ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  And there stood Herrera, unshaven and hollow-eyed, much thinner, every last shred of elegance gone. His mouth dropped open at the sight El Presidente. “Miguel?” he asked weakly, dumbfounded. “You have come at last?”

  “I have come,” said Garcia, with a broad smile. He reached out, took Herrera’s hand and shook it warmly.

  “I thought you had forgotten me,” said Herrera, desperately asking himself if he were being set free.”

  “I could never forget my old friend Hector.” Garcia said. “I hope you have been well.”

  Herrera straightened up as much as he could. “As well as can be expected,” he said.

  “You know I wouldn’t have allowed this to happen if there had been any choice,” Garcia said.

  “I understand that,” Herrera said. He assumed an air of compliance, hoping he would get credit for it, still looking for a clue as to why Garcia was here.

  “The food is satisfactory?” Garcia inquired.

  Herrera could think of no safe answer. He settled for “It is what it is.”

  “Well, not tonight,” Garcia said, presenting his paper bag. “Tonight you will have a treat—one of your favorite delicacies, Chinese take out.” He looked back toward the guard. “Bring us a table,” he said, “and another chair.”

  Herrera managed a grateful smile, but he knew this was not a good sign. You don’t bring a nice meal to a prisoner you’re about to set free.

  The guard quickly produced a rickety card table and an ancient card table chair, and set them up in Herrera’s cell. Herrera sat on his bunk. Garcia took the card table chair and began to empty out the paper bag, covering the table with little white cardboard boxes with wire handles, packets of soy sauce, plastic spoons and paper plates.

  “Let’s see,” Garcia said, opening the boxes. “General Tso’s chicken, sweet and sour pork, beef with snow peas, white rice, spring rolls, fried rice—don’t be bashful, Hector, take what you want. There’s some beer in the bag too. Help yourself.”

  Herrera shrugged, mystified. He wasn’t going home today, that was clear enough. So what was this all about. Well, he told himself, I will find out soon enough. He spooned a variety of Chinese dishes onto his plate, almost dizzy with the smell, and started eating.

  “Good?” Garcia inquired, pausing between bites.

  “China Song?”

  “Only the best for my friend Hector,” Garcia confirmed.

  “So,” Herrera said, feeling a bit more confident, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

  Garcia displayed a lopsided grin. “Just bringing dinner to a friend.”

  “And I am very grateful,” Herrera said, taking a bite of the sweet and sour pork. “On the other hand, I have this niggling suspicion that you may want something from me.”

  “Hector,” Garcia protested in mock innocence. “I am hurt. What would make you say such a thing about an old friend?”

  “Knowing him so well,” Herrera said, deciding that caution wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  This time, Garcia laughed. “Have some of that General Tso’s chicken, Hector. It is delicious. Other matters can come later.”

  Herrera shrugged. They both resumed eating, and in 15 minutes, nothing remained of the Chinese feast but a few random kernels of fried rice.

  “Shall we talk now about those other matters?” Herrera said. He was starting to feel a little more human.

  Garcia picked at his teeth with a fingernail, looked at the debris it had removed and flicked it away. “You got a phone call,” he said.

  “A phone call?”

  “Yes, at your office.”

  “My former office.”

  “Yes. It was from Pinckney,” Garcia said.

  “Ah.” Herrera finally understood. “What did he say?”

  “He left an odd message.”

  It was Herrera’s turn to smile. “You were unable to decipher it?”

  “Oh, I have a pretty good idea,” Garcia lied, “But I would like you to confirm my suspicion.”

  “Of course. What do you suspect?”

  Outmaneuvered, Garcia shot his old friend a dirty look. “Just tell me what this means: F-99. That was the message, just F-99. What does it mean?”

  “It means—wait a minute. If I tell you what it means…”

  “Hector, are you bargaining with me?”

  “No, Presidente, of course not. I would never do such a thing. But I was hoping, one favor in exchange for another, between friends?”

  “What favor did you have in mind?”

  Herrera look at his old friend and former Boss and performed a two-shoulder shrug, with open hands. “Whatever you may be inclined to grant,” he said.

