ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (29 page)

Chapter Fifteen xxx

Junior—Harlan Hurbuckle Jr., that is—awoke with a vague sense of unease,
which was not unusual. This time, however, he knew its source: the
unprecedented—and in his opinion loathsome—meeting between the Confederacy’s
great President Buddy Bourque and the North American nigra anti-Christ,
President Charles Callaway. Despite his hopes, despite his wishes, despite his
most fervent prayers, it had happened.

Lying in bed, cocooned in his blanket, he opened one eye and, to his
disappointment, saw thin stripes of sunlight pushing their way through the
venetian blinds that covered his bedroom window. He’d hoped for another hour,
but when had that ever happened?

Then came the thump at the front door. He’d spoken to the boy about putting the
Times-Picayune
in the mailbox, and the boy had promised he would, but
nevertheless, Hurbuckle was greeted every morning at about 6:30 by a thump at
the front door. He unrolled himself and planted his feet on the cold linoleum

Junior buttoned the top of his thin, nearly threadbare pajamas, plodded through
the kitchen to the living room, stepping on crumbs from last night’s dinner. At
the front door, he flipped open the lock, stuck his hand outside, grabbed the
paper and pulled it inside. Then he plopped down on the divan and unfolded the
thing.

He scanned the front page—car accidents, liquor store robberies, a missing
coed, sports reports—it could have been printed any day of the week in the last
ten years. It was always the same. Then he noticed the photograph in middle of
the front page, above the fold. It had been taken, evidently, in the Oval
Office of the White House. It showed a grinning, down-home Buddy Bourque
extending a paw and that smiling monkey in an expensive suit, Callaway, grabbing
it like Bourque was his favorite uncle, touching as though they were equals. He
felt his gorge rise.

This was everything he hated and feared—the nigra President of the NAU, gaining
power and influence over the Confederacy, and yet another opportunity for that
hollowest of men, Buddy Bourque, to play hero and savior.

Junior knew what this would cost. It would be the ruination of everything the
Confederacy stood for. It would mean the destruction of a culture. The set of
traditions and customs that had defined his country for generations would
vanish. His world, his life, his hopes destroyed—unless, somehow, he could save
it.

*

The Rivoli Theater in Staten Island, New York was one of those art deco
monstrosities that some over-confident impresario put up when the 20s were
roaring, only to abandon it to his creditors when the market came tumbling
down. Eight hundred seats in blue velvet and they reclined.

Oddly enough, the
Rivoli was still standing after all of these years, having been rescued from
the wrecker’s ball by a merry-go-round of community theater, big time bingo,
and churchless African-American congregations. A consortium of movie lovers had
even restored it and subdivided it, putting one screen in the balcony and two
downstairs.

Now it was empty
again and for rent, used occasionally by private parties in need of a really
big meeting hall, organizations such as the Truckers’ Local 105, which serviced
the New York Container Terminal. Today, the Truckers’ were holding a special
meeting of the entire membership to hear an address by Anthony Zolli, the
Union’s national president.

At the moment, he
was standing on the stage, next to a gigantic wooden podium, behind red velvet
curtains, peering at the audience through one of the several holes in the heavy
fabric, meanwhile buttoning the jacket of his light brown polyester suit in a
vain attempt to look slim and fit.

“Zat all of dem?”
Zolli asked the local leader, Timothy Regan.

Regan nodded.
“Most all,” he said, which was about as verbal as he got. He was a big,
powerful, tow-headed guy, seventeen years on the job and he loved Zolli like a
brother.

“Should we give
dem anudda five minutes?” Zolli asked.

“’K,” Regan said.

Another dozen or
so Truckers’ drifted into the theater, which Zolli decided was enough. “Okay,”
he said, “Have dem pull da curtains and you interduce me.”

Regan signaled a man in the wings, who began tugging at the ropes, hand over
hand, and the curtains parted, squealing on seldom-lubricated rods high above
the stage. Regan stepped up to the podium to scattered applause.

He fumbled with the mike, which whistled and screeched, then smiled
uncomfortably. “Genneman, genneman,” he said, in a rare display of loquacity,
“Genneman. And ladies too, I see a few. Dis is a great occasion fer Local 105.
We have a very special guest t’day, with very special news fer all of you—for
every patriotic Ammurican. And widout furder ado, I wanna interduce our great
natinal leader, our President and my friend, Anthony Zolli.”

