Mendoza was frowning, confused. "How can something like this happen? It doesn't make any sense."
"I don't know," Majestyk said. "If it isn't a drought or a hailstorm it's something else. Skinny little dude comes along thinking he's a big shooter-"
"Bobby Kopas," Mendoza said. "This morning Julio says he saw the guy's car parked at a motel."
"Where?"
"Right here, in Edna. He's still hanging around."
"I can't think about him," Majestyk said. "I would sure like to see him again sometime, but I can't think about him. I do-I'm liable to get it in my head to bust out of here."
Mendoza reached across the table to touch his arm. "Vincent, don't do anything foolish, all right?"
"I'll try not to," Majestyk said.
4
Monday morning, early, they brought Majestyk and four other prisoners out of the jail area to a tank cell, near the back entrance, that was used for drunks and overnighters. There were no bunks in here, only a varnished bench against two of the light green cement block walls, a washbasin, and a toilet without a seat. The fluorescent lights, built into the ceiling and covered with wire mesh, reflected on the benches and waxed tile floor. For a jail the place was clean and bright; that much could be said for it.
The food wasn't too good though. A trusty, with a deputy standing by, slipped the trays in under the barred section of wall, next to the door. Five trays, for Majestyk, two Chicanos, a black guy, and a dark-haired, dude-looking guy in a suit and tinted glasses who hadn't said a word all morning.
One of the Chicanos passed the trays around and went back to sit with the other Chicano, probably a couple of migrants. The black guy was near the corner, where the two benches met. The dark-haired guy looked at his tray and set it on the bench next to him, between where he was sitting low against the wall and where Majestyk sat with his tray on his lap.