ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (18 page)

"But Excellency…"

"I know. Six months you told me. Absolute minimum."

"Yes."

"But Carlos, we both know that you left yourself a cushion," Garcia
said. "How much time did you leave yourself?"

"Your Excellency, I assure you…"

"Don't fuck with me, Carlos. How much of a cushion did you leave
yourself?"

Espinosa hesitated. This was a secret he hated to give up. He knew it could be
used against him, for actions in the past and actions in the future.

"Carlos?"

The General looked directly into
El Presidente
's eye. "Three
weeks," he said. "Maybe a month."

Garcia rubbed a paw over his chin, thinking. "Move up the date by a month.
I'm sure you'll still have a cushion."

"I swear, Excellency…"

Garcia made a dismissive gesture with his fingers, picked up some papers on his
desk and looked once more at his beautiful, bejeweled globe, and at the vast
expanse of the Mexico he imagined. Soon, he thought. Soon the globe will show
the world as it is.

*

Frederich von Zimmerman—Count von Zimmerman—was not accustomed to be summoned
by anyone, with the possible exception of his beautiful young girlfriend—and
that was always a summons to pleasure. Even the German Foreign Minister
never summoned or even asked anything of Count von Zimmerman. He made timid
requests, always aware of the Count's rank and family.

Nonetheless, Count von Zimmerman had been summoned by
El Presidente
Miguel Garcia, told to report, in effect, and on a day that he had planned to
spend sunning himself at his Yucatan mansion near the
Maroma
Resort
, drinking
Geiben, Kaseler Nies'chen Riesling Auslese
2004 and
observing his teenage daughter's friends cavorting in the pool.

The summons from Garcia, however, was so unique, so unprecedented, that Count
von Zimmerman's curiosity was aroused. He felt a nagging temptation to discover
what was on Garcia's mind and, when faced with temptation, he was rarely able
to resist.

The next morning, von Zimmerman walked into his clothes closet, one question in
his mind: What does one wear when summoned to meet with a primitive
mutterficker
like Garcia? A stylish casual outfit? No, that would be a tastelessly
obvious insult. Formalwear? No, Garcia would not see the humor in it. Something
reflecting his class and breeding? Ah, yes. That was it. Even if Garcia didn't
understand the details, he'd get the effect.

And so von Zimmerman appeared, at 10 a.m., at
El Presidente's
reception
desk, wearing a grey $3,000 Hugo Boss suit, spun from the extraordinarily soft
wool of a small, special herd of genetically-altered New Zealand sheep, a pair
of handmade New & Lindwood Russian semi-brogues, made of pre-revolutionary
reindeer leather, and, to add a touch of bling, a solid rose gold Sky Moon
double-faced Patek Philippe wristwatch—one side for the time, the other for the
orbit of the moon, one of just five made and sold for just over a million
dollars.

The Count approached Rosalita, glancing at her garish nails, deciding within a
nano-second that she was not to his taste, and therefore not worth an extra
moment of his time. "Tell
El Presidente
that Count Frederick von
Zimmerman,
plenipotentiary ambassador to Mexico from the Empire of
Germany, has arrived to see him, as he requested," he instructed the girl.

Rosalita's mouth fell open in wonder, and she sat, staring at the man,
paralyzed.

"Now," von Zimmerman said, breaking the spell.

Rosalita spoke into the intercom, as instructed. "He'll see you now, Count
von Zimmerman," she told him.

"I would hope so," von Zimmerman said, in perfect Mexican Spanish,
Mexico City dialect. He did not look back to see the effect of his words, but
strode through Garcia's office door without further ceremony.

"Ah, my friend Zimmerman!" Garcia said, coming out from behind his
desk to give the ambassador a bear hug.

"
Von
Zimmerman," the German ambassador said. His arms hung
limp at his sides.

"
Von
Zimmerman, of course, of course." Garcia held him at
arm's length. "You look wonderful," he said.

"Thank you,
Presidente
." Von Zimmerman disengaged himself.

"Here, have a seat," Garcia said, directing the Ambassador to the
best guest chair in the office. "How long has it been since we've
talked?"

Von Zimmerman sat, giving his trousers an automatic tug to preserve the crease,
then leaned back and regarded Garcia neutrally, as
El Presidente
returned to the complicated modern chair behind his desk. "I think we greeted
each other briefly at the state dinner for the new Guatemalan President last
August," said the German Ambassador.

