Oddly enough, the Rivoli was still standing after all of these years, having been rescued from the wrecker’s ball by a merry-go-round of community theater, big time bingo, and churchless African-American congregations. A consortium of movie lovers had even restored it and subdivided it, putting one screen in the balcony and two downstairs.
Now it was empty again and for rent, used occasionally by private parties in need of a really big meeting hall, organizations such as the Truckers’ Local 105, which serviced the New York Container Terminal. Today, the Truckers’ were holding a special meeting of the entire membership to hear an address by Anthony Zolli, the Union’s national president.
At the moment, he was standing on the stage, next to a gigantic wooden podium, behind red velvet curtains, peering at the audience through one of the several holes in the heavy fabric, meanwhile buttoning the jacket of his light brown polyester suit in a vain attempt to look slim and fit.
“Zat all of dem?” Zolli asked the local leader, Timothy Regan.
Regan nodded. “Most all,” he said, which was about as verbal as he got. He was a big, powerful, tow-headed guy, seventeen years on the job and he loved Zolli like a brother.
“Should we give dem anudda five minutes?” Zolli asked.
“’K,” Regan said.
Another dozen or so Truckers’ drifted into the theater, which Zolli decided was enough. “Okay,” he said, “Have dem pull da curtains and you interduce me.”
Regan signaled a man in the wings, who began tugging at the ropes, hand over hand, and the curtains parted, squealing on seldom-lubricated rods high above the stage. Regan stepped up to the podium to scattered applause.
He fumbled with the mike, which whistled and screeched, then smiled uncomfortably. “Genneman, genneman,” he said, in a rare display of loquacity, “Genneman. And ladies too, I see a few. Dis is a great occasion fer Local 105. We have a very special guest t’day, with very special news fer all of you—for every patriotic Ammurican. And widout furder ado, I wanna interduce our great natinal leader, our President and my friend, Anthony Zolli.”
Zolli stepped up to the podium, head held high, in hopes of minimizing his jowls, looking out at the audience, “da mugs, da lugs and da slugs,” as he liked to call them, but not when they were within earshot. They were applauding enthusiastically, the men in jeans, Tshirts and work boots, with salt-and-pepper beards, pony tails and tattooed biceps, with big bellies, bad teeth and haggard faces.
“Ladies and gennemen, friends…fellow teamsters,” Zolli began, his loud voice echoing throughout the theater and causing a bit of feedback from the microphone. He took half a step back and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I can’t tell ya how pleased I am to be visitin’ da best damn Truckers’’ local in da whole damn country.”
The theater erupted in applause and shouts of “Damn right!” and “You said it!”
Zolli grinned and let the applause die out on its own. “Now I know,” he continued, “dat some boys in Los Angeles may tink different, but we all know da troot. Not only is dis da best local, it is da most important, because da New York Container Terminal is da biggest, most important container port in da whole country.”
Again, shouting and applause, this time prolonged.
Zolli grinned through it all and finally held up a hand for silence. “And dat, fellow Truckers’ , is why da Natinal Leadership has chosen youse guys to show everybody just how strong we are.”
The applause started again, but this time, Zolli stopped it quickly. “No, no,” he said, “doan be modest. Dats da troot and dats all dere is to it.”
He paused, expecting applause, and when there was none, he continued. “Now lemme give youse a liddle backgroun’. You all know dat right now, even as I am speakin’ to youse, our new Black President is chewing the fat with da President of da Confed’rate States of Ammurica.”
He paused again, and this time, he was rewarded with an outburst of booing.
“Dat’s right,” he went on. “It’s a fraud and a travesty and it oughta be illegal, but dere talkin’ anyway, and da news I get from our friends in da White House is dat dere making progress.”
More boos and cries of “No! “No!”
“I’m glad to see dat you’ve been reading da union bulletins and listenin’ to my speeches. Any agreement between Callaway and Bourque would be turrbull for us. A catastrophe, in fact. Youse all know about da millions of unemployed Blacks in da Confederacy who are hungry for jobs, our jobs. Cheap labor, non-union labor, just itchin’ to get dere hands on our money.”
