Bobbyjay became aware that the guys were silent as they stood around smoking on the dock. Dydee Grant was the only guy not looking at him. Dydee was reading a piece of paper. The letter.
Bobbyjay said, “Thanks, Tanny.”
Dydee looked up from the letter and almost swallowed his cigarette.
The other guys tittered nervously.
Bobbyjay drew a breath. “Okay, what.”
“You better read it,” Dydee said. “You probably got one like everybody.” He flipped the letter to Bobbyjay.
The other guys kind of melted away while Bobbyjay read.
TO ALL VOTING MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL
Anybody who votes for that stupid motherfucker Bobby Morton Sr is asking for the worst three years of their life. Havunt we had enough after 21 years of this shit. The bastard should be ashamed of what he has done to Our local reprisenting us in the worst way possable. Don’t vote for this shit head I mean it....
It was all like that. Bobbyjay ran his eye down the page. Cursewords punched out of the badly-spelled invective like jalapenos on a rat taco.
He walked out of the building with the letter in his fist.
“I can’t believe the old fucker thought nobody would know it was him,” Bobby Senior rasped when Bobbyjay met him in the TV room at his place. “‘Nobody better vote for him or they will die.’ Jesus! Well, if he thinks this is gonna get his campaign anywhere he’s got a big sur-fucking-prise coming. Call your girlfriend,” he commanded.
“I don’t understand it,” Bobbyjay said, but he did. “Marty Dit told me himself he wrote a letter conceding the election.”
“Concede my ass. I’m lodging a grievance. Pete Packard’s back in town. I’m taking this to the International.”
“Uh, Pop,” Bobbyjay said.
“I told you to call your fiancée.”
Bobbyjay sighed and hit speed dial on his cell. “Daze?”
“Oh, my God, Bobbyjay.” She was whispering. In the background he could hear Marty Dit roaring.
“Gimme the phone,” Bobby Senior said.
“Call him yourself!” Daisy was saying at the other end.
Bobby Senior’s cell phone rang just as he was reaching for Bobbyjay’s. “You pig fucker!” Bobby Senior screamed into his own cell phone, and Bobbyjay moved to the other end of the TV room. “So much for your fuckin’ peace pipe! The same time you’re cryin’ crocodile tears, you’re doing this!”
From Bobbyjay’s cell, Daisy said, “How’s he taking it?”
Bobbyjay turned the phone toward the patriarch for ten seconds. Bobbyjay watched his grandfather’s face turn red, then purple, then a scary navy blue.
“This is going all the way to the International!” Bobby Senior screamed. “Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, you fucking douchebag?”
“This isn’t Goomba’s letter,” Daisy said to Bobbyjay when he put his phone back to his ear.
“I know that. Pop will figure it out too, once he stops yelling.”
“I think we have a problem,” she said unnecessarily.
In her hospital room Daisy watched her grandfather struggle to get a curse word in edgewise. That tears it, she thought. We’re sunk. It’s all over. I’ll have to run away with Bobbyjay just to keep from getting my kneecaps busted.
But if she did that, she’d never work in the Local again.
Oh, God, Pete Packard would blame her and Bobbyjay.
Her cousin Wesley let himself into her hospital room while Goomba was gasping for breath. The kid looked anxious and triumphant. He had a videotape in his hand. “Now you’ll see!” he muttered to her. He brushed past her and popped the tape into the TV aimed at her bed.
“That is not the letter I sent!” Goomba kept yelling over and over.
“Goomba?” Daisy said, but he was past hearing her. “Too late,” she said into her phone to Bobbyjay. “He’s losing it.”
“Goddammit, Bobby, you know me better than that!” Goomba yelled. “Fuck, at least I can spell!”
Wesley jogged Goomba’s elbow and pointed at the TV. “Grandpa, I think you better look at this.”
“We’re going to have to explain to Pete Packard how this fell apart,” Daisy whispered into the phone to Bobbyjay. “What’s your grandfather saying?”
“He’s gloating about what he’ll do to Marty Dit.”
Goomba stopped yelling suddenly. His glare was glued to the TV.
From where she sat, Daisy could hear Bobby Senior screaming through the phone how he was calling in a grievance to the International.
