Mr Majestyk (1974)

Elmore Leonard *

Synopsis:

A Vietnam Veteran And Trained Killer, Vincent Majestyk Finds peace as a farmer , growing melons, until the Mob, seeing him as an easy mark, tries to make him a v ictim in an extortion plot.

Chapter
1.

THIS MORNING they were here for the melons: about sixty of them waitin g p atiently by the two stake trucks and the old blue-painted school bus. Most o f t hem, including the few women here, were Chicano migrants, who had arrived i n t heir old junk cars that were parked in a line behind the trucks. Others, the Valley Agricultural Workers Association had brought out from Phoenix, droppin g t hem off at 5:30 A . M
. on the outskirts of Edna, where the state road came out o f t he desert to cross the U
. S
. highway. The growers and the farm workers called it Junction. There was an Enco gas station on the corner, then a storefront with a b ig V
. A. W. A . sign in the window that was the farm labor hiring hall--closed unti l n ext season--and then a cafe-bar with a red neon sign that said beer-wine. Th e r est of the storefronts in the block were empty--dark, gutted structures tha t w ere gradually being destroyed by the desert wind.

The farm workers stood around on the sidewalk waiting to be hired, waiting fo r t he labor contractors to finish their coffee, finish talking to the foremen an d t he waitresses, and come out and point to them and motion them toward the stak e t rucks and the blue-painted school bus.

The dozen or so whites were easy to spot. Most of them were worn-out looking me n i n dirty, worn-out clothes that had once been their own or someone else's goo d c lothes. A tight little group of them was drinking Thunderbird, passing the win e b ottle around in a paper bag. A couple of them were sipping from beer cans. Tw o t eenaged white boys with long hair stood off by themselves, hip-cocked, thei r a rms folded over tight white T-shirts, not seeming to mind the early mornin g c hill. They would look around casually and squint up at the pale sky.

The Chicanos, in their straw hats and baseball caps, plaid shirts, and Levis o r k hakis, with their lunch in paper bags, felt the chill. They would look at th e s ky knowing it was near the end of the season and soon most of them would b e h eading for California, to the Imperial and San Joaquin valleys. Some o f t hem--once in a while for something to do--would shield their faces from the ligh t a nd look in the window of the hiring hall, at the rows of folding chairs, at th e d isplay of old V
. A. W. A . strike posters and yellowed newspaper pages with column s m arked in red. They would stare at the photograph of Emiliano Zapata on the wal l b ehind the counter, at the statue of the Virgin Mary on a stand, and try to rea d t he hand-lettered announcements: Todo el mundo esta invitado que venga a l a r esada--

Larry Mendoza came out of the cafe-bar with a carry-out cup of coffee in eac h h and--one black, one cream and sugar--and walked over to the curb, beyond th e f ront of the old blue-painted school bus. Some of the farm workers stared a t h im--a thin, bony-shouldered, weathered-looking Chicano in clean Levis an d h igh-heeled work boots, a Texas straw funneled low over his eyes--and one o f t hem, also a Chicano, said, "Hey, Larry, tell Julio you want me. Tell him writ e m y name down at the top." Larry Mendoza glanced over at the man and nodded, bu t d idn't say anything.

Another one said, "How much you paying, Larry? Buck forty?"

He nodded again and said, "Same as everybody." He felt them watching him becaus e h e was foreman out at Majestyk and could give some of them jobs. He knew ho w t hey felt, hoping each day to get their names on a work list. He had stood o n t his corner himself, waiting for a contractor to point to him. He had started i n t he fields for forty cents an hour. He'd worked for sixty cents, seventy-fiv e c ents. Now he was making eighty dollars a week, all year: he got to drive th e p ickup any time he wanted and his family lived in a house with an inside toilet.

He wished he could hire all of them, assure each man right now that he'd b e w orking today, but he couldn't do that. So he ignored them, looking down th e s idewalk now toward the Enco station where the attendant was pumping gas into a n o ld-model four-wheel-drive pickup that was painted yellow, its high front en d p ointing this way. Larry Mendoza stood like that, his back to the school bus an d t he farm workers, waiting, then began to sip the coffee with cream and sugar.

