ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (36 page)

“Nope.” Regan said.

“Good thing,” Zolli said. “Work doan get much easier dan dis.”

“How long we gonna keep this up?” Regan asked.

Zolli pursed his lips and shrugged. “Depends on Callaway, how much backbone he
has. Couple more days, I’d say. Week tops. Any problem wit dat?”

Regan shook his head. “Nope.”

Two men in good suits approached them from inside the facility, one short,
grey-haired and a little on the tubby side, with a nose like a clothes hanger,
the other tall and thin, with eyes set so far back in his head you had to be
standing directly in front of him to see his pupils.

“Anthony Zolli, is it?” said the man with the paunch.

Zolli turned and regarded the man with suspicion. “Dat’s me,” he said. “Who’re
you?”

The man offered something similar to a smile and extended a hand. “Frank
DuShain,” he said. “I’m the CEO of…” he turned back and waved a hand across the
terminal…”of this,” he said. “Of the New York Container Terminal.”

Zolli took his hand, suspicion unallayed, shook it briefly and dropped it. “Our
lawyers wount like us talkin’ like dis,” he said.

“I hope that you know, Zolli, that this little stunt of yours is costing me
millions,” said Frank DuShain. “You are fucking me over royally.”

“Hey, hey, DuShain,” Zolli said, “take it easy. Dis ain’t about you or da
terminal. Read da the signs.”

“He read the signs,” said the tall, cadaverous fellow. It sounded like a
warning. “He didn’t like ‘em.”

“Dey don’t got nuttin’ to do with him.”

“They’ve shut down his container terminal. He takes that personally.”

“That’s right, Zolli,” said the other man. “Very personally.”

“Doan worry about it,” Zolli said. “Couple a days, it’ll be bidness as usual.”

“Why not today?” The taller man asked. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“Hey, who da hell r’you?”

“You don’t need to know.”

Zolli took a step forward and eyed the man with obvious malice. “You tryin’ to
muscle me?”

The man gazed back, without giving a inch. “All he wants is you go away and the
strike ends.”

“Listen, Bud, I want dis strike to end as much as you do. And it will, jes as
soon as Callaway caves.”

“If this is some roundabout way to hike union wages,” said DuShain, “you can
just forget about it. You’re not getting another dime out of me. What’s more,
you’re breaking our contract.”

A tiny gleam appeared in Zolli’s eyes and soon it was accompanied by a sly
smile. “You know how you could end dis strike?”

DuShain shot him a withering look. “How many guesses do I get?”

“You doan need to guess,” Zolli said. “I’ll tell ya. Jes pick up the phone and
call Callaway and tell him to stop jabberin’ with Bourque, we doan want any.
Dat’s not why we elected him.”

DuShain considered this. “You know, Mr. Zolli,” he said, “that is a damn good

idea.”

*

“But do you really think you can make it happen?” Julia asked, still amazed at
what he’d told her.

Charlie Callaway laid down on the bed, exhausted, feeling his spine sink into
the mattress and enjoying the sensation. “I don’t know,” he said. “But we have
to try.”

“I can’t believe how fast this is happening,” Julia said.

“It’s going to happen fast or not at all,” Callaway replied. “If we dawdle, the
doubters will find more reasons to oppose it. We can’t give our enemies time to
gain strength.”

Julia sat down on the bed beside her husband and turned toward him. “If you fail…”
She let the sentence dangle.

“If I fail, the next four years aren’t going to be much fun,” Callaway said.
“Who knows, I could even be kicked out of office.”

“Good,” Julia said. “I’m bored with this place.”

They both laughed.

“So, what did you think of Delphine?” he asked, studying the graceful curves
and planes of Julia’s face.

“You know, she’s not at all what I expected. I think we’re going to be friends.
How about you and Buddy Bourque?”

“Canny old rogue, but it’s hard not to like him.” He reached up and started
rubbing a hand along her neck.

“Can he persuade the Confederacy?”

“He seems to think so,” Callaway said, fiddling with a lock of hair behind Julia’s
ear. “And if his health holds out, I wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, I’m
betting on him.”

“Never thought of you as much of a gambler, Charlie,” Julia said, smoothing the
stubborn cowlick in his hair.

He gently pulled her down beside him. “I’m not. But President Callaway seems to
be. I hope he’s right.”

