."
She said then, "I'll tell you something, Vincent. I've been in a car that was shot at and the man sitting next to me killed. Another time, a truck chased a bunch of us down a road, trying to run us over. And once I was in a union hall when they threw in a fire bomb and shot the place up. I don't need anybody looking out for me. But if you want me to leave, if you don't want me here, that's something else."
He had to say it right away, without hesitating. "All right, I don't want you here."
"I don't believe you."
She was holding him with her eyes, trying to make him tell what he felt.
"I said Larry'll drop you off. Get your bag and be ready when he leaves." He stared at her, fought her eyes, until finally she walked past him, out of the shed.
They were lifting the battered portable toilet onto a flatbed truck with a hoist when Lieutenant McAllen arrived. He had them set the toilet back on the ground and looked at it, not touching it or saying anything until he turned to Harold Ritchie.
"How's it written up? Hit and run?"
"That's about all we can call it for the time being," Ritchie said.
McAllen nodded. "What're they going to do with it?"
"Scrap it, I guess. 'Less the road people want to bump it out."
"You think maybe it ought to be dusted first?"
"Well, we could. But there's people been handling it."
"I'm interested in the door," McAllen said. "Like maybe someone pulled it open, at the time I mean, to see if the man was alive or dead. There could be some prints along the inside edge."
"I guess there could be at that," Ritchie said.
"Let's bring it in and do it at home," McAllen said. "I think that'd be better than having a lot of people hanging around here, don't you?"
Ritchie was looking past McAllen, squinting a little in the glare. "Here comes his truck." As McAllen turned, Ritchie raised his binoculars. "Pulling a trailerload of melons. Going to market, like he didn't have a goddamn trouble in the world. No, it ain't him," Ritchie said then, as the truck reached the highway. "It's his hired man, Larry Mendoza, and looks like… some Mexican broad."
Mendoza paid attention to his driving, concentrating on it, and would keep busy looking at the trailerload of melons through the rearview mirror, because he didn't know what to say. The girl, Nancy, didn't say anything either-staring out the side window, her suitcase on the seat between them-but he was aware of her, could feel her there, and wished she would start talking about something.
He tried a couple of times to get it going, asking her if she thought she would run into her friends. She said probably, sooner or later. He asked her if she thought all the migrant farm workers would ever be organized and paid a living wage. She said again probably, someday.
It was too hard to make up something, to avoid thinking about Vincent and what was going on. So Mendoza didn't say any more until they crossed the state road intersection and he pulled to a stop opposite the cafe-bar.
He said then, "You don't mind waiting?"
"No, it's all right. I can get something to eat," she said, opening the door and putting a hand on her suitcase.
"Sure, get a beer, something to eat. The bus always stops there, so don't worry about missing it."
She said, "Thanks, Larry, and good luck."
"Good luck to you, too."
She closed the door and walked around the front of the truck. As she started across the highway, Mendoza said, "Nancy-"
She paused to look back at him.
"If he didn't have this trouble going on-"
"I know," she said.
"Come back and see us, all right?"
She nodded this time-maybe it was a nod, Mendoza wasn't sure. He watched her reach the sidewalk and go in the cafe-bar.
He drove on, into Edna, thinking about the girl and Vincent, the kind of girl Vincent ought to have. Especially Vincent. He didn't refer to Chicanos as Latins or look down at them in any way. It was easy to tell when someone looked down, even when he pretended to be sincere and friendly. Mendoza didn't busy himself with the trailerload of melons now, looking through the rearview mirror. He thought about Vincent and the trouble he was in, wondering what was going to happen. He didn't notice the Oldsmobile 98 following him.
Just past the water tower that said EDNA, HOME OF THE BRONCOS, Mendoza turned off the highway, crossed the railroad tracks, and drove along the line of produce warehouses and packing sheds. At a loading dock, where a man was sitting eating a sandwich, his lunch pail next to him, Mendoza came to a stop and said out the side window, "Where's your boss? Man, I got a load of top-grade melons."