Goomba’s face split on an evil grin. He put the phone to his lips. “Go ahead. Lodge a grievance,” he said in a sinister voice.
In Daisy’s ear, Bobbyjay said, “Did he have a coronary over there? What’s happening? Bobby Senior’s gonna burst a blood vessel any minute.”
Daisy was looking at the TV. “Oh, shit.” Her Goomba looked darker and eviller than she’d ever seen him.
“What’s happening?” Bobbyjay demanded.
She told him.
A few hours later, the union office filled up with sweaty, hostile Mortons and Ditorellis. Muriel at the front desk looked at Daisy’s bandaged head. “You all right?”
“Peachy,” Daisy said with a tight smile.
“Do you have a TV-VCR rig?” Wesley said importantly. “We’ll need one right away.”
Pete came out of his office. Daisy went cold at the look on his face when he saw them. “Good,” he said. “I can bitch you all out at once.” He stood aside, holding the door wide.
They filed in, the Mortons first: Bobby Senior, Bobby Junior, Rob the Snob, Raybob, and Bobbert, who gave Daisy a superior sneer as he passed her. Then Marty Ditorelli led in Wesley, Tony, Vince, and Mikey Ray. Bobbyjay and Daisy brought up the rear. She felt the heat of Pete’s glare on the back of her neck.
Pete shut the door. He took up a position behind his desk. He put his knuckles on the desk. “Are you people out of your minds?”
“I have a grievance,” Bobby Senior whined.
“Shut the fuck up,” Pete whined back, imitating his intonation exactly. “Are you aware of the scrutiny being aimed at union elections all over the country right now? Do you know Chicago looks really, really good—on paper—so far? In a week we’re gonna have reps from every major local and affiliate in the country comin’ in to see how it’s done right. And this is what they’re gonna see.” Pete barked, “Heads have gotta roll!”
Daisy jumped. Bobbyjay took her hand.
Pete moved from the desk to stand in front of Bobby Senior. “Look at you. You’re like a bunch of kids scrappin’ on the playground. Senior members of my home Local. Members of the Executive Board.”
“I have a grievance,” Bobby Senior repeated, sounding puzzled.
Pete stopped in front of Daisy’s Goomba. She cringed. She’d never heard anybody dress Goomba down, except her Mom.
“What the fuck were you thinkin’, Marty?”
Goomba looked Pete Packard in the eye. He seemed smug, which was clearly annoying the Mortons. Daisy didn’t think Pete liked it much either. “That’s not my letter, Pete.”
“Your name and address are on every envelope I’ve seen so far,” Pete said, clearly struggling with his temper.
The door opened and Muriel rolled in the VCR rig. Wesley leaped forward with his tape.
“What’s this?” Pete demanded.
Daisy squeezed Bobbyjay’s hand. He put his arm around her.
Goomba said, “It’s my defense, Pete. My explanation. I got nothing else to say,” he said with what Daisy felt to be admirable restraint, considering the silent waves of unholy rejoicing that emanated from the Mortons.
The tape rolled. Daisy kept her eyes Bobbyjay’s Dad and the moron Bobbert. Wesley turned up the sound, which was just as cruddy as the grainy visual.
“This is gonna be the greatest,” a familiar voice gloated.
“Gimme the box,” said another familiar voice.
Bobby Senior, Rob
the Snob, and Pete Packard moved closer to the screen. Bobby Junior’s eyes bugged out. His jaw dropped. Bobbert rolled his eyes and then put his face in his hands.
The Ditorellis just stood.
There was a long spell of rustling.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Papercut.”
“Don’t bleed all over. That’s evidence.”
“What fuckin’ evidence?”
“DNA, Bobby Junior. Don’t you watch CSI?”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“What do I do with these?”
“Put ’em in the box we brought.”
“Do I lick ’em?”
“No, you don’t lick ’em. The fuck you want to do that for?”
“So Marty Dit don’t open ’em before he mails ’em out.”
“What about DNA?” the voice of Bobbyjay’s father said with heavy sarcasm.
“Just a suggestion,” Bobbert’s voice grumbled.