“I’m betting on Charlie Callaway,” Julia said. She undid his tie and impishly
slipped a cool, smooth hand inside his shirt.

Their eyes met and reached an agreement.

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning, they all found themselves in the conference room again,
except for Veronica, who was uncharacteristically late. And when she arrived,
she was not alone. She’d brought the Vice Presidents, both of them. “It’s
raining,” she said, by way of explanation. “Not going to let up either.”

Pickett was the first to catch on. “So, no golf today.”

“You got it,” she said. “Anyhow, it was time. They had to be told, so I told
‘em.”

Callaway nodded. “Thank you, Veronica. I owe you one.”

Veronica glanced around the table. “No donuts?”

“My fault,” Wang said. He got on his cell and said a few words.

“I owe you too, Veronica,” Bourque said, studying his Vice President. “So,
Kooter, I know you’re sure I’ve lost my mind, but other than that, what do you
think?”

The Confederate Vice President smoothed his mustache and sighed. “Well, my
friend, I feel like I’m a peanut, hog-tied to the railroad tracks and given the
choice of being run over by the goddamned freight train coming from the north
or the goddamned passenger express coming from the south. Either way, it’s
choo-choo peanut butter.”

Bourque smiled broadly. “The way I see it, Kooter,” he said, rolling his words
around in his mouth, “the train from the north is going cut the ropes us and
save us from the other train. In fact, it’s gonna adopt us.”

“And we’ll all be one, big happy peanut?” Kooter joked.

“Something like that,” Callaway said. He turned toward Vice President Garvey,
who was feeling his open collar, dismayed that he had not worn a tie today.
“And how about you, Darren? What’s your take on the idea?”

“Well, ‘Our Country First’ is going to hate it, Mr. President,” Garvey said,
“That harpy Phyllis Iserbyt will call you every name she can think of,
including traitor. The INN’s going to go bat-shit. Wouldn’t surprise me if
Sullivan demands impeachment. Then, there’s the Truckers’. I think they’ll call
a nationwide strike.”

“That’s your expert opinion, Mr. Vice President?” Katz said.

Garvey flushed. “I’m no expert, Mr. Katz, but that’s the way it looks to me.”

“I’m aware of all that, Darren,” Callaway said, “and I have plans to deal with
it. But what I’m asking for now is your
personal
opinion. You know how
much I value it.”

Garvey took that as a compliment. “Well, Mr. President, I haven’t had time to
consider all the implications and all the ramifications, but I’m for anything
that makes America stronger. And bigger, of course. That’s the kind of
twofer I like.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Darren,” Callaway said. “Going to need all the help I
can get.”

“So how you boys been getting on?” Bourque asked the Vice Presidents.

“Hah!” Garvey said. “Your Vice President has already taken—what is it?--fifty
bucks from me.”

Callaway found this interesting. “How so?”

“Kooter told me he was a terrible golfer,” Garvey said. “But somehow, he
manages to win every round.”

“I am a terrible golfer,” Kooter protested. “I can’t drive worth diddly-do.”

“You putt like Tiger Woods,” Garvey said. “And your chip shots are amazing.”

“Aw shucks,” Kooter actually said. “You’re the athlete Darren, Those drives are
magnificent. If you could putt, you could be a champion.”

“The worst thing is, Mr. President,” Garvey said to Bourque, “is that the more
he drinks, the better he gets. It’s unnatural.” The golfing had added a bit of
color to his handsome face.

Kooter laughed. “Wait until I get you down to Augusta. Then you’ll see some real
golfing.” He tried to smooth a misbehaving mustache hair back into place.

A young man, dark-haired, blue-eyed and intense, slipped into the room almost
surreptitiously with a platter full of Dunkin’ Donuts, a pot of coffee, some
cups and napkins. Veronica immediately inspected the selection, chose something
coconut-covered and chocolate and began eating. “I didn’t have any breakfast,”
she said, when she realized everyone was looking at her.

Callaway smiled. Then he looked at Bourque, who was also grinning. “Are you
thinking what I’m thinking, Buddy? About our Vice-Presidents, I mean.”

“As sure as God made little chickens, Mr. President,” Bourque said. “But why
don’t you do the honors?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Callaway said expansively. Darren…Kooter…we have
important jobs for you. Together.” He glanced at Bourque, who nodded happily.
“To make sure everything goes smoothly, President Bourque and I have agree to
establish a special agency. The Reunion Agency.” He glanced again at Bourque,
who gave him an approving head tilt.