"Too long, too long," Garcia said. "We should meet more often.
We have much in common, Mexico and Germany."

Von Zimmerman raised an eyebrow, said nothing.

"I wanted to talk to you about something,"
El Presidente
ventured.

"If you insist," Von Zimmerman said. Then he smiled.

Garcia was momentarily confused, but continued nonetheless. "I want to get
your reading on a possible situation," he said.

"A hypothetical?"

"Yes, that's the word. Something that might happen, something that might
not."

Von Zimmerman looked at his watch, knowing that Garcia's eye would follow.
"That's why you summoned me?"

Garcia knew he wasn't being taking seriously and he had to force himself not to
show his annoyance. "Yes. It could be important to both of our
countries."

"Please tell me what you have in mind," von Zimmerman said,
relenting.

"Well, Ambassador Zimmerman…"

"
Von
Zimmerman."

"Yes, yes, yes," Garcia said, waving both hands impatiently. "
Von
Zimmerman. Yes."

El Presidente
seemed about to say something inappropriate and von
Zimmerman waited for it, amused. But Garcia got hold of himself.
"What if," he said portentously, "what if something were to
happen between my country and the Confederacy?"

"Something?"

"Yes, a clash, a military clash."

"Do you mean, 'What would Germany say or do?'"

El Presidente
nodded. "Yes, if we were forced by self-defense or
other circumstances, to invade the CSA, perhaps even to occupy it? What would Germany
do or say?"

Von Zimmerman regarded Garcia with a certain amount of interest.
"Well," he said, "as the whole world knows. Germany is dedicated
to world peace. So I think my government would very vocally oppose anything
more than, say, a minor clash, a proportional punishment, if a punishment was
merited."

"I see," Garcia growled. "But when you talk about vocal
opposition, I assume you're not talking about an embargo or providing the CSA
with military help."

"Why are you assuming that?"

"Well, you said nothing about…"

"If the hypothetical scenario we have been discussing should become a
reality, I imagine that the Kaiser and his cabinet would consider any action
likely to restore peace," von Zimmerman said.

"Hmmm," said
El Presidente
, momentarily stymied. Then he
remembered his plan. "I understand that Germany has a vested interest in
the Confederate government. Is that not right?"

"Vested interest?" von Zimmerman asked. He knew exactly what Garcia
meant.

"Yes. I have heard rumors that the CSA is deeply in debt to the German
Empire. True?"

"Our international financial dealings are confidential," von
Zimmerman said.

"Of course, but…"

"But we have assisted the Confederacy from time to time."

Garcia nodded. Getting this macaroni to say anything was like a prying open
pistachio nuts. "Being strictly hypothetical, to use your word, might the
German Empire have a different attitude toward the event if
I
guaranteed
repayment of the CSA's debt?"

Von Zimmerman had known for some time what was on Garcia's mind and he'd been
pondering a reply. He chose his words carefully. "I am not sure," he
said, "that the Kaiser would be willing to accept a simple
promise
to repay."

With his single bloodshot eye, Garcia gazed malevolently at the German
Ambassador. He had just been told his word was worthless. If anyone else had
spoken to him this way, anyone, regardless of nationality, he would have killed
him, personally and on the spot. But this was the German Ambassador,
representative of the one country he could not risk openly provoking.
El
Presidente
mustered all of his self-control and tried desperately to stifle
his rage.

Observing the struggle, and amused by it, von Zimmerman waited several seconds
before relieving the tension. "On the other hand…" he said, letting
the sentence dribble away.

Garcia seized on the phrase. "On the other hand what?"

"On the other hand, speaking hypothetically of course, if Mexico were to
make an
escrow
deposit
for the total amount in a Swiss bank
before the, um, incident occurred…"

Garcia was back in familiar territory. "
Half
the total
amount," he proposed.

"Hmmm," von Zimmerman said. He was not in a hurry to answer.
"That might be adequate. In gold, of course."

"Of course."

"The amount reaches into the tens of billions," Von Zimmerman said.
"Even for a country as wealthy and as prosperous as Mexico…"

"We have the money," Garcia said, annoyed.

"I'm sure you do."

"Then we have an agreement?"

"Hypothetically," von Zimmerman said.

Garcia leaned back in his chair. He’d long had a trap for this mouse, and he
had now been provoked into springing it. “Count von Zimmerman,” he said
benignly, “If memory serves, you have a daughter, do you not?”

