ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (25 page)

“Damn it, Phyllis,” Aldrich said, “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Okay. But be sure to tell Rosalind I said hello,” Phyllis said. She made no
move to hang up.

More silence.

“Gwynn?”

“It’s the Mexican government, Phyllis,” Aldrich said, very quietly.

“The government itself, not some wealthy Mexican?”

“The government, Phyllis. And you didn’t hear it from me. We haven’t talked in
months. Is that clear?”

“Of course, Gwynn. Haven’t seen you or heard from you in forever.”

There was a click as Aldrich hung up. He hadn’t said goodbye.

“I’m impressed,” Sharon said.

Phyllis smiled. “I am not to be fucked with.” Then she winced and
squirmed into a new sitting position.

“But Mexico? What do you make of that?” Sharon asked.

“Interesting,” Phyllis said. “Evidently, Mexico isn’t very happy with the
Bourque-Callaway meetings either. I guess they want to leave Bourque twisting
in the wind.”

“Does that bother you?” Sharon asked. “I mean, Mexico helping us?”

“Why should it? Politics makes strange bedfellows, isn’t that what they say?
And this kind of help is going to rent us a lot of buses and let us print up a
lot of signs and banners.”

*

The Forest Green
ConfedEx Express van drove up to Goggins’ Tavern, a two-story, dilapidated
wooden building on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia. It pulled in beside an
old red Packard convertible that had a blue fender on the passenger side.

After a moment, a
gawky, red-haired, generously-freckled young man hopped out of the van. He was
wearing a Green ConFedEx uniform, summer version—that is, it had shorts pants
and short sleeves.

He checked the
address on the slim cardboard envelope he was carrying. “The Association of
White Confederate Patriots,” it read, “73414 ½ Peachpit Road, Atlanta, GA,
33091.” He tried to find a number on the tavern, and after a bit of searching
came up with one: 73414. But where, he wondered, was 73414 ½?

He walked around
the building, observing the peeling blue paint that covered it, hoping to find
a rear door or a basement entrance. What he found instead was a long flight of
rickety wood stairs more or less attached to the outside of the structure,
leading to a windowless door on the second floor.

For a few moments,
the young ConFedEx man looked around for an address, but soon saw his job was
not going to be that easy. So he took a deep breath and started up the stairs,
which swayed ominously with every step he took. Finally, he found himself on
the landing at the top, facing the door, on which was stapled a white cardboard
sign with amateurishly-painted black lettering: “The Association of White
Confederate Patriots. National Headquarters.”

The young man
checked the address on the package again. It was a match. He lifted a hand to
knock on the door, but, hearing noise coming from within, decided to listen for
a moment. The TV was blaring—he could hear shouting and the roar of car
engines. He could also hear, just barely, the squawking and beeping of a video
game.

He knocked. No
response. He knocked again. Inside, someone turned down the television.
“ConFexEx,” he yelled. “Hello?”

“Leave it by the door,” someone shouted.

“No can do,” he said. “This one needs a signature.”

He waited. No response. He knocked again. “I have a package for you,” he said
loudly.

This time, the door opened almost immediately, and the young man from ConFedEx
found himself face to face with another young man, an unshaven fellow wearing
jeans and a wife beater and sporting a short, greasy ponytail. The pungent odor
of marijuana had followed him out the door.

“Yeah?” Said the man with the ponytail.

“Package for you.”

“Me?”

“Well, for the Association of White Confederate Patriots,” the ConFedEx man
said, reading off the envelope. “That you?”
“It surely
is,” said the pony tail man. “Ah’m Louie Devereaux, da organization’s
President. What kin ah do fer ya?”

The ConFedEx man held out the envelope, indicated an attached paper slip, and
offered a pen. “You can sign there.” He tried to wave away the marijuana smoke,
which was now creeping out of the room like fog over the Golden Gate.

Devereaux signed the slip, took the envelope and examined it with curiosity,
looking for but failing to find a return address. “Thanks, bub,” he told the
ConFedEx man, who headed back down the stairs. Then Louie closed the door and
walked back inside the national headquarters of the Association of Confederate
Patriots.

It was not exactly a deluxe facility. It consisted of a single large room, plus
a half bath. The walls were covered in cedar-ish faux wood paneling and
decorated with signs proclaiming the superiority of white people and deriding
the Bourque-Callaway meeting. Two pairs of naked fluorescent light hung from the
low ceiling, which was covered with sooty white acoustic tiles.