They booed again, on cue.
“Well, I’m here t’ tell you dat it’s not gonna happen. Better dan dat, youse guys are gonna help me stop all dat.”
He looked around, expecting more applause, but scattered clapping and confused looks was all he got.
“Lemme ‘splain,” Zolli said. “Your natinal leadership has come up wid a plan we tink is gonna shut down that Washington circus wunst and fer all. We’re gonna put on a series of short strikes—jus’ one month long—at key places all over da country. Where it’ll cause da most pain and disruption. And as soon as one stops, anudder one’ll start, on da other side of da country.”
He looked out at the expectant faces, the mugs, lugs and slugs, his kind of people.
“Now, can anybody guess why I’m here?”
This time there was a sprinkling of laughter.
“Well, some of ya get it,” Zolli said. “But not alla ya. Here’s the ting. Da Natinal Leadership has chosen Local 107 to go first. We want youse to shut down the container port, tight as a drum. Not one damn container in or out fer a month, no madder how much screamin’ and yellin’ dey do, even if da damn President has a stroke.”
No one applauded or laughed this time.
Zolli held up a hand. “Now I know what a strike will mean to all of youse guys—you’re worried about money and who wouldn’t be? But dis time you got nuttin’ to worry about. Natinal’s gonna cover every dime you lose…”
“What about overtime?” Someone yelled.
“Including overtime,” Zolli said. “Youse show us trootful time sheets and you’ll get your money, every penny. And it’s gonna be the same for all da other strikes. Our war chest is gonna cover it. Whadda ya tink about dat?”
The Truckers’ were silent for a moment, trying to absorb and understand. Then slowly, much too slowly for Anthony Zolli’s taste, they began to cheer and applaud. It was like rolling thunder, starting at some distance, but moving into the immediate area and setting the entire theater on vibrate.
“Now that,” said Anthony Zolli when the tumult had subsided a bit, “that is what I call union solidarity!”
*
“This had better be good, Hector,” said El Presidente, sitting in the passenger seat and gazing out of the window of his forest green, custom-made, fully-armored 12-cylinder Mercedes as they approached Mexico City International Airport.
“Miguel, I guarantee that you will be pleased—and entertained.” Herrera took a left turn, onto a narrow back road. “Besides, it’s a nice day. Good to get out of that office of yours.”
“Entertained, eh?” Garcia said. “As entertained as I was with the tanker sinking?”
“Even more, I think.”
Garcia turned his single eye on his old friend. “You did a splendid job with that, Hector, I must admit. The distress call was a work of genius.”
“Do you know how I did it?”
Garcia shrugged. “Well, I assume…”
“It’s the product of the Baja Movie Studio. The voice is Javier Flores…”
“No! I know his voice—everybody in Mexico knows his voice. I’ve seen all his movies.”
“Yes, well we processed it. Dropped it an octave. We needed someone truly convincing, someone who could really sell the fear and terror. As you know, Flores is a master.” Herrera said.
“And the screaming of the crew, and the explosions?”
“Sound effects.”
El Presidente nodded sagely. “However you did it, it was a very professional job, Hector. I congratulate you.” He inserted a thumbnail between his two front teeth and sawed away with it, evidently trying to dislodge a bit of breakfast bacon.
“You deserve congratulations too, Miguel,” Herrera said. “Your speech was wonderful—the outrage, the sadness, totally believable.”
Garcia grinned. “I once played Herod at a Christmas pageant in sixth grade.”
“Typecasting,” Hector said, impishly.
That earned the spy chief a cautionary glance from Garcia’s single eye. “Careful.”
Herrera steered the big Mercedes through the airport’s well-guarded rear gate and sped toward a far corner, which was blocked from view by a motley collection of panel trucks, vans, 18-wheelers, an armored munitions vehicle and a pair of refrigerated transports. As the Mercedes approached, one of the vans moved aside and Hector guided the Mercedes through the opening.