Kooter shot Bourque a suspicious look, but the Confederate President merely
shrugged mischievously.

“And we believe, President Bourque and I,” Callaway continued. “That the two of
you would be the ideal people to head up the organization.”

“What?” asked Vice President Garvey, not quite understanding.

Bourque came up to the plate. “We want you and Kooter to run the Reunion
Agency,” he said. “You’ll be co-chairman.”

Veronica cast a skeptical glance at President Callaway, who held up a
reassuring hand.

“Co-chair? But…wait,” said Vice President Garvey. “Will I have to give up being
Vice President?”

“Well, truthfully, this is the bigger job,” said Eric Wang, hoping Garvey might
take the bait.

“Just what does this here job entail?” Kooter asked.

Katz decided that it was his turn. “You’ll jointly be responsible for making
sure former Confederate citizens are enrolled in Medicare and Social Security,
and you’ll oversee the nullification of all the laws that are incompatible with
ours. The Jim Crow laws, for instance, and the voting laws.”

“Wait a minute,” said Kooter, “You tellin’ me you ‘spect us to put our boots on
the ground and go stickin’ our noses into the schools and the courthouses and
the segregated restaurants and like that there?”

“The Confederacy will have to change, you know,” Veronica noted.

“Ah, no Kooter. That’s not exactly what we had in mind for you,” Callaway said.

Bourque and Callaway exchanged glances again and Bourque took over. “We don’t
‘spect either of you to traipse from town to town, messin’ in everyone’s
business.”

“Of course not,” Callaway agreed. “We’ll set up a whole organization, with
deputy chairmen, executive assistants, former governors, mayors, judges,
lawyers, law enforcement people, management experts, retired legislators, and
all the top-flight help you’ll need.”

“Ah,” Kooter said.

“Okay,” Garvey said, “But I still don’t get it. What do you want us to
do
?”

“Think there might be room in this here agency for my brother’s boy, Joe Bob?”
Kooter asked.

Bourque’s brow wrinkled in thought. “You mean the Joe Bob who worked in the
Plantation mailroom?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Kooter said.

“I think each of you should be able to appoint some people you know personally
and trust,” Callaway said. “To junior positions, of course.”

Kooter smiled.

“I still don’t know what you expect us to do,” Garvey said. “I mean Kooter and
me.”

“Well, the Agency will need a public voice, leaders who can inspire, say the
right things at the right time, make sure our new citizens see reunion in the
best possible light,” Callaway said.

“Ah,” said Kooter, “the light dawns. You want us to do some speechifying.”

“Well,” Bourque said, “No dog ever enjoyed a hunt ‘less he could do some
barking.”

“We’d like you to go to talk at rallies, colleges, churches,” Callaway said.

“And plantations,” Pickett added.

“Mostly around the Confederacy,” said Wang.

“The TV talk shows, facebook, all the media, all the networks,” Katz said.

“That’s a lot of talking,” said Kooter.

“What do you want us to say?” Garvey asked, still confused.

“Mr. Vice-President,” Bourque observed, “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, you
sound like a rubber-nosed woodpecker in the petrified forest.”

“Well, I came late to the party,” Garvey said defensively. “All you gotta do is
point me in the right direction and I’ll lead the charge.”

“Just say good things about reunion,” Callaway said. “We’ll write you speeches
and give you talking points. You’ll be selling the whole idea, persuading the
doubters.”

Veronica piped up. “You might talk about your personal friendship, your shared
values, your vision of the future.”

Garvey grinned. “So am I going to get the laughs or be the straight man?”

The joke, such as
it was, fell flat. But that didn’t deter Kooter.

“I’ll tell you
this,” said Kooter, “I don’t care what you say, I’m not gonna wear blackface.”

Garvey snorted,
but Bourque shot Kooter a dirty look.

“Kooter has a
point,” Veronica said. “We send two middle-aged white guys on a tour of the
South, trying to make the rednecks and the Blacks kiss and hug and we’re going
to have nothing but
tsuris
.”

Katz nodded.
“She’s right. This won’t work unless we add a Black guy. But who?”