  Garcia groaned. He hated being put in this position. “An upstairs cell?”

  Herrera smiled slightly.

  “The same food the guards eat,” Garcia offered.

  Herrera continued to look at Garcia expectantly.

  “Monthly conjugal visits,” Garcia said.

  “Weekly conjugal visits?”

  “Yes, okay,” said El Presidente impatiently.

  “And showers,” said Herrera.

  Garcia glared at his former Intelligence Director. “Yes, yes. And showers. Now what does it mean, Hector?”

  “It’s a very simple code, between me and Pinckney. C means continued. S means successful …”

  “Yes, yes, and F?”

  “F means failing. There are other letters as well…”

  “And 99?” Garcia demanded. “What does 99 mean?”

  “That’s a measure of how confident he is. F99 means he is practically certain that the meetings between Bourque and Callaway have failed.”

  “Failed,” Garcia repeated. It hadn’t sunk in yet.

  “Failed, yes. As in ‘didn’t succeed,’ as in ‘fell apart,’ as in ‘collapsed’.”

  A gloriously malignant grin appeared on Garcia’s face. “I knew it,” he said. “I predicted it. Didn’t I predict it?”

  “You certainly did, Presidente. You had it right.”

  “So Bourque gets no help from the NAU. He’s on his own.”

  “And he’s dying,” Herrera reminded him.

  Garcia considered that. “Yes. Which means we must be ready. Which means we must move quickly.”

  “I agree,” Herrera said.

  “I value your opinion,” Garcia said.

  “I’m glad I can be of use, even here.”

  Garcia stood. “Do you have the whole code between yourself and Pinckney?”

  “In here,” Herrera said, pointing to his head and smiling.

  “Yes,” Garcia said. “I understand. Well, perhaps Pinckney will send another message.”

  “If so,” Herrera said, “bring Italian next time.”

  *

  Helmut Metzger stood at one of the enormous windows in the Eagles Aerie, gazing out at the city’s lights, twinkling in the dusk. This was his domain, but not just this. All of America. And Germany. And France. And England. The people, the politicians, the generals, all of them dancing to his tune and paying for the privilege.

  Some people, he reflected, would have wanted the glory, the Crown, the Oval Office, the Royal Scepter. But he preferred being talked about in hushed, angry tones, by people who barely realized how helpless they were. He enjoyed pulling the strings.

  Metzger walked back to his glass-topped desk, sat down and picked up his little voice recorder. It was time to give Robert D. Wade his weekly marching orders, to instruct him how to use the INN radio and television stations, newspapers and magazines, web sites and blogs, the vast media network whose tentacles reached into every home and business in America, to give Metzger an even tighter grip on America’s hearts and minds.

  He studied the little device in his hand, trying to figure out which of the nearly microscopic buttons made it start recording. His first two attempts failed, his gnarled forefinger hitting ‘play,’ the first time out, and rewind the second time. He stifled an imp
ulse to stomp on the thing, but controlled himself and hit another button.

  “Testen eins, zwei, drei,” he said, “testen eins, zwei, drei.” Then, to his surprise, he successfully rewound the recording and played it. “Hello, Robert,” he said, “I want to give you your instructions for the coming week.

  “I am getting more and more annoyed with the way the New York Tribune is soft-pedaling Sen. Martin’s involvement with those male pages. Tell Wesley I want this stuff on the front page, with photographs of the boys, if possible. Pay if you have to. I believe I mentioned this last week. I hope I do not have to mention it again.”

  Metzger hit the pause button, reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit up. He took a deep drag, then started the recorder again.

  “And while I’m taking about the Tribune, tell the page six editor he hasn’t been printing enough blind gossip items. I want at least three in every issue--bankruptcy, divorce, terminal illnesses, embezzlement, homosexuality, anything will do. And he can match the sins with anonymous sports figures, politicians, Hollywood stars—tell him to use his imagination, if he has one. Scare the crap out of anyone who thinks we’re writing about him and get everyone whispering about everyone else. I want buzz, Wade, and readership. The Tribune has been lagging.”