“Hey, Earl,” Louie said, to a thin, young, redheaded man sitting in a torn
lounge chair, smoking a joint and watching ‘Dukes of Hazzard’ on television,
volume on high. “Earl! You hear me?”

Earl realized, finally, that he was being addressed. He pointed the clicker at
the TV and turned down the volume a little. “Yeah, what?”

“We got dis ConFedEx package chere. You know anything about it?”

“Lemme see,” Earl said, remaining seated, but holding out a hand.

“Why don’t ya get off yr big bohunkus n’ come over heah?”

“Caws Ah’m comfertible where ah am.”

Louie shrugged and brought the envelope to him and Earl examined it briefly,
without result.

The activity finally attracted the attention of the third person in the room, a
chubby, blank-faced fellow in his mid-20s perched at an elderly computer. He’d
been transfixed by a game, but the conversation had distracted him. “Let
me
open it,” he said.

“Uh-uh. Dat’s fer
me
t’do, Waymond,” Louie said. “Ah’m da president of
dis here association, ain’t ah?” The young man’s name was actually
‘Raymond,’ but he pronounced it ‘Waymond,’ and so did everyone else.

“Ya surely awe da president,” Waymond admitted. “And ah’m da tweasurah.”

“Ya doan have to remind me,” Louie said, and he found the opening tab on the
cardboard envelope and gave it a quick tug. The tab tore off in his fingers and
he resorted to ripping at the perforated strip with his fingernails. He
succeeded in getting into the envelope, but only after he’d made a total mess
of the thing.

Meanwhile, Waymond stood at Louie’s elbow, trying to look inside the envelope,
barely restraining himself from snatching it away from his friend and pulling
out whatever was in it. “Come on, Louie,” he whined. “What’s in deh?”

“Yeah, Louie,” Earl said. “Stop foolin’ around.”

Louie pulled out a piece of expensive stationary, folded in thirds.

“Whats it say, Louie?” Waymond asked in innocent impatience. “Weed it.”

Louie gave Waymond a dirty look. “Dats what ah’m fixing to do, Waymond, ifn
you’ll just gimme a chance.”

“Okay, okay,” Waymond said. “But weed it, k?” He was practically begging.

“K.
To da gennelmen at da Association of White Confederate Patriots. Please
accept da enclosed contrib-ution wit my best wishes. It is my hope dat you
will use it to furder your campaign against da Bourque-Callaway meetings.
It’s signed
your friend, Frank Thomas.”

“Who da fuck is Frank Thomas?” Earl asked. “Ah doan know no Frank Thomas.
And what did he mean ‘contribution’?”

“Well, let’s see.” Louie dipped a hand back into the ConFedEx envelope and came
up with a check. He looked at it and laughed. “Dis can’t be real,” he said.
“Somebody is tryin’ to put somethin’ over on us.” He handed the check to Earl.
“Take a look at dis, Mr. Vice President.”

Earl took a good look. “Ah’ll betcha dis be Orry’s work,” he said. “Half a
million dollars. Hah!”

“What do you mean half a million?” Louie said, startled. He snatched back the
check and counted off the zeros, eyes wide with surprise. “Ah thought it said
five thousan’ dollars.” He said

“It’s jes a joke,” Earl assured him. “A stupid prank.”

“Lemme see dat,” Waymond said. He grabbed the check from Louie’ hand and gazed
at it, perplexed. “This heh check is
cewtified
,” he said.

“So what?” Louie asked.

“So I tink it’s da weal deal,” said Waymond.

“Whadda ya know about
certified
, Waymond?” Earl asked with contempt.
“How many certified checks you ever see?”

“Lots. My mom used to get ‘em from da lawyeh. You kin jes go into da bank and
dell give you money, no questions axed.”

“Dis here’s a check for $500,000,” Louie breathed, staring at it. It was just
starting to sink in. “Half a million fuckin’ dollahs!”

“Lemme see dat,” said Earl. Louie passed him the check and he studied it with
great care. “Dey made this with a check machine, y’know.”

Louie screwed up his face. “What? What da fuck is a check machine?”

“It’s a gadget where you stick a blank check in, set the numboos and cwank it
and it pwints the numboos on the check,” Waymond explained. “Owy don’t have
one. Nobody has one, ‘cept big offices.”

“Whachu sayin’?” Louie asked. “You sayin’ dis ting is fer real?”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Half a million buckos,” Louie said. “Can’t be fer real.”