Bourque slipped a
Tum into his mouth and started chewing. “It would have to be someone people are
inclined to respect, even in my country, regardless of skin color,” he said.

“Well, there’s
Toussaint, at Harvard,” Wang said.

“A northern
intellectual?” Pickett said. “Are you kidding me? They’d eat him for lunch down
south.”

Katz had an idea.
“How about Jesse Abernathy?”

“I don’t know that
my folks would cotton to the Mayor of Minneapolis,” Bourque said.

“How about an
athlete?” Veronica suggested. “That football player—Jackson?”

Pickett shook his
head. “He’s a prima dona and loud mouth,” he said.

“And he’d want
money,” Wang said, agreeing.

Callaway looked at Pickett. “Okay, wise guy, you got any ideas?”

Pickett smiled. “Matter of fact, I do,” he said. “I just happen to know the
perfect person.”

All eyes turned toward him.

“Who you thinkin’ about, son? Bourque asked.

Pickett looked at the eager faces. “Rev. Baldwin,” he said. “Rev. Frederick
Langston Baldwin.”

Wang looked at Callaway, perplexed. “Baldwin? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s the dean of all the black ministers in the Confederacy,” Callaway said.
“I didn’t know he was still alive.”

“Very much alive,” Pickett said. “I visited him less than a week ago.”

“What do you think?” Veronica asked Bourque. “Is he the right man?”

Bourque considered the question. “Well, he’s kind of a beloved old gentleman,”
he said. “Sort of a, I don’t know, a Santa Claus figure. Would you say that’s
right, Kooter?”

“Funny old guy,” Kooter said, with unexpected affection. “We’ve shared a
bourbon or two in our time. Could work.”

“He play golf?” Garvey asked.

Kooter turned to Pickett. “Don’t know about that,” Pickett said. “But I’ll bet
he could learn.”

“Would he be willing to do it?” Callaway asked.

“If
I
asked him, he would,” Pickett said.

More glances, all around, approving the idea.

“You just talked yourself into a job, Roy,” Callaway said.

They spent the rest of the afternoon working on the Reunion Agency, figuring
out what it would oversee—economic aid, nullifying the local Jim Crow laws,
overturning race-related prison sentences, desegregating schools and public
places, retraining police forces and judges, getting unemployment benefits
flowing. They tried to anticipate all the problems they’d face, but realized
unexpected problems were inevitable.

They also began drawing up lists of executives and government officials, past
and present, who had the skills and the chops to make it all happen, to
overcome the hurdles, and deal with resistance from the unwashed, uneducated,
uncaring and unwilling.

Finally, they decided to add to more people to the sales team: Delphine Bourque
and Edmund Randolph, each of whom had a significant constituency.

*

As prisons go, there was nothing particularly remarkable about the grey
concrete structure in Mexico City’s warehouse district,
La Penitenciaria
Federal de lost reclusos Especial.
It was a crumbling, dilapidated mess,
with tiny windows, rusty bars and a main entrance more suited to horses than
men.

But on this day, in the late afternoon, it was visited by a vehicle of unusual
magnificence, the armored, forest green 12-cylinder Mercedes Benz limousine
that transported
El Presidente
Miguel Garcia to wherever his whims might
take him.

The limousine, which was sandwiched between two khaki-colored troops carriers,
each one bristling with guns and carrying 10 fully-equipped members of Mexico’s
Special Forces, rolled to a stop at the prison’s main door.

El Presidente
’s
chauffeur, a ranking military officer in full dress uniform, leaped out of
drivers’ side of the car, but not before popping the trunk. Then he raced
around to the other side and opened the door for
Presidente
Garcia, who
alighted somewhat clumsily and straightened his uniform.

“Give me the package,” he instructed.

The driver reached into the trunk and pulled out a carefully-folded brown paper
bag about the size of two boxes of Kleenex. “I can carry it,” he said.

“Stay with the car.”

“Yes, sir.”

The driver handed the package to Garcia, who strode through the prison’s main
door as though he owned the place, which, to all intents and purposes, he did.

The man at the front desk leaped to his feet, surprised and frightened, when he
saw
El Presidente
walk in. He saluted, at first with the wrong hand,
then corrected himself. “
Presidente
,” he said in awe. “I had no notice…”

“Where are you keeping Hector Herrera?” Garcia asked.