Bobbyjay’s father lifted his head and stared across the TV set at the number one Bobby. His expression was dreadful. Then he shut his eyes and bowed his head.
Bobbert looked totally crushed.
Bobby Senior looked as if he was watching the end of the world. He leaned forward and snapped off the tape. “You,” he whispered to his elder son. “You know what this means?”
Pete looked at Daisy’s Goomba in amazement. “Fuck, Marty. You could really do it this time.”
“I ain’t conceded,” Bobby Senior said and flinched when Pete rounded on him.
“Yes, you did.” Pete pointed at the TV. “You are out of office now. If you hadn’t been such a smug fuck, marchin’ in here with your grievance to the International, I’d of let you serve out your term. As it is?” He shrugged. “As your representative to the International I advise you to come down with a little health problem that necessitates your immediate retirement from the Board.” The syllables chopped out of him like slaps in Bobby Senior’s face.
The entire Morton family looked paralyzed.
Pete turned back to Daisy’s Goomba. “Well? You’re running unopposed now. Feel like taking office early?” He didn’t sound horribly happy to have Goomba on the team, Daisy thought.
Bobbyjay made a noise in his throat. Daisy shot him a glance, then realized what he was thinking. This would put Goomba on top for the first time in more than twenty years. She’d spent her whole life in a household with Goomba on top. He could be, as Pete Packard had told her in this office not long ago, a really annoying sonofabitch.
The Mortons wouldn’t take that lying down.
She swallowed. “Goomba?” she whispered.
Her grandfather looked at her with his lower lip buttoned over his upper lip. She knew he’d already made up his mind. He glanced at Bobbyjay, who was still gripping her hand.
Facing Pete again, Goomba said, “No thanks.” He sent Daisy a glance and touched his forehead with a shaking hand, as if he didn’t know he was doing it.
Pete’s brows snapped together. His jaws begin to grind.
“I only run to piss off Bobby here,” Goomba said in an unusually quiet voice. “Everybody knows that.”
A grunt popped out of Pete Packard. His fists opened and closed at his sides.
Daisy held her breath. Oh, God. What would Pete do to Goomba?
The two families were lined up opposite each other like square dancers. Her evil cousins Tony and Vince, her good cousins Wesley and Mikey Ray, and Goomba, looking humble and tired and old, peeking up at Pete Packard from under his bushy white eyebrows. On the other side the Mortons stared at Goomba: Bobbert disgusted, Raybob and Rob the Snob wearing identical camel-like sneers, Bobby Junior looking like he was about to blubber, and Bobby Senior with an astounded expression.
“Well,” Pete said finally with terrifyingly exaggerated patience. “Gee. What can I do in this situation?” He inflated his lungs awfully, swelling like a bullfrog, his fists at his sides. He shouted at her Goomba, “THIS IS NOT A FUCKING SANDBOX.”
Everybody flinched.
Daisy had had enough. She simply would not cry in front of the Mortons.
“You could put Bobbyjay on the Board,” she said in a clear voice.
Dead silence followed this suggestion. Goomba glanced at her with mild interest, as if nothing mattered.
A grunt came from the Morton side of the room.
Pete’s jaw worked some more. “Okay then. That’s how it’s gonna be. If I hafta hear one word about either one of your families ever, ever, ever again.” Pete paused awfully. “I’ll suspend the lot of you, every single one of you on both sides, for six months.”
Rob the Snob gasped. Mikey Ray glanced from one grandfather to the other. Daisy saw both the old men wince.
“Now get outa my office,” Pete commanded. “Not you two,” he said to Daisy and Bobbyjay as they edged toward the door.
Daisy started trembling again. Bobbyjay pulled her closer and put his arm around her. They watched their families file out. Mikey Ray sent Bobbyjay a solemn wink and a thumbs-up. Nobody else looked at them.
The door closed.
Pete looked them over. “I gotta hand it to you. Your marriage could save everybody a big hassle after all.” He chewed. “You realize, of course, it ain’t over yet.”
Dumbly Bobbyjay nodded. Daisy swallowed.
“I’m not gonna tell you how to handle your family,” Pete said to Bobbyjay. “But there’s work to be done there.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bobbyjay croaked.
“And you, miss.”