The Enco gas station attendant, with the name Gil stitched over the pocket o f h is shirt, watched the numbers changing in the window of the pump and began t o s queeze the handle of the nozzle that curved into the gas tank filler, slowing the rotation of the numbers, easing them in line to read three dollars even, an d p ulled the nozzle out of the opening.

When he looked over at the station he saw the guy who owned the pickup steppin g o ut of the Men's Room, coming this way across the pavement--a dark, solemn-face d m an who might have passed for a Chicano except for his name. Vince Majestyk.

Hard-looking guy, but always quiet, the few times he had been there. Vincent Majestyk of majestyk brand melons that was lettered on the doors of the picku p a nd made him sound like a big grower. Shit, he looked more like a picker than a g rower. Maybe a foreman, with his khaki pants and blue shirt. From what th e s tation attendant had heard about him, the guy was scratching to get by an d p robably wouldn't be around very long. Comes in, buys three bucks worth of gas.

Big deal.

He said, "That's all you want?"

The guy, Majestyk, looked over at him as he walked past the front of the pickup.

"If you're not too busy you can wipe the bugs off the windshield," he said, an d k ept going, over toward the school bus and the farm workers crowding around.

The gas station attendant said to himself, Shit. Get up at five in the mornin g t o sell three bucks' worth. Wait around all day and watch the tourists drive by.

Four-thirty sell the migrants each a buck's worth. Shit.

Larry Mendoza handed Majestyk the cup of black coffee and the two of them stoo d w atching as Julio Tamaz, a labor contractor, looked over the waiting groups o f f arm workers, called off names and motioned them to the school bus. There wer e a lready men aboard, seated, their heads showing in the line of windows.

"We're almost ready to go," Mendoza said.

"Good ones?" Majestyk took a sip of coffee.

"The best he's got."

"Bob Santos," the labor contractor called out. "And . . . Anbrocio Verrara."

"They're good," Mendoza said.

"Luis Ortega!"

A frail old man grinned and hurried toward the bus.

"Wait a minute," Mendoza said. "I don't know him. He ever picked before?"

Julio Tamaz, the labor contractor, turned to them with a surprised look. "Luis?

All his life. Man, he was conceived in a melon field." Julio's expressio n b rightened, relaxed in a smile as he looked at Majestyk. "Hey, Vincent, nice t o s ee you."

Mendoza said, "That's thirty. We want any more'n that?"

Majestyk was finishing his coffee. He lowered the cup. "If Julio's got any lik e t o work for nothing."

"Man," Julio said, "you tight with the dollar. Like to squeeze it to death."

"How's my credit?"

"Vincent"--Julio's expression was sad now--"I told you. What do I pay them with?"

"All right, I just wondered if you'd changed your mind." He took a fold of bill s o ut of his pants pocket and handed them to the labor contractor. "Straight buc k f orty an hour, ten hours' work for a crew of thirty comes to four hundred an d t wenty. Don't short anybody."

Julio seemed offended now. "I take my percent. I don't need to cheat them."

"Larry'll ride with you," Majestyk said. "He finds anybody hasn't slippe d h oneydew melons before, they come back with you and we get a refund. Right?"

"Man, I never give you no bums. These people all experts."

Majestyk had already turned away and was walking back to the Enco station.

The attendant with the name Gil on his shirt was standing by the pickup.

"That's three bucks."

Majestyk reached into a back pocket for his wallet this time. He took out a f ive-dollar bill and handed it to the attendant, who looked at the bill and the n a t Majestyk. Without a word he turned and leisurely walked off toward th e s tation. Majestyk watched him for a moment, knowing the guy was going to mak e h im wait. He walked off after the guy and followed him into the station, bu t s till had to wait while the guy fooled around at the cash register, shiftin g b ills around in the cash drawer and breaking open a roll of coins.

"Take your time," Majestyk said.

When the bell rang he turned to see a car pulling into the station: an old-model Ford sedan that was faded blue-purple and rusting out, and needed a muffler. H
e w atched the people getting out, moving slowly, stretching and looking around.

There seemed to be more of them than the car could hold.

The station attendant was saying, "I'm short of singles. I'll have to give yo u s ome change."

There were five of them, four men in work clothes and a young woman, migrants , looking around, trying to seem at ease. The young woman took a bandana from he r h ead and, raising her face in the sunlight, closing her eyes, shook her hai r f rom side to side, freeing it in the light breeze that came across the highwa y s tirring sand dust. She was a good-looking girl, nice figure in pants and a T-shirt, in her early twenties, or maybe even younger. Very good-looking. No t s elf-conscious now, as though she was alone with whatever was behind her close d e yes. Two of the men went to the pop machine digging coins out of their pockets.

