“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.”
Chappelear nodded. “Then y’all aren’t as big as the American White Confederate Partisans are y’all?”
All three of them laughed. “Not yet,” Louie said. “They’re national, we’re local.”
“They have hundreds of members, probably thousands,” Chappelear went on.
“Pwob’ly,” Waymond admitted.
“So it wouldn’t be unreasonable for the Partisans to be dealing with large amounts of money, would it?” said Mr. Chappelear. “Say half a million dollars?”
“No it wouldn’t,” Louie said, catching his drift. “But we’re not dem and dis check is made out to us.”
“So I see,” Chappelear said dubiously. “Of course, that could be a clerical error. This check could be meant for the Partisans, not the Patriots.”
“Well, we-all have this here ConFedEx envelope with our address,” Louie said, handing the envelope to Mr. Chappelear. “That’s how da check got to us.”
The branch manager looked at the address. “73414 ½ Peachpit Road. That your place?”
“World headquarters of da Association of White Confederate Patriots,” Earl said proudly.
“Just where’s it at?”
“’Bove Goggins Tavwen.” Waymond said.
Chappelear looked at the check, then at the envelope. “I doan know,” he said.
“Dere’s da letter too,” Louie said. “It came with da check.” He took back the envelope, pulled out the Frank Thomas note and handed it to the branch manager, who read it carefully.
“Says Patriots,” Earl prompted. “Not Partisans.”
Chappelear nodded. “Who’s this Frank Thomas?”
Louie and Earl looked at each other in sudden perplexity.
“He’s a fwend of my mom’s,” Waymond said, the picture of innocence. “Wery nice fellow. Wery wich.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” said Chappelear. “So what do y’all plan to do with this here check?”
“Cash it,” Louie said. “If that’s not too much of a botherment.”
“Deposit it,” said Waymond.
That caught Chappelear by surprise. “Deposit it?” he asked. “Y’all have an account here?”
“Yes, we suwely do,” Waymond said.
“In the name of your organization?”
“Dat’s wight.”
Chappelear thought a moment. “Paige, would you bring me the signature cards for the account?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. She was still smiling.
Mz. Pendleton was back in no time with three 5 x 7 signature cards. Chappelear put them on his desk, face down. He pulled out a blank sheet of paper. “Gentlemen,” he said, “could all three of y’all write your signatures on this here piece of paper?”
They did, and Chappelear studied the signatures, comparing them to those on the signature cards. Then he had Paige Pendleton check them out. “What do you think, Paige?”
“They look genuine to me, sir.”
“I agree,” he said with a sigh. He regarded the Patriots. “Okay, sign the check—all three of y’all, with your club titles and I’ll credit it to y’alls account.”
Louie caught Earl’s eye, confused. “What’d he say?”
“He said sign it and da money’s ourn,” Earl said.
“Yeah?” Louie said. Earl kicked his shoe before he could say any more.
“I’d wait a week for it to clear before y’all make any withdrawals,” Chappelear said.
“But it’s cewtified,” Waymond objected.
Chappelear looked at the check again. “So it is. But we don’t have anything like that much cash on hand. I can give y’all---he made some mental calculations—“$10,000 now and y’all can write checks on the rest, at y’alls convenience.”
The Patriots looked at each other and nodded. “Dat would be gracious plenty.” Louie said, gulping.
Chappelear initialed the check and passed it to Paige Pendleton. “Process this,” he instructed. “Please.”
Mz. Pendleton led the Patriots back to the counter and did what tellers do. Then she made a brief trip to the safe, returning with a fist-full of paper money. “Who gets this?” she asked, counting it out and slipping it into an envelope. Three hands went up.
“Ah’m da treasuwoo,” Waymond said. “Ah need it for bills ‘n ‘spenses.”
“And ah’m the President,” Louie said, holding out a hand.
“We’ll go back to headquarters n’ have an ‘xecutive meeting about it,” Earl said. He took the package.
“Dat’s okay by me,” Waymond said.
“Likewise,” said Louie.
They hopped back into the red Packard and headed back to headquarters.
“You was really eye-eating dat Paige chick,” Earl said to Louie.
“Ah dint see you looking in the udder direction,” Louie replied.
“So what awe we goin’ t’do wid the money?” Waymond said. “Dat’s half a million dollahs, y’know.”
“Well, dere’s a lot we-all could do wid it,” said Louie. “We could buy all kinds of ads on da newspapers and TV.”
“Yeah,” Earl agreed, “we could do dat, aw’right.”
“We could went sound twucks an’ build a big stage in da park, have a weally big pwotest wally,” Waymond said. “Get on TV. Get famous.”
“Yeah,” Louie said, “we might could do dat, dats fer dam sure.” He chuckled.
