The girl was at ease, though every once in a while she would turn and look through 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 on them 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 different places, help organize the farm workers. But we have to stop and work to pay our way."
"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 as you 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. Finally he 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 pretty often."
"That's nice," Nancy Chavez said.
He looked at her again, but didn't say anything. Neither of them spoke until they were passing melon fields and came in sight of the packing shed, a long wooden structure that looked like a warehouse. It was painted yellow, with majestyk brand melons written across the length of the building in five-foot bright 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 the packing shed. There were crates stacked on the loading dock, the double doors were 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 resembled an army barracks. The girl knew what it was, or what it had been-living quarters for migrants. It was also empty, some of its windows broken, its white paint peeling, fading gray.
The farmhouse was next, another fifty yards down the road, where three small children-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 clothesline that extended out from the side of the house. The children waved and Nancy put her 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. She could see the blue school bus standing in the road ahead and, off to the left beyond the ditch, the melon fields, endless rows of green vines that were familiar 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 make it this time-"
When he stopped, the girl said, "What?"
She turned to see him staring straight ahead through the windshield, at the school bus they were approaching and the men standing in the road. She could see the car now, a new model of some kind shining golden in the sunlight, parked beyond the bus. Beyond the car was a stake truck. At the same time she was aware of the figures out in the melon field, at least twenty or more, stooped figures dotted 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 wasting any time, feeling a tenseness now as he walked past the bus, past the faces in the windows, and saw Larry Mendoza's serious, concerned expression. His foreman stood 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 still inside 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 parked on the left side of the road-long hair and Mexican bandit moustaches, one of them wearing sunglasses. A skinny, hipless guy with a big metal belt buckle, bright yellow shirt and cowboy boots, watching him, seeming unconcerned, lounged against the rear deck of the Charger with his arms folded. There was another guy he had never seen before standing by the stake truck that, he noticed now, had a horn-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 is this?"
Majestyk walked over to the ditch, behind the Charger, and stood looking out at the field, at the men standing among the rows with long burlap sacks hanging from 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 same worn-out, seedy look, skid row bums taken from the street and dropped in a melon field.
But not my melon field, Majestyk was saying to himself. He turned to the skinny dude 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 extending his 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 with you either. What I know for sure is I never will."
Bobby Kopas grinned at him, letting his hand fall. " 'Fore you say anything you might be sorry about-how does a buck twenty an hour sound to you? Save yourself some money and they're already hard at it."
"I hire who I want," Majestyk said. "I don't hire a bunch of winos never slipped melons 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 discrimination to me."
"Call them out and get off my land," Majestyk said.
"These Latins buddies of yours? What do you care who does the job, long as it gets done?"
"I just told you, I hire who I want."
"Yeah, well the thing is you want me," Kopas said. "Only it hasn't sunk in your head yet. Because everything is easier and less trouble when you hire my crew. If you understand what I'm saying to you."
There it was, a little muscle-flexing. Hotshot dude trying to pressure him, sure of himself, with two strong-arm guys to back him up. Majestyk stared at him and thought about it and finally he said, "Well, you're making sounds like you're a mean little ass-kicker. Only you haven't convinced me yet it's true. Then again, if you say anything else and I don't like it, I'm liable to take your head off. So maybe you ought to consider that."