Zolli stepped up to the podium, head held high, in hopes of minimizing his
jowls, looking out at the audience, “da mugs, da lugs and da slugs,” as he liked
to call them, but not when they were within earshot. They were applauding
enthusiastically, the men in jeans, Tshirts and work boots, with
salt-and-pepper beards, pony tails and tattooed biceps, with big bellies, bad
teeth and haggard faces.

“Ladies and
gennemen, friends…fellow teamsters,” Zolli began, his loud voice echoing
throughout the theater and causing a bit of feedback from the microphone. He
took half a step back and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I can’t
tell ya how pleased I am to be visitin’ da best damn Truckers’’ local in da
whole damn country.”

The theater erupted in applause and shouts of “Damn right!” and “You said it!”

Zolli grinned and let the applause die out on its own. “Now I know,” he
continued, “dat some boys in Los Angeles may tink different, but we all know da
troot. Not only is dis da best local, it is da most important, because da New
York Container Terminal is da biggest, most important container port in da
whole country.”

Again, shouting and applause, this time prolonged.

Zolli grinned through it all and finally held up a hand for silence. “And dat,
fellow Truckers’ , is why da Natinal Leadership has chosen youse guys to show
everybody just how strong we are.”

The applause started again, but this time, Zolli stopped it quickly. “No, no,”
he said, “doan be modest. Dats da troot and dats all dere is to it.”

He paused, expecting applause, and when there was none, he continued. “Now
lemme give youse a liddle backgroun’. You all know dat right now, even as I am
speakin’ to youse, our new Black President is chewing the fat with da President
of da Confed’rate States of Ammurica.”

He paused again, and this time, he was rewarded with an outburst of booing.

“Dat’s right,” he went on. “It’s a fraud and a travesty and it oughta be
illegal, but dere talkin’ anyway, and da news I get from our friends in da
White House is dat dere making progress.”

More boos and cries of “No! “No!”

“I’m glad to see dat you’ve been reading da union bulletins and listenin’ to my
speeches. Any agreement between Callaway and Bourque would be turrbull for us.
A catastrophe, in fact. Youse all know about da millions of unemployed Blacks
in da Confederacy who are hungry for jobs,
our
jobs. Cheap labor,
non-union labor, just itchin’ to get dere hands on
our
money.”

They booed again, on cue.

“Well, I’m here t’ tell you dat it’s not gonna happen. Better dan dat, youse
guys are gonna help me stop all dat.”

He looked around, expecting more applause, but scattered clapping and confused
looks was all he got.

“Lemme ‘splain,” Zolli said. “Your natinal leadership has come up wid a plan we
tink is gonna shut down that Washington circus wunst and fer all. We’re gonna
put on a series of short strikes—jus’ one month long—at key places all over da
country. Where it’ll cause da most pain and disruption. And as soon as one
stops, anudder one’ll start, on da other side of da country.”

He looked out at the expectant faces, the mugs, lugs and slugs, his kind of
people.

“Now, can anybody guess why I’m here?”

This time there was a sprinkling of laughter.

“Well, some of ya get it,” Zolli said. “But not alla ya. Here’s the ting. Da
Natinal Leadership has chosen Local 107 to go first. We want youse to shut down
the container port, tight as a drum. Not one damn container in or out fer
a month, no madder how much screamin’ and yellin’ dey do, even if da damn
President has a stroke.”

No one applauded or laughed this time.

Zolli held up a hand. “Now I know what a strike will mean to all of youse guys—you’re
worried about money and who wouldn’t be? But dis time you got nuttin’ to worry
about. Natinal’s gonna cover every dime you lose…”

“What about overtime?” Someone yelled.

“Including overtime,” Zolli said. “Youse show us trootful time sheets and
you’ll get your money, every penny. And it’s gonna be the same for all da other
strikes. Our war chest is gonna cover it. Whadda ya tink about dat?”

The Truckers’ were silent for a moment, trying to absorb and understand. Then
slowly, much too slowly for Anthony Zolli’s taste, they began to cheer and
applaud. It was like rolling thunder, starting at some distance, but moving
into the immediate area and setting the entire theater on vibrate.