Von Zimmerman instantly grasped where Garcia was going with this and he decided
to strike first. “Yes, she was friends with your daughter. Her name was
Estelle, if memory serves. Of sainted memory.”

Time came to a stop in Garcia’s mind. The sticking plaster he had so
laboriously super-glued over those agonizing memories began to peel at one end.
Though he fought to paste it down again, visions of flames leaked into his
thoughts, along with the sounds of a child screaming in terror. Only by the
force of will did he fight his way back to the present.

“Yes, thank you. Estelle,”
El Presidente
said, grimly, his face
grey, “But I wasn’t referring to times gone by. I understand that your daughter
is a beautiful young woman now and that she has a number of lovely friends,
adolescent girls.”

“That is true,” von Zimmerman said, painfully aware that his counterstroke had
failed.

“You know,” Garcia said, assuming a thoughtful expression, “I miss that. I mean
the house being full of happy children. But in your case, it’s full of
beautiful young women, isn’t it? How nice that must be.”

Von Zimmerman frowned. In yielding to his baser impulses, he had handed his
adversary a weapon. But there was nothing to do about it now. “Yes, very nice.”

“Now you were saying that we had an agreement hypothetically,” Garcia said.
“Exactly what did you mean?”

"Oh, nothing really,” von Zimmerman said through clenched teeth. “Only
that the Chancellor will want the agreement in writing. Your writing."

“Of course,” Garcia said, smiling.

"And I will send the document to the German government in the diplomatic
pouch," von Zimmerman said, his tone soothing and matter-of-fact.
"The cabinet will ratify it—in secret, of course. And I will inform you
immediately."

"They will agree?"

"I will make sure of it."

"Then you will have the document by the end of the day," Garcia said.

Chapter Nine

There were seven of them, in all, the entire executive committee of the
International Brotherhood of Truckers’—Anthony Zolli, the president, Albert
Zolli, the vice president, two former Presidents—the third Zolli brother,
Arthur, and Mark Kapinski—Bill Walden, the treasurer, Carl Pollack, the
secretary, and Sylvia Pinchick, widow of the Teamster's legendary President
Sidney Pinchick, who died in 2004.

They had come together not in the commodious conference room at the union's
national headquarters in mid-Manhattan, but a more salubrious location, a cozy
private room at
Gargiulo's Italian Restaurant on
Coney Island.

The large round table at which they were sitting was sagging with the remains
of a sumptuous feast—
lasagna
,
gnocci,
linguine
with
littleneck clams, baby pasta shells with
calamari
, Long Island tilefish,
riff on
pollo
alla diavola
, pan seared boneless pork
chops, veal
parmigiana
, several varieties of
Italian sausage, and half a dozen bottles of the finest Chianti, Barolo,
and Pino Grigio.

As they picked over the last of the feast, Anthony "Big Tony" Zolli
found a table knife and clinked it against the nearest wine glass. The
friendly conversation, gossip and laughter slowly died away under Zolli's
glowering gaze.

"We have bidness," he said. "Important bidness. Ya all know what
I'm talkin’ about—da Callaway-Bourque meeting. It gotta be stopped."

"Hear, hear," said his brother Albert, three years younger and three
or four inches taller, but otherwise a near twin of Big Tony—the same jowls,
the same Neanderthal brow, the same five-o'clock shadow, and the same
opinions.

"Yes, we know how you feel," said Sylvia Pinchick, a wispy woman in
her late 70s, with unnaturally black hair, wearing pink-framed glasses
with goggle-like lenses. Even at normal volume, her voice was harsh and
screechy. "We know how you feel," she repeated, "but I don’t
think we should throw the union into a fight without considering the
consequences. If we're wrong about this, it could hurt us."

Arthur Zolli, the third brother, a small, worried man in a shiny blue polyester
suit, shot a nervous look at Sylvia Pinchick. "Hurt us? How could it
hurt us?"

"It could damage our credibility,
Arthur." The speaker was Bill Walden, union treasurer, a tall,
slow-talking fellow who might have resembled Gary Cooper, if it weren't for the
bulbous nose.
"You
have to remember, Tony, we supported Callaway. We can't back away from him this
quickly. The members will be thrown for a loop. They'll think we don't know
what we're doing." He surgically removed the last tidbit of meat
from a pork chop and ate it.

