“What am I doing? I’m raking the beach.”
Mr. Majestyk was staring at Ryan now, for a moment frowning. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“I can see nothing.”
“This guy and I had a disagreement.”
“Boy, you get in an argument you start swinging, don’t you?”
“I didn’t start it.”
“Listen, there’s some painting has to be done in number five. I painted most of it in the spring, but I didn’t get the kitchen.”
“What about the beach?” Ryan looked off in the direction Nancy would come.
“Leave it,” Mr. Majestyk said.
“They’ll be coming down pretty soon.”
“That’s all right. It’s not bad.”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “There’s some junk over there and up by the steps.”
“All right, just get that. Then I’ll give you the paint. Just in the kitchen where the goddamn wall’s messed up. Number Five.”
Ryan looked at him, realizing Mr. Majestyk had said it before. “Five? The broad by herself?”
“Yeah, she checked out yesterday, so it’s a good chance before the new people come tomorrow.”
“Number Five?”
“I said Five, didn’t I?”
“What time did she leave?”
“In the afternoon.”
“What for? What’d she say?”
“How do I know what for. She says she’s leaving, she leaves. I don’t ask her why. I say hope you enjoyed yourself and come back. That’s all. Look, pick up that crap and then come by, I’ll give you the paint.” He started to walk off, then turned to Ryan again. “What were you making all the goddamn noise about this morning?”
“What noise?”
“With the bulldozer. Christ, seven thirty in the morning.”
“I wanted to finish it up. I figured there’d be a lot to do today.”
“Christ, seven thirty. I was about to come out, you stopped.”
“Well, it’s done now,” Ryan said.
He dragged out raking the beach another half hour, until Mr. Majestyk appeared again and yelled to him to knock off for lunch. Looking up the beach he still saw no sign of her. So quit worrying, he thought. If she wanted him, she’d have to find him.
They had tunafish salad and onions, tomatoes and peppers and some sweet corn and the homemade bread, and a couple of beers each. They discussed whether beer was better in bottles or cans, and then which was better, bottled or draft, and both agreed, finally, that it didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference. Long as it was cold.
Mr. Majestyk said hey, the game was on TV tonight. Detroit at Boston. McLain going against McDermott.
“About eight or eight thirty I think it starts.”
“I’ll see,” Ryan said.
He wouldn’t take a job as a painter for anything, though he didn’t mind it once in a while. It was something different and it was quiet in here.
Ryan finished a cupboard door and got down off the chair. He could see the broad’s face close to his. He lit a cigarette and went into the bedroom. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he unlocked the window and pulled up on it. He pressed in closer and pushed up against the frame with the heels of his hands. He banged them against the frame and pushed up again. The window wouldn’t budge. He could see where the dried paint held the frame to the sill. The window probably hadn’t been opened since spring.
He could see her face again, close, her eyes open wide inches from his. To the great lover it had been a look of wild-eyed passion. Now, in the empty room, he knew it had been pure panic. The poor broad had wanted her window opened and he had almost raped her.
He wished he could run into her again, just for a minute. He’d tell her: “Listen, I’m sorry we had that misunderstanding. See I thought-” Maybe not that; something like it. He’d have to say something.
No he wouldn’t. He’d never see her again.
But he saw her in his mind every once in a while as he painted and each time he saw her, he slapped the paint on a little heavier.
She should have stayed another day. He could have been nice to her. Polite. He could have taken her out and bought her a Tom Collins and it would have been the biggest thing that ever happened to her.
The other day he could have treated Billy Ruiz a little better.
He began thinking about Billy Ruiz and the others, wondering how they were going to get home if they couldn’t pay Camacho for the bus ride.
If it was true about the bus-Camacho wanting to charge them five hundred dollars.
And Pizarro wanting five hundred for the wallets. What was this, everything costing five hundred dollars? If he did anything, he should go out and have a talk with Frank about the wallets and find out about the bus.
Mr. Majestyk came in looking up at the freshly painted light green walls.
“Inside the cupboards, too,” he said.
“Inside? Who’s going to see inside?”
“You got enough paint?”
“I guess so.”
“There’s a phone call for you,” Mr. Majestyk said.
“Yeah? Who is it?”
“Who do you think?”
He followed Mr. Majestyk to his house, wiping his hands with a rag soaked in thinner. In the living room he put the rag in his back pocket and picked up the phone with the tips of his fingers. Mr. Majestyk went over to his desk and opened and closed drawers, then shuffled through a stack of third-class mail.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I slept in this morning,” Nancy said. “After the workout.”
“I wondered,” Ryan said. “I didn’t see you.”
“Are you coming over tonight?”
“I guess I could.”
“Nine thirty,” Nancy said.
“That late, uh?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“No, you haven’t,” Ryan said. “Not anymore.”
“Really. But you have to come on time.”
“Okay, then.”
“Will you come?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Is someone there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The one who answered?”
“Right.”
“I think he was mad he had to look for you. I told him it was urgent.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’ll think I have hot pants.”
“Okay then, I’ll see you later.”
“Nine thirty,” Nancy said. “Come upstairs. I’ll leave the door open. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ryan said.