Beyond the trucks, at the end of a runway, sat a Mexican Airlines Focke-Wulf AD740, a large, four-engine jet passenger plane, its shabbiness fairly well-disguised by a new paint job. At the advanced age of 13 years, it was the oldest plane in the inventory. Its tires were bald, its engines—when lit—spewed black smoke, and sheet aluminum patches covered several narrow cracks in its fuselage.
The Mercedes pulled up beside the airplane and stopped. Herrera got out and quick-stepped around to open the passenger door. He reached in a hand and pulled, helping El Presidente with his never-ending struggle against gravity.
El Presidente adjusted his uniform, regained his dignity and took a few steps toward the Focke-Wulf. “This, I trust, is the illfated aircraft?”
“Yes it is. Looks good, doesn’t it?”
Garcia nodded. “Almost too good. How much is this going to cost me?”
“Almost nothing—certainly less than the rust bucket we sent to the bottom of the Gulf. The Civil Aviation Authority condemned it last month. It’s been fully amortized.”
“You’re sure it will fly?”
“Oh yes. This time anyhow. We’ve tested it.”
“Did you have to make any repairs?” El Presidente asked.
“Nothing major. But of course, we had to install the latest auto-pilot.”
Garcia frowned. “You had to do that? How much was it?”
“Yeah, we had to put in the latest model,” Hererra said. “Otherwise, the pilot would have had to stay with the aircraft until it exploded..”
“No one volunteered?” El Presidente asked, with an ironic smile.
Herrera laughed.
“If I’d known you needed a pilot for this job, Hector, I’m sure I could have condemned one for you.”
Herrera considered the idea. “Well, Miguel, pilots are even more expensive than computers. You know, all that training.”
“I suppose so.” Garcia walked up to the plane, tapped on one of the aluminum patches and scratched at the paint with a fingernail. “I’m worried about the flotsam and jetsam. It’s got to be convincing. They’re sure to investigate.”
“The tanker sinking was convincing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but…
“Come with me,” Herrera said, leading Garcia toward one of the vans. He swung open one of the rear doors and pointed inside.
“My God,” Garcia said, awed, “where did you get all that luggage? You must have cleaned out every discount store in the country.”
“Didn’t cost us a dime,” Herrera said, beaming. “This is three years worth of lost luggage from all of our major airports. Already stuffed with clothing and cosmetics and everything else.”
“Impressive. But perhaps not impressive enough.”
“Not enough?” Herrera said, echoing his Boss and grinning. “You think we’re missing something really important, something that will make it believable?”
“People, Hector,” Garcia said, annoyed. “We’re missing people.”
Herrera closed the door of the luggage truck and walked toward another vehicle. “Maybe not,” he said. He opened the rear door of the other truck, a refrigerated van, and gestured for Garcia to take a look.
Garcia did just that. His mouth fell open and he made a futile effort to say something. Finally, a single word popped out: “Where…”
“All of the unclaimed bodies from four different morgues, Presidente,” Herrera said. “We’ll put some in flight uniforms, the rest in clothes we got from Goodwill, about 120 passengers in all. We’ll throw in some paperbacks and MP3 players too. What do you think? Sound believable?”
“I’m impressed,” Garcia allowed. “But what’s that up front—that cage?”
“Coupla dogs. Dead dogs.”
“Hector, you have a ghoulish imagination. It’s one of your best traits.”
Herrera permitted himself a smile.
Garcia pointed to the armored munitions truck. “Bomb in there?”
“Yes. It has an altitude fuse. It will explode when the plane reaches 30,000 feet.”
“Which will be where?”
“The way we’re setting the auto pilot, it should be right between Mexico City and Havana. Over the water, of course.”
They walked back toward the Mercedes. “Well, you were right, Hector. This is going to be better than the tanker, more spectacular, more horrifying. And an even better excuse for me to teach Mr. Buddy Bourque the lesson of his life. Remind me to give you a raise.”
“Your pleasure is all the raise I need,” Herrera said.