Beyond the girl the blue-painted school bus passed the station and the stat e r oad intersection, moving east down the highway.

"Here you are," the attendant said.

Majestyk held out his hand and the attendant dropped eight quarters into hi s p alm, four at a time.

"Three, that's four and five. Hurry back and see us now."

Majestyk didn't say anything. He gave the guy a little smile. He had enough t o t hink about and wasn't going to let the guy bother him. When he turned to th e d oorway he had to stop short. The girl, holding the bandana, was coming in an d t heir eyes met for a moment--nice eyes, brown--before she looked past him towar d t he attendant.

"Is there a key you have to the Ladies' Room?"

The attendant's eyes moved past her, to the four men outside, and back again.

"No, it's broken, you can't use it. Go down the road someplace."

"Maybe it's all right now," the girl said. "Have you looked at it? Sometime s t hey get all right by themselves."

The attendant was shaking his head now. "I'm telling you it's broken. Take m y w ord for it and go someplace else, all right?"

"What about the other one?" the girl said. "The Men's Room."

"It's broken too. Both of 'em are broken."

"See, we go in separately," the girl went on. "The men, they come out, then I g o i n. So you don't have to call the cops, say we're doing it in there."

"I can call the cops right now." The attendant's voice was louder, irritated.

"I'm telling you both toilets are broken. You got to go someplace else."

"Where do you go?" the girl said. She waited a moment, not looking around bu t k nowing the four men were close to the doorway now, and could hear her.

The attendant said, "I'm warning you--"

And the girl said, "Maybe you never go, uh? That's why you're full of shit."

The migrants grinned, some of them laughed out loud and there were words in Spanish, though the girl continued to stare at the attendant calmly, almos t w ithout expression.

The attendant turned to a counter and came around with a wrench in his hand, hi s j aw set tightly. Majestyk reached over to put a hand on the man's arm.

He said, "When did the toilet break? Since I used it?"

"Listen, I got to do what I'm told." He pulled his arm away from Majestyk an d l owered his voice then, though the tension was still there. "Like anybody else.

The boss says don't let no migrants in the toilets. He says I don't care the y d ancing around like they can taste it, don't let them in the toilets. They go i n t here, mess up the place, piss all over, take a bath in the sink, use all th e t owels, steal the toilet paper, man, it's like a bunch of pigs was in there.

Place is filthy, I got to clean up after."

"Let them use it," Majestyk said.

"I tell you what my boss said. Man, I can't do nothing about it."

"What're they supposed to do?"

"Go out in the bushes, I don't know. Mister, you have any idea how many migrant s s top here?"

"I know what they can do," Majestyk said. He turned from the attendant to th e n ice-looking Chicano girl, noticing now that she was wearing small pear l e arrings.

"He says for all of you to come inside."

"I want them out of here!"

"He says he's sorry the toilets are broken."

"They're always broken," the girl said. "Every place they keep the broke n t oilets locked up so nobody steal them."

Majestyk was looking at her again. "You come here to work?"

"For the melons or whatever time it is. Last month we were over at Yuma."

"You know melons, uh?"

"Melons, onions, lettuce, anything you got."

"You want to work today?"

The girl seemed to think about it and then shrugged and said, "Yeah, well, sinc e w e forgot our golf clubs we might as well, uh?"

"After you go to the bathroom." Majestyk's gaze, with the soft hint of a smile , held on her for another moment.

"First things first," the girl said.

"Listen, I don't say they can't use them," the attendant said now. "You think I own this place? I work here."

"He says he works here," Majestyk said.

The girl nodded. "We believe it."

"And he says since the toilets are broken you can use something else."

Majestyk's gaze moved away, past the attendant and the shelves of lube oil an d t he cash register and the coffee and candy machines, taking in the office.

"What're you doing?" The attendant was frowning, staring at him. "Listen, the y c an't use something else. They got to get out of here."

Majestyk's gaze stopped, held for a moment before coming back to the attendant.

"He says use the wastebasket if you want," and motioned to the migrants with hi s h ands. "Come on. All of you, come on in."