“Now
that
,” said Anthony Zolli when the tumult had subsided a bit, “
that
is what I call union solidarity!”

*

“This had better be good, Hector,” said
El Presidente
, sitting in the
passenger seat and gazing out of the window of his forest green, custom-made,
fully-armored 12-cylinder Mercedes as they approached Mexico City International
Airport.

“Miguel, I guarantee that you will be pleased—and entertained.” Herrera took a
left turn, onto a narrow back road. “Besides, it’s a nice day. Good to get out
of that office of yours.”

“Entertained, eh?” Garcia said. “As entertained as I was with the tanker
sinking?”

“Even more, I think.”

Garcia turned his single eye on his old friend. “You did a splendid job with
that, Hector, I must admit. The distress call was a work of genius.”

“Do you know how I did it?”

Garcia shrugged. “Well, I assume…”

“It’s the product of the Baja Movie Studio. The voice is Javier Flores…”

“No! I know his voice—everybody in Mexico knows his voice. I’ve seen all his
movies.”

“Yes, well we processed it. Dropped it an octave. We needed someone truly
convincing, someone who could really sell the fear and terror. As you know,
Flores is a master.” Herrera said.

“And the screaming of the crew, and the explosions?”

“Sound effects.”

El Presidente
nodded sagely. “However you did it, it was a very
professional job, Hector. I congratulate you.” He inserted a thumbnail between
his two front teeth and sawed away with it, evidently trying to dislodge a bit
of breakfast bacon.

“You deserve congratulations too, Miguel,” Herrera said. “Your speech was
wonderful—the outrage, the sadness, totally believable.”

Garcia grinned. “I once played Herod at a Christmas pageant in sixth grade.”

“Typecasting,” Hector said, impishly.

That earned the spy chief a cautionary glance from Garcia’s single eye.
“Careful.”

Herrera steered the big Mercedes through the airport’s well-guarded rear gate
and sped toward a far corner, which was blocked from view by a motley collection
of panel trucks, vans, 18-wheelers, an armored munitions vehicle and a pair of
refrigerated transports. As the Mercedes approached, one of the vans moved
aside and Hector guided the Mercedes through the opening.

Beyond the trucks, at the end of a runway, sat a Mexican Airlines Focke-Wulf
AD740, a large, four-engine jet passenger plane, its shabbiness fairly
well-disguised by a new paint job. At the advanced age of 13 years, it was the
oldest plane in the inventory. Its tires were bald, its engines—when lit—spewed
black smoke, and sheet aluminum patches covered several narrow cracks in its
fuselage.

The Mercedes pulled up beside the airplane and stopped. Herrera got out and
quick-stepped around to open the passenger door. He reached in a hand and
pulled, helping
El Presidente
with his never-ending struggle against
gravity.

El Presidente
adjusted his uniform, regained his dignity and took a few
steps toward the Focke-Wulf. “This, I trust, is the illfated aircraft?”

“Yes it is. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

Garcia nodded. “Almost too good. How much is this going to cost me?”

“Almost nothing—certainly less than the rust bucket we sent to the bottom of
the Gulf. The Civil Aviation Authority condemned it last month. It’s been fully
amortized.”

“You’re sure it will fly?”

“Oh yes. This time anyhow. We’ve tested it.”

“Did you have to make any repairs?”
El Presidente
asked.

“Nothing major. But of course, we had to install the latest auto-pilot.”

Garcia frowned. “You had to do that? How much was it?”

“Yeah, we had to put in the latest model,” Hererra said. “Otherwise, the pilot
would have had to stay with the aircraft until it exploded..”

“No one volunteered?”
El Presidente
asked, with an ironic smile.

Herrera laughed.

“If I’d known you needed a pilot for this job, Hector, I’m sure I could have
condemned one for you.”

Herrera considered the idea. “Well, Miguel, pilots are even more expensive than
computers. You know, all that training.”

“I suppose so.” Garcia walked up to the plane, tapped on one of the aluminum
patches and scratched at the paint with a fingernail. “I’m worried about the
flotsam and jetsam. It’s got to be convincing. They’re sure to
investigate.”