Earl turned to look at Waymond, who was sitting in the back seat. “kin ya tink of anyting else we could do wid the money, Waymond?”
“Come on, Way,” Louie said. “Doan ya got no ‘magination?”
They were all silent for a moment.
“You tinkin’ we divvy it up among da membehs?” Waymond asked.
Earl and Louie exchanged glances. “Not all of ‘em,” Earl said.
“Ifn we split it three ways,” said Louie, “dats almost two hunnert thousan’ each.”
“A hunnert n’ sixty-six thousan’, six hunnert and sixty-six dollahs and sixty-six cents.” Waymond calculated
“Each?” Louie asked.
“Ifn we split it twee ways,” Waymond said. “But we got fifteen memboos.”
Louie nodded. “Well, what would we get if we split it fifteen ways?”
“Tooty-twee thousan’, tooty-twee dollahs and tooty-twee cents,” Waymond said. “Not countin’ whats alweady in da account.”
“Y’know,” Louis said, “wid a hunnert and sixty-six thousan’, I’d never have t’ work again. All my whole life.”
“You doan work now,” Earl said. “You livin’ offn your mum.”
Waymond seemed troubled. “What about da west of da memboos?” he asked.
“Dey doan know,” Earl pointed out.
“And dey doan need to,” Louie added. “Do dey?”
“Half a million dollars, Way,” Earl reminded his friend. “Hunnert n’ sixty-thousan’ apiece. Tink of what you could do with dat.”
“No more eatin’ lean,” Waymond said.
“’Zactly,” Louie said.
Chapter Fourteen
The three black Packards pulled away from Arcadia just after dawn. The first and third cars were stuffed with security men in three-button suits. Car two held the precious cargo: President Buddy Bourque, his daughter Delphine, Vice President Kooter Barnes and the Indispensible Negro, LeRoy Pickett. Bourque was wearing his favorite Panama hat.
“This ain’t enough people,” Barnes said.
Bourque’s eyebrows rose. “Pardon?”
“We oughta be comin’ with a whole passel of people,” Barnes said. “You know, military people and experts, and like that.”
Bourque nodded thoughtfully. “What for?” He pulled out a pack of Tums, extracted one and popped it into his mouth.
Barnes bent his head toward Bourque, squinting. “What was that? Couldn’t quite make it out.”
“I said, ‘what for?” Bourque repeated more loudly, for the benefit of his increasingly deaf Vice President “Why do we need more people?”
“Well, you know, to impress ‘em, Match up with their experts and their military folks. So we’d be equals.”
“Equals, eh?” Bourque said, munching on the Tum. “I wish.”
“The two sides agreed this meeting would just be between the principals,” Pickett explained, practically yelling. “The decision makers.”
Barnes thought about that. “So Delphine is one of our decision makers?”
“Bet your ass,” Bourque said. “She decides what I can eat and what I can’t.”
Pickett spoke up again, keeping the volume up. “She might benefit from the exposure, Mr. Vice President. Besides, nothing eases negotiations like…”
“A pretty girl,” Bourque said, grinning. “Now you cain’t argue with that, Kooter.”
“Hmm. Hadn’t considered that angle,” the Vice President admitted. “Still, it’s a pretty measly delegation.”
“The way I see it,” Bourque said, bending toward Barnes so he could be heard, “When the real horse trading starts, it’s mostly gonna be me and Callaway. The smaller we keep it, the fewer people we gotta send to the men’s room.”
“Yeah, but at least we should bring clerical staff,” Barnes said, persisting. “Who’s going to keep track of who says what? It’s pretty easy to get beflustered especially during suspicious times. Someone might cloud up and rain on someone else.”
“That’s why I’m bringing Pickett here. Fastest note-taker I know of. Besides, they got expensive help at the White House. Let Callaway foot the bill for the deliverables and the documents or whatever. I’m thinking he’s not the type to put his thumb on the scale.” Bourque glanced at Pickett.
“No sir,” he said, grinning. “So far as I can tell, he’s the straightest arrow in the quiver.”
Barnes cleared his throat as if he had something more to say.
“Kooter?” Bourque prompted.
“Jes’ a question for Delphine, if that’s okay.”
“Ask away,” Delphine said.
“Do you, ah, ‘spect to do any singing up North, love?”
Everyone laughed.
“Not this trip, Kooter,” Delphine said, beaming. “Maybe another time.”
‘You’d wow ‘em.”
“Thank you.”
The trip to the Baton Rouge Airport took less than an hour. Bourque spent the time trying to read the NAU briefing book Pickett had put together. Kooter leaned against the back of the seat and nodded off, snoring loudly enough to inspire smiles and furtive glances between Pickett and Delphine. An airport guard waved the Packards through a private gate and the caravan drove out onto the tarmac.