"Den we have to teach dem," Tony
said. "We have to educate dem. We gotta convince dem their jobs are
in danger, deyr whole fuckin' country is in danger. 'Scuse me Sylvia." He
spooned another chunk of tilefish from the serving
platter.

"I gotta agree with Tony," said Carl Pollack, the union secretary, a
man with fading red hair and a chin covered with red stubble. "We gotta
move against this and we gotta do it hard and fast. Otherwise that spook is
gonna sell us all down the river. It's that Moses thing. I warned you, all of you."

"We all know where you're coming from, Carl." Sylvia said. "But
try and separate the man from the meeting, if you can." Tony rolled his
eyes at this remark, which Sylvia didn't miss. "Are you rolling your eyes
at me, Tony Zolli?"

Tony tried to backtrack. "No, Sylvia. Not
at all. It's just, well, I'm having a problem with Callaway."

"That monkey should never have been elected President. He doesn't have the
brains or the guts for it," Carl said. "And us helping him was the
woist mistake we ever made. I knew he was gonna get himself in trouble. It just
happened faster than I taut it would." He examined a chicken bone, looking
for but failing to find one last morsel.

Sylvia Pinchick scowled at Carl Pollack, her lips wrinkling like a drawstring
bag, but she said nothing.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Yeah? Come in?" Tony said.

The door opened to reveal a bent old man in a white apron, smiling hesitantly.
"Is it okay if I take your desert orders now?"

"No orders," Albert said, acting
like the big man. "Just
bring
."

"Everything?"

"You know what to bring," Tony said. "Don't you?"

"Don't forget the espresso," Sylvia said.

The old man smiled uncertainly and backed out of the room, almost losing his
balance. He closed the door behind him.

"I don't know why we're in such a hurry," Bill Walden said.
"Maybe they'll meet and disagree. We should wait and see."

"I ain’t a big believer in waitin'," Tony said, glaring at Walden
with his black, shirt-button eyes. "The early boid gets the woim."

"You know, Tony," said Mark Kapinsky, "it's always possible
something good could come from this meeting." kapinsky was a trim man with
salt-and-pepper hair and intense blue eyes. His plate was still full of
lasagna, but apparently, he'd had his fill.

"Sumtin good?" Tony said, his tone incredulous. "Like
what?"

"I don't know, maybe something that could help the Confederate Blacks,
help the living conditions maybe. You know, poverty."

Carl Pollack snorted. "You
really
care about that shit?"

"Well, the Blacks in
our
country care." Kapinsky replied.

"You tell dem dat if we open our borders to deyr southern brethren, deyr
jobs'll be the foist to go," Tony said. "Dell take half the pay. Tell
dem that and then see how much they care." He idly speared a piece of
tilefish and popped it into his mouth.

Pollack regarded kapinsky with hostility. "You know, Mark, if you support
the meeting, if you welcome those people, you'll be giving aid and comfort to
our enemy."

"That's a little strong, Carl, don't you think?" Kapinsky said
"We may not be on good terms with the Confederacy, but they're not our
enemy. We are at peace with them. Always have been."

"Yeah, right."

Sylvia Pinchick looked around from face to face. Only Tony Zolli refused to
meet her eyes. "Do I have to remind you
gentlemen
that my husband
Sidney made it possible for Blacks to join the union 30 years ago?

"And that was a wonderful thing," Walden said. "Sidney was a
great man."

"Yeah," Tony said. "And we all loved him. So it would really be
a tragedy if his widow opened da floodgates and destroyed everythin' we've done
since den."

Ms. Pinchick opened her mouth to respond, then closed it without making a
sound.

Pollack reached for another chicken leg.
"Sylvia, Blacks are only 3 or 4% of our population now. What happens if
they
all
come here, all of the Southern Blacks, looking for more money
and better treatment? Imagine those people making up 10-15% of the population."

"I don't see what difference that makes," Kapinski said. "People
are people."

"It wouldn't make any difference—if dey was like
our
Blacks,
Mark," Tony said. " But deyr not gonna be the same at all. Dey won't
be educated. Dey won't come from stable, middle-class families. Dell have
different ways of livin' and different traditions. Deyr not gonna to fit
in."

"I'll say it if no one else will," Carl said. "They're barely
civilized. We all know that."

"And they're not gonna just come and take our jobs," Albert added.
"They're gonna crowd up our schools and our churches and our
neighborhoods. They're gonna change our country. Not for the better,
neither."