As two of the migrants came in hesitantly behind the girl, grinning, enjoyin g i t, and the other two moved in closer behind her, the attendant said, "Jesus Christ, you're crazy! I'm going to call the police, that's what I'm going t o d o."

"Try and hold on to yourself," Majestyk said to him quietly. "You don't own thi s p lace. You don't have to pay for broken windows or anything. What do you care?"

The phone was on the desk in front of him, but the Enco gas station man with Gi l o ver his shirt pocket, who had never been farther away from this place than Phoenix, hesitated now, afraid to reach for the phone or even look at it. Wha t w ould happen if he did? Christ, what was going on here? He didn't know this guy Vincent Majestyk. Christ, a cold, quiet guy, he didn't know anything about hi m e xcept he grew melons. He'd hardly ever seen him before.

"How do you want it?" Majestyk said to the attendant.

Watching him, the migrants were grinning, beginning to glance at each other , confident of this man for no reason they knew of but feeling it, enjoying it , stained and golden smiles softening dark faces and bringing life to their eyes , expressions that separated them as individuals able to think and feel, each on e a person now, each one beginning to laugh to himself at this gas station man an d h is boss and his wastebasket and his toilets he could keep locked or shove u p h is ass for all they cared. God, it was good; it was going to be something t o t ell about.

"Let them use the toilets," Majestyk said to the attendant. "All right?"

The attendant held on another moment, as if thinking it over, letting them kno w h e was not being forced into anything but was making up his own mind. H
e s hrugged indifferently then and nodded to two keys that were attached to fla t p ieces of wood and hung from the wall next to the door.

"Keys're right there," the attendant said. "Just don't take all day."

Chapter
2.

THE GIRL RODE with him in the pickup and the four men followed in the Ford seda n t hat needed a paint job and a muffler, heading east on the highway toward th e m orning sun, seeing the flat view of sand and scrub giving way to sweeps o f g reen fields on both sides of the highway, citrus and vegetable farms , irrigation canals and, in the near distance, stands of trees that bordered th e f ields and marked back roads and dry washes. Beyond the trees, in the fa r d istance, a haze of mountains stood low against the sky, forming a horizon tha t w as fifty miles away, in another world.

The girl was at ease, though every once in a while she would turn and loo k t hrough the back window to make sure the car was still following.

Finally Majestyk said, "I'm not going to lose them."

"I'm not worried about that," the girl said. "It's the car. It could quit o n t hem any time, blow a tire or something."

"They relatives of yours?"

"Friends. We worked the same place at Yuma."

"How long you been traveling together?"

The girl looked at him. "What are you trying to find out? If I sleep with them?"

"I'm sorry. I was just curious, I didn't mean to offend you."

When she spoke again her tone was quiet, the hostility gone. "We go to differen t p laces, help organize the farm workers. But we have to stop and work to pay ou r w ay."

"You're with the union?"

"Why? I tell you, yes, then you don't hire us?"

"You sure get on the muscle easy. I don't care if you're union or not, long a s y ou know melons."

"Intimately. I've been in the fields most of my life."

"You sound like you went to school though."

"Couple of years. University of Texas, El Paso. I took English and History and Economics. Psychology 101. I went to the football games, learned all the cheers.

Yeaaa, team--" Her voice trailed off and she added, quietly, "Shit."

"I never went past high school," Majestyk said.

"So you didn't waste any time."

He looked at her again, interested, intrigued. "You haven't told me your name."

"Nancy Chavez. I'm not related to the other Chavez, but I'll tell you something.

I was on the picket line with them at Delano, during the grape strike."

"I believe it."

"I was fifteen."

He glanced at her and waited again, because she seemed deep in thought. Finall y h e said, "Are you from California?"

"Texas. Born in Laredo. We moved to San Antonio when I was little."

"Yeah? I was at Fort Hood for a while. I used to get down to San Antone prett y o ften."

"That's nice," Nancy Chavez said.

He looked at her again, but didn't say anything. Neither of them spoke unti l t hey were passing melon fields and came in sight of the packing shed, a lon g w ooden structure that looked like a warehouse. It was painted yellow, wit h m ajestyk brand melons written across the length of the building in five-foo t b right green letters.

As the pickup slowed down, approaching a dirt road adjacent to the packing shed , the girl said, "That's you, uh?"