President Bourque’s private plane—the Dixie One—sat in an otherwise empty hanger in a restricted corner of the Baton Rouge Airport, still dripping from a thorough washing. It was a Junkers 452, a two-engined passenger jet, leased from the manufacturer, credit guaranteed by the German government.
The plane had some years on it, having hauled thousands of pale German vacationers from Hamburg and Frankfurt to the Côte d'Azur and back again, tanned. But it had been refitted. The customary sardine-can seating arrangement had given way to a few rows of first-class recliners and half a dozen leather lounge chairs, along with tables, a wet bar and a handsome new geometric rug.
The Packard convoy pulled up to the plane, and its high-ranking passengers stepped onto the pavement, while the security detail opened the car trunks and started loading the luggage.
At that moment, a single yellow cab appeared at the far end of the runway, racing toward the President’s plane at flank speed. The security men shoved their flabbergasted charges back into the Packards, assumed a defensive perimeter, unholstered their automatic pistols and took aim at the taxi hurtling toward them.
The taxi driver, unaccustomed to this kind of intimidation, slammed on the brakes and came to a dead stop about 100 feet from the Packards. Then, panicked, he threw the vehicle into reverse. But before the cab could get up any speed, a rear door opened and a short, balding man got out, immediately tripped and nearly did a face-plant on the asphalt.
He stumbled to his feet. “Wait!” he called toward the airplane, sounding desperate. “Wait for me!”
Buddy Bourque, who was watching all this with morbid fascination, suddenly realized who the uninvited man was. “Don’t shoot him,” he bellowed. “I know that man. That’s that Pinckney feller. Gerard Pinckney. Man ain’t worth a milk bucket under a bull, but he ain’t likely to go hurtin’ anybody.”
The security team lowered its weapons, disappointed.
“Can I get my suitcase?” Pinckney asked. “Please?”
Two of the security men exchanged glances, and one of them gave Pinckney a reluctant nod. The flustered biographer made his way back to the cab, whose driver—fortunately—had decided to stay and watch the show. Pinckney wrestled a grey Samsonite two-suiter out of the taxi’s trunk and half-dragged the thing back to the plane.
“What in pluperfect hell are you doing here?” Kooter Barnes demanded. “This ain’t your party.”
“I’m the biographer,” Pinckney protested. “And this is an historic event in President Bourque’s life. No way I could miss it.”
“So why are you late?” Barnes shot back.
“He was supposed to wake me up.” Pinckney pointed an accusing finger at Pickett. “But I guess he forgot.”
“Ah’m so sorry, Mr. Pinckney,” Pickett said. “So much goin’ on, plum slipped my mind.”
Delphine giggled.
“Well, I’m glad you woke yourself up, Pinckney,” Bourque said. “Wouldn’t have wanted you to miss the Big Meet-up. Pick yourself up and get on board.”
“One more guy to send to the men’s room,” Barnes said under his breath.
“What’s that?” Pinckney asked, sensing insult.
“I said I have to go to the men’s room.”
Pickett caught Bourque’s eye. The President smiled and shrugged.
The flight to Andrews Air Force base took less than three hours. Kooter resumed his nap a few moments after the plane was airborne. Delphine sat in one of the first class rows, working on song lyrics. Pinckney settled down in Delphine’s row, a few seats away, and indulged himself in grandiose flirting fantasies.
Bourque and Pickett sat in the back of the plane, in the lounge chairs, Bourque at a window seat, his Panama hat on the side beside him, thumbing through the briefing book, struggling to overcome a lifelong aversion to printed matter.
He gave up and turned to Pickett. “I see you’ve started the agenda with environmental issues. They gonna like that?”
Pickett shrugged. “Well, Wang said, as long as you’re the ones who wanted the meeting, you’re the ones who should set the agenda. Anyhow, I thought it would be good to start small.”
“Maybe that makes sense,” Bourque agreed. Then he had another thought. “So what should I expect at the airport? A red carpet and kisses on both cheeks?
“Nice words, a big smile, a firm handshake, then into the helicopter and over to the White House lawn.”
“What about Callaway?”
“You won’t see him until you’re inside the White House. But Wang will probably meet the chopper. Maybe Veronica at Andrews.”
“The State Department lady?”
“Well, lady might be stretching it a little, but yes.”
“Do I look all right?”
“The string tie is a nice touch.”
Bourque went back to his Tums.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little puny, but I’ll perk up soon as I put on the feedbag. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been slit.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Pickett said. “They’ll put on a fine spread. Just don’t expect gumbo and grits.”
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 24