Which she would have to find out.
“HEY, YOU GOT TIME to have one with me?” Mr. Majestyk was swiveled around, heavy legs apart, his heels hooked in the rungs of the bar stool.
Ryan had noticed him, three stools away: the guy looked like an ex-pro guard hunched over the bar, leaning on his stubby arms and a dead cigar in the ashtray. He had been talking to the bartender about fishing, how the perch must have all been asleep today, and Ryan had listened because they were close and he could hear them. He was going to have another beer, so if the guy wanted to buy, it was okay. He could leave anytime he wanted. The guy moved over and it was funny how they got to talking right away: Mr. Majestyk mentioning the picture in the newspaper, Ryan with the baseball bat, and saying how he had recognized Luis Camacho.
“Sure, I see that spig before,” Mr. Majestyk said.
He had kicked Camacho and a girl spik off his private beach about two weeks before. “People walk by, that’s all right, along the water. But this guy spread out a blanket and him and the girl are laying there on private property. I tell him nice he’s got to leave, this is private property. And he gets abusive. Christ, you should hear the language. You’ve heard it, but I mean in front of the people staying at my place. I want to deck the son of a bitch, but how does that look? What kind of a place is this, the owner gets in a fight? You have to handle it better than that.”
“What have you got?” Ryan asked. “Cabins?”
“Cabins? The Bay Vista out on the Shore Road.” Like, what’s the matter with you? Cabins. “We got fourteen cabana units with two bedrooms, bath, living room and kitchenette, all with a screen porch, and seven motel units. We also got a swimming pool, shuffleboard, and play area for the kids.”
“So what’d you do about Camacho?”
“Well, the girl, she’s nervous as a whore in church and says something to him and they leave. But walking away, he turns and sticks his finger up in the air, you know, like this is what you can do, buddy. I almost took after him.”
“He was begging for it,” Ryan said. “If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been somebody else.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Majestyk said. “You got time for another?”
“I guess so.”
“How about at a table? We can stretch out more.”
Ryan went along. It was nice here. There was a smell of beer in the place, but it was not a small-town tavern or a shot and a beer kind of bar. It was a beach bar, a marina bar, with a fishnet and life preservers and brass fixtures on white walls and a good view of the boat docks. It was quiet but not too quiet. There was record music and people were talking, having a good time, nobody dressed up: people who’d been out in their boats and stopped off for a couple. It was a nice place. He had spotted the waitress right away and that was nice too: blond ponytail and tight red pants. She had passed close to him going to the service section of the bar, where there were curved chrome handles like the top of a swimming pool ladder.
Then at the table with a pitcher of Michelob and a couple of bags of Fritos and some beer nuts: Mr. Majestyk asking questions about Camacho and what kind of a crew leader he was-saying spig for spik and hid for hit, like “when you hid the son of a bitch”-talking easily but talking a lot.
Then he didn’t say anything for maybe a minute. Ryan looked around and sipped his beer and finally Mr. Majestyk said, “Listen, do you want me to tell you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Sitting at the bar, I wasn’t going to say anything to you. And then I figured what the hell.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know they got a movie of you belting the guy?”
“I heard about it.”
“I saw it the other day. Three times.”
Ryan was looking at him now. “What’d they show it to you for?”
“Well, if they hadn’t dropped the charge and you came to trial? It would’ve been in my court.” Mr. Majestyk paused. “I’m the J.P. here, justice of the peace.”
Ryan kept his eyes on him.
“I’m telling you why I saw the movies, that’s all.”
“What’s the beer for?”
“I’m on the Chamber of Commerce.”
Ryan didn’t smile. “I got to get going.”
“Buddy, if you’re nervous about it, maybe you’d better.”
“I’m not nervous about anything.” Ryan sipped his beer.
“But they told you you had to leave.” Mr. Majestyk waited, letting him relax a little. “There’s no charge against you. How can they make you leave if you want to stay?”
“They phony something up. Vagrancy or something.”
“You got money?”
Ryan looked at him. “Enough.”
“So how can you be arrested for vagrancy? You ever been picked up for that?”
“No.”
“They said something about you were arrested a couple of times. Car theft?”
“Joyriding. Suspended.”
“What about this resisting arrest?”
“A guy was giving me a hard time. I hit him.”
“The cop?”
“No, before.”
“With what?”
“I hit him with a beer bottle.”
“Broken one?”
“No, this guy tried to pull something. I didn’t get arrested for hitting him. It was after, when the cop told me to drop the bottle.”
“You didn’t drop it quick enough.”
Ryan was looking at the waitress. She had the masked look a lot of waitresses put on, telling nothing, letting you know you weren’t anything special. Probably a stuck-up broad who was dumb and didn’t know it. Broads like that burned him up. She looked nice, though: starched ruffled blouse and the tight red pants, like a swordfighter outfit. She came over with another pitcher of beer. He watched Mr. Majestyk give her tail a little pat and she didn’t seem to mind.
“What’s your name, honey?” His big hand resting gently on her red hip.
“Mary Jane.”
“Mary Jane, I want you to meet Jack Ryan.”
“I’ve seen him before,” she said, looking at Ryan as she placed the pitcher on the table. He saw her eyes and it gave him a funny feeling. She had seen him before. She knew about him. She had decided things about him. He watched her turn to the bar again, the nice tight shape of the red pants.
“Some guys I’d like to have taken and used a beer bottle on,” Mr. Majestyk said. “I had a tavern in Detroit-oh, fifteen years ago now. These guys would come off the shift from Dodge Main. They come in, every one of them, a