Garcia nodded. “I’ll drive this time.” They got into the car and El Presidente, feeling very satisfied with himself, drove out the same gate by which they’d entered. “Got everything set up for the terrorist or the spy or whatever you’re calling him?”
“We’ve found the perfect mark,” Herrera said. “CSA émigré living in Cuernavaca.”
“Giving him a fake background, I assume?”
“Hardly have to,” Herrera said. “He’s one of Bourque’s distant relatives and a former member of the CSA Special Forces. Been here about three years. We’re going to make him look like a sleeper, let him run, shoot him down before he can talk.”
“The perfect patsy,” Garcia said, musing. “Like Heaven sent him.”
“And I found him.”
*
They drove back to the Capital building and left the Mercedes at the front door, for the servants to deal with. A beetle-browed young officer in an immaculate uniform was waiting for them at the door. He approached El Presidente.
“Yes?”
“We have news concerning President Bourque. He’s going to be addressing his nation on television in about 35 minutes.”
“We will be able to receive the broadcast?”
“Yes sir. The video room is prepared for you.”
Garcia glanced at Herrera. “Would you like to join me for the show?”
“Can we have lunch delivered?”
El Presidente gestured toward the young officer, who needed no further instruction.
Herrera and Garcia entered the Presidential elevator. “So, Hector, what would you say if you were Bourque?” El Presidente asked.
El Presidente’s Intelligence Director thought a moment, as the elevator rose. “He’s no dummy. He’s going to try to retake the moral high ground. He’ll offer the Confederacy’s sincerest sympathies to the bereaved families and say the CSA will be happy to cooperate in any investigation of this tragic accident.”
“Hah! Yes, accident.” Garcia laughed. “Good, good.”
“And then he’ll say that Mexico is mistaken about the cause of the tanker sinking—that the CSA had nothing to do with it, and therefore can’t be expected to pay restitution or shoulder the blame.”
“He might get angry about our accusations…”
“I’m sure he’ll be enraged. But I’ll bet he doesn’t show it.”
The elevator door opened at the top floor and the two men got out. “I hope you’re right,” Garcia said. “Because I should be th
e angry one. After all, his torpedo boats sank our tanker.”
“Yes. And that was a heinous crime. Completely reprehensible.”
“And I’m going to call him on it,” Garcia said. He lowered his voice to a hearty bass growl, rehearsing. “I demand restitution for the ship and especially for its crew. I also demand extradition of the torpedo boat’s captain and crew, so they can face Mexican justice. And if President Bourque does not respond quickly and completely, I promise the dead and their grieving families I will extract justice from the Confederacy. We will not let this insult to our national honor go without retaliation.”
Herrera nodded in approval. “Don’t change a word. And the tone is perfect.”
“So then he denies everything again, right?”
“Right. And that’s when the plane explodes.”
*
LeRoy Pickett stood at a bedroom window of the Blair House, the classic mansion across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House that served as the President’s guest house.
“What are you looking at?” President Bourque wondered.
“Marchers outside of the White House. There are thousands of them.”
“Marchers?”
“It’s a demonstration,” Pickett explained. “Listen, they’re chanting.”
Bourque strolled over to the window to see for himself. “What are they saying? Can you make it out?”
“Not quite,” Pickett said. “But I’m sure the TV news is covering it.” He found a television set hidden in a wooden cabinet and hit the on button. Up came a view of the wrought iron fence in front of the White House, and the motley crew of demonstrators, most of them older white men and their dowdy wives. Platoons of policemen were watching them with wary eyes.
In front of the mob stood a dark-haired fellow, clean-cut, in his early 30s —the on-location reporter, apparently—holding a microphone with an INN logo. “…been here for about an hour now, and the number of protestors seems to be growing.” he was saying.
A small assortment of protestors, noticing the camera, began converging on it and chanting in ragged rhythm. “Bourque go home!” and “Just say NO to Bourque!,” and they were soon joined by an even larger group shouting “Our Country First!” and waving homemade signs with the same message.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 27