She hung up.
As Ryan put the receiver down Mr. Majestyk straightened up from the desk. “While you’re here,” he said, “maybe you better take some more paint.”
“I got enough.”
“Just in case.”
“I got plenty.”
“Listen,” Mr. Majestyk said then. “That broad on the phone-”
“Yeah?”
Mr. Majestyk smiled, self-conscious, showing his white perfect teeth. He shrugged then. “Why should I say anything-right? You’re old enough.”
“I was about to mention it,” Ryan said. He started out but stopped in the doorway and looked back at Mr. Majestyk. “What was that broad’s name in Number Five?”
After work he asked Mr. Majestyk if he could borrow his car to go get something to eat. Mr. Majestyk said he could eat with him, cold cuts and potato salad. Ryan said thanks, but he had to get some things at the drugstore anyway, so he might as well grab a bite in town.
He didn’t stop in Geneva Beach. He headed directly for the migrant camp and pulled up next to the shed. Billy Ruiz, his face opening up when he saw Ryan, was alone inside.
Ryan looked around the room. He said, “Why didn’t you put the beer case where I told you, behind the store?”
The surprised expression remained on Billy Ruiz’s face and Ryan said, “Where is it?”
“Frank said he
got rid of it that night. He said it would be better at night.”
“Where is he?”
“I tole you, he was fired.”
“I heard he was going to drive Camacho’s bus back for him.”
Billy Ruiz frowned. “Why? He got his truck.”
“I heard his truck was busted.”
“It’s always busted, but he make it run. You think he leave it here?”
“Who’s driving the bus, then?”
“I don’t know. We got a new crew leader, he pick somebody knows how to drive it.”
“Then, you’re all set,” Ryan said.
“Sure we get paid tomorrow, go home. Come up next year, hey, maybe we see you!”
“Maybe,” Ryan said. “You never know.”
On the way back he decided why not grab a bite. He stopped at Estelle’s, then went over to the Pier Bar and had a couple while he watched the sun go down. It was a good place.
15
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE NINE Nancy undressed and put on a pair of shorty pajamas. She left a lamp on in the bedroom, then went downstairs and turned off every light on the living room level, including the kitchen; she made sure the back door was double-locked. The door of the activities room, downstairs, was also locked. The only unlocked door in the house was the sliding door from the sun deck into the living room. She slid it silently open and closed it again.
Now the big chair with the ottoman. She pushed it over a little so it would be more in line with the door, closer but still in shadow, then worked the ottoman over. It was big and square and heavy, without casters; she could sit down in the chair and prop her feet against the inside edge of the ottoman and it was heavy enough that it wouldn’t move away.
She sat down now and put her hand on the table next to the chair. She took her hand away and put it on the table again and moved the lamp over a few inches.
He could come anytime now. She had told him 9:30. He could be late if he had gone to The Pier and had to walk back or had trouble getting a ride. On the other hand there was a good chance he would be early. Eagerly early. There was no question in Nancy’s mind that he would come. He had been coming back since Tuesday night and after last night she considered Jack Ryan nailed down. He could pose and declare his independence, but he was like all the rest of them basically and she couldn’t imagine him passing up a sure thing.
She began thinking about tomorrow and tried to imagine the look on Ray’s face when he heard what happened. She could picture his expression when he walked in, the grim look. It would be hard not to laugh, or at least smile.
Right now, though, she’d better look alive and be ready and keep her eyes on the yard beyond the dark shape of the swimming pool. The only outside light was the orange bug lamp. He would pass through it as he approached the house.
“Hey, where you going?” Mr. Majestyk was standing at the edge of his front lawn. Behind him, past the thin birch trees, the spotlight held the flamingoes and painted stones in silent glare.
“I thought it was you,” Mr. Majestyk said.
Ryan walked over. “I was just going up the beach.”
Mr. Majestyk was lighting a cigar, puffing on it and shaking out the kitchen match. “The ball game’s on. I was watching it over to Fishers’, but they’re putting the kids to bed.”
“Who’d you say, Baltimore?”
“Boston.”
“That’s right, McLain’s going. Maybe I’ll stop in later.”
“No score in the second,” Mr. Majestyk said. He added, almost without a pause, “Your buddy was here about an hour ago.”
“Who’s that?”
“Bob Junior.” Mr. Majestyk drew on the cigar, watching Ryan. “He says he saw you up at the hunting property and thought you were trespassing.”
“Is that what he said?”
“He says you told him you worked here and he was checking on it.”
“You tell him I did?”
“You work here, don’t you? I told him you and him should have a couple of beers sometime and cut out the crap.”
“I can see that happening.”
“He isn’t a bad guy.” Ryan was silent and Mr. Majestyk said, “What about the property? What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know. It looks okay.”
“You see the possibilities?”
“Well, he said he got himself a buck right there with an O-three, so maybe it’s a good spot.”
Mr. Majestyk squinted in his cigar smoke. “What were you doing, for Christ sake, fighting or having a conversation?”
“I guess it was a funny situation,” Ryan said.
