The man on the loading dock wasn't in any hurry. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it before saying, "He's out to lunch. You'll have to wait till he gets back."
"What if I unload while I'm waiting?"
"You know he's got to check them first," the man on the dock said. "Go sit down somewhere, take it easy."
Well, if he had to. But he wasn't going to wait in the hot sun, or in the pickup that would get like an oven. And he wasn't going to sit with the guy on the dock and have to talk to him-he could tell the guy had it against Chicanos. So Mendoza got out of the truck and walked around the corner of the warehouse where there was a strip of shade about five feet wide along the wall.
He sat down with his back to it, tilted his straw hat down over his eyes and settled into a reasonably comfortable position. He pictured himself there as someone might come along and see him. Goddamn Mexican sleeping in the shade. Make him wait and then call him a lazy Mex something or other. He yawned. He was tired because he had gotten only about four hours sleep last night at Helen's mother's house, all of them crowded in there, two of the kids in bed with them. He wouldn't mind taking a nap for about a half hour, till the broker got back from his lunch.
His eyes were closed. Maybe he had been asleep, he wasn't sure. But when he opened his eyes he saw the front end of the Olds 98 rolling toward him-creeping, like it was sneaking up on him-from about thirty feet away.
Mendoza got up so fast his hat fell off. What the hell was going on? The whole wall empty and a car coming directly at where he was standing. Like some kind of joke. Somebody trying to scare him.
But he knew it wasn't a joke when he saw Bobby Kopas, the skinny, hunch-shouldered hotshot guy, coming along the wall toward him. He knew there would be another guy coming from the other side. Mendoza turned enough to look over his shoulder and there he was. It was too late to run. The car kept coming and didn't stop until it was only about three feet from him. Kopas and the guy on the other side came up to stand by the front fenders. He could smell the engine in the afternoon heat.
Kopas said, "Larry, I believe you were told to shag ass and don't come back. Ain't that right?"
"I was just helping out my friend a little bit, deliver some melons," Mendoza said.
"We give you a chance to run, you don't even take it."
"No, listen. I'm just doing this as a favor. I get rid of the load I'm gone, you never see me again."
"Larry," Kopas said, "don't bullshit me, okay?"
"Honest to God, I'm going to drop the melons and keep going."
"In the Polack's truck?"
"No, I told him I leave it here, so he can pick it up."
"Is that a fact? When's he coming?"
"I don't know. Sometime. Maybe tomorrow."
"How's he supposed to get here?"
"Hitchhike, I guess. He don't worry about that."
"Larry, you're shittin' me, aren't you?"
"Honest to God, ask the man in the warehouse, around on the dock. Come on, let's ask him. He'll tell you."
"You aren't going nowhere," Kopas said. "You had your chance, Larry, you blew it."
The man behind the wheel of the Olds 98 hit the accelerator a couple of times, revving the engine. Mendoza looked at the car and at Kopas again quickly.
"Listen-what did I do to you? I worked for the guy that's all."
He saw Kopas step away and knew the car was coming as he stood with his back against the wall and no room, no direction, in which to run. He had to do something and jumped up, trying to raise his legs, but the car lunged into him, the bumper catching his legs and flattening him against the wall, holding him against it as he screamed and fell against the hood and then to the ground as the car went abruptly into reverse. He remembered thinking-the last thing as he tensed, squeezing his eyes closed-now the wheels were going to get him.
The hospital in Edna had an emergency room and eighteen beds, but it was more an outpatient clinic than a hospital and looked even more like a contemporary yellow-brick grade school.
For almost a year Majestyk had thought it was a school. He had never been in the hospital before today-before the squad car picked him up and delivered him, blue lights flashing, to the emergency entrance where an ambulance and another squad car were waiting. Inside, the first person he saw was Harold Ritchie, the deputy coming toward him from the desk where a nurse's aide sat typing.
"Where's Larry?"
"Round the corner. I'll show you."
"What'd they do to him?"
"Guy at the warehouse-there was only one guy anywhere near where it happened-didn't see a thing. Not even the car."
"What'd they do to him?"
"Broke his legs," Ritchie said.
He was lying on a stretcher bed covered with a sheet, his wife with him, a curtain drawn, separating them from the next bed where a little boy was crying. A nurse, with a tray of test tubes and syringes, was drawing a blood sample from Mendoza's arm. Majestyk waited. Helen saw him then and came over and he put his arms around her.
"Helen… how is he?"
He could feel her head nod against his chest. Her voice, muffled, said, "The doctor say he's going to be all right. Vincent, you know what they did?"
He held her gently, patting her shoulder. "I know." He held her patiently because she needed his comfort, letting her relax and feel him close to her and know she was not alone. He heard Mendoza say, "Vincent?" and went over to the bed.
"Larry-God, I'm sorry."
"Vincent, I left the melons there."
"Don't worry about the melons."
"That's what I was going to say to you. Staying alive is more important than melons. Did you know that?" He seemed half asleep, his eyes closing and opening slowly.
Majestyk leaned in close to him. "Larry, who were they? You know them?"
"I think the same car as last night, the same people. And your friend, Bobby Kopas, he was there. Vincent, they not kidding. They do this to me, they going to kill you." Mendoza's face tightened as he held his breath, then let it out slowly before relaxing again. "Jesus, the pain when it comes-I never felt nothing like it."
"You want the nurse?"
"No, they already gave me something. They getting ready, going to set my legs."
"Larry, you're going to be all right. The doctor said so."
"I believe him."
"You go to sleep and wake up, it's done. You'll feel better."
Mendoza kept his eyes open, staring at Majestyk. He said, "You want me to feel better, Vincent? Tell me you'll go away. Hide somewhere. There's nothing wrong doing that. Or, sure as hell, you going to be dead."
Harold Ritchie was in the waiting room, arms folded, leaning against the wall. He came alive when he saw Majestyk going past, heading for the door.
"Hey, what'd he say? He tell you anything?"
Majestyk kept going, pushing through the door.
Outside, he saw Lieutenant McAllen getting out of a squad car. He heard McAllen say, "Wait a minute!" And heard himself say, "Bullshit," not looking at the man or slowing down until McAllen said, "If you will, please. Just for a minute."
He waited for McAllen to come to him.
"Where you going?"
"Pick up my equipment."
"We'll drive you."
"I can walk."
McAllen paused. "I'm sorry about your hired man."
"He wasn't my hired man. He was my friend."
"All right, he was your friend." McAllen's tone changed as he said it, became dry, official. "I believe you know a deputy was killed last night, run over or beaten to death possibly, about the same time your migrants left. We'd like to locate them, talk to them."
"Why don't you talk to Frank Renda instead?"
"Because if we brought him in for questioning he'd be out in an hour, and we wouldn't be any farther ahead."