Daisy put up her chin. Her tummy wobbled.
“Your grandfather seems to have softened up some. I’d keep the bandages on a little longer if I was you.” So Pete had noticed Goomba’s gesture. “Your Ma still living with you?”
“Yes.” What didn’t this guy know? No wonder he was on the International Board. “She’s been, um, helping me soften Goomba.”
Pete nodded. “Good. Tell her how important it is.”
“She knows. Sir,” Daisy added.
“She always did. Why the f—how come she dropped the ball this time?”
How come your stagehands are a bunch of children? she wanted to ask. “She works a lot of extra hours, sir.”
Pete nodded again, as if this were a reasonable excuse. “I’ll be in town for the picnic on Monday. Be there,” he told Bobbyjay, “with your betrothed. After that, you’re on your own. You still hafta get the votes.”
He waved them out of his office.
Out in the corridor, Daisy collapsed in Bobbyjay’s arms and gave way to tears of relief. “What was all that about the picnic?”
“He supports my candidacy,” Bobbyjay said in a gloomy voice. “He’ll shake my hand and we’ll stand around looking engaged and the Local will see our grandfathers making nice. Aw, don’t cry, Daze.” He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. “I think we did it.”
“It’s not over.” She sniffled. But it will be soon. It has to be. How can we keep faking this thing? she thought. Especially when I’m not faking any more. She sobbed harder against his shoulder.
“I know that. I know.” He stroked her head. “Daze, we gotta go back to work now.”
“I hate this!” she burst out. “All this faking and being real inside and not letting our families know!” Oh God, had she blurted that out?
She felt Bobbyjay’s hand go still on her head bandage.
What would he say? Darn right, it sucks pretending I want to marry you. She clung to him even tighter, hiding her face in his tee-shirt. Or maybe he would say, You’re a great kisser and you give good head, but I’m too young to be tied down. Or, even worse, I love you and I want to keep you, but I just don’t have the nerve to deal with my father.
Because that was the real problem. Bobby Senior wouldn’t risk his family’s employment to annoy her grandfather, but she didn’t give a nickel for Bobby Junior having any sense.
Assuming Bobbyjay really wanted her.
&n
bsp; She stopped sobbing and held still, sniffling very quietly against his chest.
He got bigger somehow. As if he were breathing deep.
“Is it real inside, Daze?” he said.
She gulped. “Yeah.”
He pulled in more air and said, “Okay then.”
She was irritated into looking up. “Okay what?” His big hand cupped her face. It felt so good, her knees weakened on the rush. “Okay, what?” she whispered again.
“It’s worth trying.”
Daisy stamped her foot. “What is?”
He kissed her. “You. Me. Us. I want you to keep the ring.”
A wild grin stretched across her face. “You want to get married?”
“How come I have to do all the asking?” he complained.
She laughed, giddy. “I like that! I asked you first!”
“At gunpoint.”
“I saved your life, you goof!”
“Yeah.” His teasing look softened. “You did.” He kissed the finger that wore his ring. “We got a lot to do, babe, if this is gonna happen. You work on your grandfather. And your cousin Tony if you can. It ain’t just my Dad,” he added, and she felt huge relief that he saw the problem. “Rob the Snob don’t give a shit, and Raybob always goes along with him. So I make it five of them—the grandfathers, my Dad, my cousin Bobbert, and your cousin Tony. It’s all or nothing, Daze,” he said, his brown eyes serious.
“I can deal with Tony.” She felt lighter than air. “It’s worth trying.”
He dove into her mouth again. “I got an idea,” he said, when they came up for air.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Twenty-four hours later, Bobbyjay’s cell rang while he was walking across the river from Herm’s to the Opera House.
“That sarcastic sonofabitch really blew it this time, din’t he?” Weasel Rooney’s voice said. “On his own stationery and everything! Did you get his letter? ‘Anybody who votes for that stupid motherfucker Bobby Morton Sr is asking for the worst three years of their life. Havunt we had enough after 21 years of this shit.’ Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got a copy. Look, Weasel, I’m at work now, can I call you later?”
Bobbyjay hung up. Seconds later his cell rang again. “Somebody’s gonna die for this,” a man growled.
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