“It sounds it. Listen, I want to see the ball game, you stop in if you want.” He puffed on the cigar a couple of times, watching Ryan walk off into the darkness. Finally, taking his time, he crossed the lawn to his house.
Ryan walked past the vacant frontage a good fifty yards before he had thought about it long enough and stopped. He looked out at the lake, at the distant pinpoints of light. He looked back toward Mr. Majestyk’s house, at the garden and the flamingoes in the glow of the spot. He could see the side window, a square of light, where he and Nancy had looked in. Not a Western tonight, the ball game, the guy sitting there with a beer and not taking his eyes off the set. Ryan waited a couple more minutes before making up his mind.
He cut across the vacant frontage then and approached the side of the house, hearing the TV and recognizing the announcer’s voice-George Kell, with the faintly down-home Arkansas drawl-before he reached the window and saw the picture and Mr. Majestyk watching it, his short legs stretched out on the fold-out ottoman.
Boston was at bat. McLain was pitching, looking in and taking his windup and coming in with a hard overhand fastball, grooving it past the hitter before he could swing. George Kell, sounding pretty relaxed, said it was McLain’s fourth strikeout in three innings. He said boy, when this youngster was on, you just didn’t hit him. Ryan watched the Tigers go out one two three in the fourth. With Boston coming to bat and McLain taking his warm-up throws, he decided, what the hell, sit down for maybe a couple of innings. There wasn’t any rush.
Since five o’clock Frank Pizarro had finished two bottles of red and almost half a fifth of vodka-vodka because the goddamn store didn’t have any more tequila, the guy saying, “The way you people have been buying it…” Screw the guy, they would leave in a couple of days and the guy would wonder where his business went.
He had meant to save the vodka, to bring a whole bottle, but the goddamn wine made him feel tired an hour later and he used the vodka to get some life back in him. He felt good now and saw everything sharply, the houses in the darkness, the lights in the windows through the trees. He felt good, but he wished he had a cigarette.
The girl would have a cigarette. Plenty. Maybe Ryan would be there and he would have to wait. It didn’t matter. Ryan would leave sometime and Mr. Ritchie’s and Mr. Ryan’s girlfriend would be alone. How about Mr. Ritchie’s and Mr. Ryan’s and Mr. Pizarro’s girlfriend? He could show her something she had never seen before with any Mr. Ritchie or Jack goddamn Ryan.
He would wait and when it was only the girl-what could she do about it? But it would be better if he didn’t have to wait.
He would come out of the shadow of the house and bushes and see the girl in the swimming pool, her dark hair and her body shining in the water. He would take the vodka and sit at the table this time and raise the bottle when she came out of the water.
No, save the vodka. Have her towel. She would come over with her hands on her hips and see him holding the towel. He would get up then and say to her, “Here, let me dry you,” holding the goddamn towel open like a bullfighter.
Jesus, Pizarro thought. He could feel her coming into his arms as he put the towel around her.
Get her nice and comfortable in there. He would be fooling around a little drying her and she would be laughing, putting her head back against his shoulder, and he would mention it to her then. “I want you to give me
five hundred dollars.” And she would say, “Why should I give you five hundred dollars?” And you say, “Because if you don’t, I tell somebody what you been doing with Jack Ryan.” She say, “What somebody?” and you say, “Mr. Ray Ritchie somebody.”
But the goddamn house looked dark, like nobody was home. He had parked on the other side of the Shore Road and walked into the Pointe. It was the house, he was sure of that; but no light showed anywhere on this side. Then go around, he told himself.
But what if Ryan was sitting by the pool and heard him? He had been lucky the time before; Ryan wasn’t there. But if he came up from the beach side of the house-sure, he would be able to look the place over better. He could go to the next street and follow it to the beach and come around that way. If she wasn’t home, that might be all right too. He could wait or he could go in and look around. Sure, maybe Mr. Ritchie kept some tequila somewhere.
“You ready?” Mr. Majestyk asked.
Ryan was sitting forward on the couch. He picked up the beer can between his feet and jiggled it. “Not yet.”
“You know where it is.” Mr. Majestyk sat back in his chair to watch the game and for a moment was silent.
“What’s the count?”
“One and one.”
“Two away, a man on second, the tieing run at the plate,” Mr. Majestyk said. “How would you pitch this guy?”
“Probably something breaking. Low and away from him.” Ryan watched the Boston hitter foul off the next pitch, a tapper down to the third base coaching box.
“He’s not going to hit it,” Mr. Majestyk said.
Ryan kept his eyes on the set. “I don’t know. That short left field wall, you lay a fly ball up there, you got two bases.”
And George Kell, a voice coming out of the TV set, said, “You got to pitch to everybody in this ballpark.”
“In tight on the hands,” Mr. Majestyk said. “Back the son of a bitch away. If he swings, he hits it on the handle.”
“He better keep it low,” Ryan said.
When the batter bounced out to the second baseman, Mr. Majestyk said, “I told you.”
George Kell said, “Going into the sixth with a two-run lead, let’s see if the Tigers can put some hits together and get something going. I imagine Denny McLain wouldn’t mind that about now.”
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