  Metzger paused the recorder again, took another drag, thought for a moment, then resumed.

  “Let’s talk about the websites. we both know they are not producing the income I expected. We need more controversy, more outrage—and for God’s sake, tell our editors to stop apologizing if they’re caught in a factual error. Remind them that we’re in business to make money, not to prove we’re good journalists. we want to be talked about. we want page views. If our writers can’t get them, get new writers.”

  Metzger’s cell phone suddenly produced a musical excerpt from ‘Ride of the Valkyries.’ He listened for a moment, checked the caller ID, then hit disconnect. He wound the recording back to where the Wagner had started and began speaking again.

  “Now, I want to talk about the INN. we are entering a very important period, with a good chance of shaping public opinion. I’m talking about the possibility of a Callaway-Bourque deal. I want to do everything possible to stop it. I want this to be the lead story on every news show. Talk about Bourque’s outrageous demands and Callaway’s inexperience at negotiating with foreign leaders. Use the words ‘sellout’ and ‘mass migration.’ Emphasize the CSA’s poverty, its inborn bigotry, its one-man government. I want it to sound worse than hell itself.”

  “And I have an assignment for Sullivan. I want him to attack the meetings again on the Edge, and this time take the gloves off. I want him to conduct on-air interviews with others opposed to an agreement—Cardinal Ruggiero, Nelson Waterford, and what’s his name, the Mayor of Chicago. I want it to seem like all of the smart and important people are against this thing. And tell Gary Hobart to do the same thing, with Anthony Zolli, and that university President. I can’t remember the name.

  “I want Sullivan to say any agreement between the NAU and the CSA would be Callaway’s Waterloo, a sharp turn to the left to satisfy his political base, with no regard for the future of the North American Union. Be sure he uses those words.

  “Have him say that Bourque wants to make the NAU responsible for the CSA’s bankrupt safety net, that he wants to open the borders between our countries and burden us with millions of illegal immigrants, putting an enormous strain on our schools, hospitals and social services, threatening not only our prosperity, but also our racial harmony.

  “I want to hear him use those very words, Wade, and I don’t mind if he repeats them a few times. I expect to be obeyed on this, Wade. I won’t accept any excuses. By meeting with Bourque, our naïve young President has made a fatal mistake and I intend to use it to cripple him.”

  “And one more thing, Wade: Phyllis Iserbyt and Our Country First. I want their Washington rally, the one set for next Sunday, to be part of every news show and every opinion show we broadcast. I want every INN viewer to know where it’s going to be, when it’s going to be and why it’s happening. And if she asks to be interviewed, I want her accommodated, promptly and fully, and as often as she wants.

  “If you have any questions about my directions, please let me know immediately. Otherwise, I will expect you promptly to take care of everything I’ve spoken about. I will be out of the office for the next three days, but you can reach me at my private number.”

  Metzger switched off the recorder and leaned back in his chair. It was late and he was tired. And a bit angry. But that was nothing new. He was one of those people who carried around a large reservoir of anger, usually concealed, but sometimes, at unexpected moments, on full, even spectacular display. And when that happened, God help anyone in the vicinity.

  *

  Harlan Hurbuckle, Jr.—Junior that is—had always been fond of hardware stores. He loved their bins and shelves and drawers, in which could be found wonderfully obscure objects that turned out to be exactly what someone needed. He loved their walls of pegboard, and the treasures that hung from it.

  He especially loved Brub’s Hardware Emporium in Baton Rouge, an ancient wooden structure containing a labyrinth of narrow, dimly-lit corridors, where various goods were organized according to a system only one person had ever understood, and he had passed away many years ago.

  Hardware stores had but one purpose, he thought, and that was to solve people’s problems. And so he had come to Brub’s in search of a solution. His problem was simply put: It was Confederate President Virgil Lee “Buddy” Bourque.