"That's me," Majestyk said.

The pickup turned off the highway onto the dirt road and passed the front of th e p acking shed. There were crates stacked on the loading dock, the double door s w ere open; but there was no sign of activity, the shed stood dark and empty.

Next to it was a low frame building with a corrugated metal roof that resemble d a n army barracks. The girl knew what it was, or what it had been--living quarter s f or migrants. It was also empty, some of its windows broken, its white pain t p eeling, fading gray.

The farmhouse was next, another fifty yards down the road, where three smal l c hildren--two boys and a little girl--were standing in the hard-packed yard , watching the pickup drive past, and a woman was hanging wash on a clotheslin e t hat extended out from the side of the house. The children waved and Nancy pu t h er hand out the window to wave back at them.

"Are they yours, too?"

"My foreman, Larry Mendoza's," Majestyk said. "That's my house way down there , by the trees."

She could see the place now, white against the dark stand of woods, a small , one-story farmhouse with a porch, almost identical to the foreman's house. Sh e c ould see the blue school bus standing in the road ahead and, off to the lef t b eyond the ditch, the melon fields, endless rows of green vines that wer e f amiliar to the girl and never changed, hot dusty rows that seemed to reach from Texas to California, and were always waiting to be picked.

"You must have a thousand acres," she said. "More than that."

"A hundred and sixty. The man that owned this land used to have a big operation , but he subdivided when he sold out. This is my second crop year, and if I don'
t m ake it this time--"

When he stopped, the girl said, "What?"

She turned to see him staring straight ahead through the windshield, at th e s chool bus they were approaching and the men standing in the road. She could se e t he car now, a new model of some kind shining golden in the sunlight, parke d b eyond the bus. Beyond the car was a stake truck. At the same time she was awar e o f the figures out in the melon field, at least twenty or more, stooped figure s d otted among the rows.

She said, "You have two crews working?"

"I only hired one," Majestyk said.

"Then who's out there working?"

He didn't answer her. He pulled up behind the bus and got out without wastin g a ny time, feeling a tenseness now as he walked past the bus, past the faces i n t he windows, and saw Larry Mendoza's serious, concerned expression. His forema n s tood with Julio Tamaz by the front of the bus, both of them watching him , anxious. Only a few of Julio's crew had gotten out. The rest of them were stil l i nside wondering, as he was, what the hell was going on.

He was aware of the two men standing by the gold Dodge Charger that was parke d o n the left side of the road--long hair and Mexican bandit moustaches, one o f t hem wearing sunglasses. A skinny, hipless guy with a big metal belt buckle , bright yellow shirt and cowboy boots, watching him, seeming unconcerned, lounge d a gainst the rear deck of the Charger with his arms folded. There was another gu y h e had never seen before standing by the stake truck that, he noticed now, had a h orn-type speaker mounted on the roof of the cab.

"We get here," Larry Mendoza said, "this guy's already got a crew working."

Julio Tamaz said, "What are we supposed to do, Vincent, go home? Man, what i s t his?"

Majestyk walked over to the ditch, behind the Charger, and stood looking out a t t he field, at the men standing among the rows with long burlap sacks hangin g f rom their shoulders. Only a few of them were working. All of them, he noticed , were white. And all of them, that he could make out clearly, had the sam e w orn-out, seedy look, skid row bums taken from the street and dropped in a melo n f ield.

But not my melon field, Majestyk was saying to himself. He turned to the skinn y d ude with sunglasses lounged against the car.

"I don't think I know you."

He watched the guy straighten with a lazy effort and come off the car extendin g h is hand.

"I'm Bobby Kopas. Come out from Phoenix with some top hand pickers for you."

Majestyk ignored the waiting hand. "I don't think I've ever done business wit h y ou either. What I know for sure is I never will."

Bobby Kopas grinned at him, letting his hand fall. " 'Fore you say anything yo u m ight be sorry about--how does a buck twenty an hour sound to you? Save yoursel f s ome money and they're already hard at it."

"I hire who I want," Majestyk said. "I don't hire a bunch of winos never slippe d m elons before."

Kopas glanced over at the bus, at Larry Mendoza and Julio and Nancy Chavez. "I don't know--you hire all these Latins, no white people. Looks like discriminatio n t o me."

"Call them out and get off my land," Majestyk said.