Kapinsky regarded Albert Zolli with open contempt. "Seems to me you're
making a lot of assumptions, Albert. That meeting may come to nothing. And even
if it leads to a negotiation, chances are it will have some kind of
positive outcome."

"There's something none of you have considered," said Ms. Pinchick.
"They'll be
consequences if we
succeed in stopping the meeting. We will be undermining Callaway, and
he's the best friend labor has had in years. Dammit,
we
supported
him."

"Exactly," Tony said. "We elected him. So he
can't
just
ignore us. He has to listen to us."

At that moment, Sal Gargiulo and a pretty red-haired waitress, no doubt a
daughter, entered the room with heaping platters of desert—
tiramasu,
zabaglione, crostata de frutta,
ladyfingers, several flavors of
gelati,
a plate of amaretto cookies, and espresso and regular coffee.

The debate went on pause as the Executive Committee dug in, all of them except
Sylvia Pinchick, who had long ago foresworn deserts of any kind.

Pollack downed a
crostata de frutta
in a single bite and licked his
lips "So what's your plan, Tony? What do you want us to do?"

Tony Zolli, who had helped himself to several desert selections and was busy
sampling them, stopped in the middle of his sugary feast. "What's my
plan," he said, swallowing and wiping. "Dis is my plan:
I want a mass mailing to all the members. I want
demonstrations in all the big cities, marches wid at least 10,000 people. I
want a series of prime-time TV ads. I want us to get onto the radio talk shows
and make our case. I’m talkin' mass marketing here."

This didn't sit well with Kapinsky. "How much are you thinking of
spending, Tony?"

"Whatever it takes--$25-$30 million should do it."

Kapinsky turned to Walden. "We have that kind of cash lying around,
Bill?"

Walden was working on an amaretto cookie and took a moment to finish chewing.
"I could find it," he conceded. "I know a couple of rocks I
could look under. But I'm not convinced we should do it."

"The question isn't if we can afford it," Ms. Pinchick said.
"The question is,
should
we do it? I think the answer is a definite
and strong no. I think we should stay out of it altogether. We could be setting
ourselves up to look like fools, especially if it happens despite our
opposition."

Tony put down his fork and fixed his gaze on Ms. Pinchick. "We gotta make
sure it doesn't happen, no matter what."

"And if we can't stop it, what then?" She persisted.

"We'll have to find a way," Albert said. He glanced at Tony, who
nodded in approval.

"Well, I'm against it," Ms. Pinchick said.

Tony reached across the table, dipped a serving spoon in the pink-colored
gelato and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. "Fair enough," he
said. "Let's put it to a vote."

Sylvia Pinchick and Mark Kapinsky exchanged glances. They knew what was coming.
They also knew they were powerless to prevent it.

Tony scooped himself another spoonful of gelato, this time the yellow stuff,
and gulped it down. "Okay? Ready to vote?" He looked around the room
and got the nods he was looking for. "Okay, I'll start. I vote in
favor."

"Same here," Albert said.

"Okay, that's two," Tony said.

"Make it two to one," Kapinsky said. "I vote no."

Tony smiled tightly. "Okay, Mark. That's your privilege. How about
you, Carl?"

"I’m with you, Tony," Pollack said. He picked up a ladyfinger and
started licking the filling out of it.

"Okay, folks, that's tree to one," Tony said. "Your turn,
Bill."

Walden shook his head sadly. "I can't go along with you, Tony. I mean,
what business is it of ours? We got our hands full with contract negotiations..
I gotta vote no."

Tony reached over the table and scooped up a spoonful of some purplish gelato.
"Tree to two," he said. He took a taste of the gelato.

"Make that three to three, Tony," Ms. Pinchick said. "I'm voting
no. In Sidney's honor."

All eyes turned to the only person who hadn't yet voted, the middle brother,
Arthur Zolli, the twitchy one. He returned their gaze with obvious discomfort.

"You have the deciding vote, Arthur," Tony said. He smiled.

"Jeez, Tony, does it have to be me? Let's vote again only this time I'll
go first."

Carl laughed. Ms. Pinchick reached out and touched Arthur's hand gently.

"That wouldn't make any difference," Kapinsky explained.

"Sure it will," Arthur insisted. "I won't have the deciding
vote, which I never asked for and don't want."