  The way Junior saw it, Bourque had done the impossible--and the unforgiveable. He had surrendered. He had given up all that the Confederacy had ever meant. He had trashed generations worth of sacrifice and devotion. He had destroyed a unique society, a much loved society. And, in Junior’s mind, Bourque had destroyed a good part of his identity as the son of the Confederacy’s most famous and most powerful preacher.

  Junior had once chance left, he had decided, and it was a slim one. He had to stop Bourque before this preposterous and unspeakable plan became a reality. He had to stop him before Bourque addressed the country and hypnotized its citizenry with his silver-tongued lies and deceptions. He had to kill him.

  Hence, the hardware store, repository of poisons, firearms, animal traps, axes, explosives and blunt objects of every conceivable description. They presented an almost bewildering choice of homicidal techniques. But Junior had his preferences. He was partial to the big bang. It had a wide radius of destruction, so there was no need to aim. It was quite spectacular, about as dramatic a statement as anyone could make. And it would never be forgotten.

  An elderly, white-haired man in worn coveralls approached him. “What kin I do fer ya, sonny?” He was wearing a dirty cap, embroidered with the words ‘Brub’s Emporium,’ and he had the stub of a pencil tucked in behind an ear.

  “Well, I have this really stubborn stump in my back yard,” Junior said. “I’m having one hell of a time getting rid of it.”

  “Whatcha tried so fer?”

  “I poisoned the roots,” Junior said.

  The old man nodded sagely. “Dint work?”

  “No effect. Then I took an axe to it.”

  “That oughter workt.”

  “Made it smaller, but it gave me blisters.”

  “He-he,” the old man chuckled. “That’ll happen.”

  “I need something that can really do the job. Something effective, know what I mean?” He hoped the old guy would get the message.

  The aging clerk thought for a moment, then smiled. “Got jes the ticket fer ya, young feller,” he said. “Jes foller me.”

  And he walked down the narrow corridor, past the pegboard and the boxes and the PVC pipe, into the maze of hallways and product displays. Junior followed, watching the old man’s tortured gait and feeling his pain.

  After leading him through half a dozen turns deep into the bowels of the store, the clerk
found what he was looking for, on a high shelf. He extended his old bones in the attempt to fetch it, but it was beyond his reach. Junior made as if to help, but the man waved him off and instead found an old wooden stepstool nearby. He climbed it unsteadily, and Junior found himself extending a helping hand.

  “Here tis,” said the arthritic clerk, trembling fingers grabbing at an oily brown cardboard container about the size of a shoe box. He somehow managed to get it off the shelf and climb down from the stepstool without killing himself.

  “What is it, exactly?” Junior asked.

  “Why it’s dynamite!” the old man said. “Thought you knew.”

  “Well, I’m just a little surprised it’s back here,” . I though it would be locked up or something and that I’d have to show ID and sign for it.”

  “Ya woulda, if ya’d axed up front. The old owner’s gone now and his son’s in charge. Thinks he knows everything.” The old man smiled, revealing a missing upper incisor.

  “So you keep a private stock?”

  “Y’could say that.”

  “Just the dynamite?”

  “Not hardly.” Another smile.

  “So,” said Junior, “How much do you think I’ll need?”

  “Depends on the stump.”

  “It’s pretty big.”

  “Four sticks should do ya.”

  “Okay. How much?”

  The clerk pulled a paper sack out of the big pocket on his coveralls, retrieved the pencil stub from behind his ear and did some calculating. “Whadda ya say to $5 a stick. all of ‘em for $18?”

  “Hmm. What do you say to eight sticks, just to be sure?”

  “It’s your stump, young fella.”

  “Okay. Make it eight. Should I take them to the register up front?”

  “Aw, ya needn’t bother. You kin pay me right chere.”

  “Ah,” Junior said, finally understanding. He pulled a pair of $20 bills out of his wallet.

  “You got a detonator? Wires?”

  “No. I guess I’ll need them.”

  “Duck tape?”

  “Got plenty of that,” Junior said.

  “Okey-dokey,” the elderly clerk said. He found a detonator and a package of wires on a nearby shelf and put everything into the paper sack. “That’ll be $50,” he said, handing the bag to Junior.