“Ah been tellin’ ya, Louie,” Earl said. “Waymond been born on crazy week.”

“Was not,” Waymond insisted.

“Well, dere’s an easy way to find out,” Louie said. “We take it to da bank. Da
First Confederate. Dat’s da name on da check.”

“Dat’s the name of ah bank too,” Waymond said.

“We have a bank account?” Earl asked.

“Yep. Doan you wemembeh? When we stawted the club. Got tooty-nine dollahs in
it. And fitty cents.”

“Look,” Earl said, “dis is all stupid. No one’s gonna jes
give
us half a
million dollahs.”

“’Cept Frank fuckin’ Thomas,” Louie said, laughing.

“So let’s try t’ deposit da ting,” Earl said. “Worse dey can do is say it’s
phony.”

Louie had a sudden thought. “Waymond, dere any way dis could get us in trouble?
We doan wanna get in trouble again.”

“Twouble?” Waymond said, considering the idea. “I doan see how. We ain’t
stealin’ anyting or tryin’ to.”

“Doan you fret,” Earl said. “Ifn da bank cashes da check, its on dere heads,
not ourn.”

“’Zactly,” Waymond said.

“Okay,” Louie said. “Les not argufy anymore. Les go make a deposit,” said
Louie. “Dell prob’ly laugh us outta da bank, but it oughta be fun.”

“Crank up da car,” Earl said. “We’ll all go.”

Ten minutes later, the AWCP’s three elected officials, President, Vice President
and Treasurer, entered the front door of the First Confederate Bank, Elm Street
branch. Except for a middle-aged bald man at a desk and a couple of tellers—a
matronly woman in a navy suit, her hair in a bun, and a pretty, perky young
girl with a golden ponytail, the place was devoid of people.

The Patriots chose the young woman, no surprise, and walked up to the counter
together.

“’Morning, shug,” Louie said. “We-all got a check to cash.”

“Happy to oblige,” said the young lady, in a high musical voice. She waited
expectantly. “May I see the check?”

Louie fished it out of the ConFedEx envelope. “Of caws ya can” –he checked out
the nameplate on the counter– “Mz. Pendleton.”

“Paige,” she said, smiling. She took the check and looked it over. When she
raised her head again, her smile was mixed with confusion. “This is an awfully
large amount,” she said.

“Yeah,” Louie said, grinning. “We know.”

“But it’s real,” Earl said. It was more a question than a statement.

“Sure seems to be,” Paige said, with a neutral smile. “But I’m going to have to
have Mr. Chappelear approve it.”

“Who’s dat?” Earl asked.

“Branch manager,” Paige said. “He’s sitting right over there. Come with me.”

She made her way out from behind
the counter and led the procession to Mr. Chappelear’s desk. He was a rather
tubby man, bald, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He looked up, prepared to smile,
but the expression died on his face when he saw the trio of Patriots.

“These gentlemen would like to cash this check,” Mz. Pendleton said, smiling
again, handing it to the branch manager.

“We could jes deposit it,” was Waymond’s meek suggestion.

Chappelear raised an eyebrow as he took the check. He looked at it, ready to
dismiss it, then took a closer look. He held it up to the light, then looked at
the Patriots one by one, suspiciously. “This is made out to the Association of
White Confederate Patriots,” he said, as if that couldn’t possibly refer to
them.

“Dat’s us,” Louie said. “Ah’m President. Dis here is Earl Conway. He’s da vice
president. And dat’s Waymond—I mean Raymond—Belcher, da treasurer. He’s my
blood kin.” Waymond waved shyly.

Mr. Chappelear was not impressed. “And how do I know that?” he asked

“Well, we got our IDs wight chear,” Waymond said, pulling out his wallet and
extracting driver’s license. He handed it to the branch manager, who examined
it like a bartender checking out the obviously phony credentials of an underage
girl. He handed it back without comment.

Meanwhile, both Louie and Earl had pulled out their laminated AWCP ID cards,
which had been produced during more optimistic times, when they fantasized that
their organization might grow and go national. The IDs were printed in two
colors, on watermarked paper, and included photographs of the bearers. Waymond
produced his as well.

“How big is your organization?” Mr. Chappelear asked, skeptically studying the
IDs.

“We got twenty-two membehs,” Earl piped up.

“No, dat was last year,” Waymond said, counting on his fingers, “We got—lemme
see—fifteen dues-paying membahs wight now.”