When the train doors open up, it’s guards perched in every damn car. Only now, McMullen hisself is riding up at the first car. His face set harsh, he’s leaning out from the steps waving his big pistol in the air and yelling for his agency men to get their shotguns trained on us.
“We’re hemmed in here pretty good,” I says to Mr. Paul.
Watching them Pinkertons sighting up their guns, he bends his mouth down close to my ear. He says, “You do what they tell ya, Chet. These bastards ain’t foolin. They’re looking to turn this into some kind a bloodbath.”
Almost like he heard Mr. Paul, McMullen cracks a pistol shot into the air and we all turn to look at him standing like death in the doorway of the rail car.
“You damn pollocks was told to get outta here ten times already,” he says to us. “Now yer all under arrest!” he yells.
Men are pissing and moaning, saying we ain’t been told nothing and calling McMullen out as the sunafabitch he is, but nobody really does nothing, till one of them 37 boys lets a bottle fly up at the car McMullen’s standing on. The bottle breaks with a little crash on the rail car maybe three feet below the window.
McMullen looks over at the wet spot on the car. He don’t say a word, just shifts his pistol over, flicks the hammer back and fires a round off into the boy’s hip.
The boy is screaming to beat all hell and Stash rushes over, trying to get some whiskey into the fella’s throat before McMullen decides he oughtta shoot him again.
“Now ya see how it’s gonna be,” McMullen says.
He runs his eyes over the rest of us, but I don’t think nobody’s scheming about throwing nothing else, cause the only sound rising up through the trainyard is the screaming coming from the fella McMullen shot.
In the end it’s maybe about two hundred of us they haul off to Somerset. I get separated from Mr. Paul and them fellas from 35 in the loadout and my dupa gets tossed into the back of a vegetable truck with some hunkies. Them Pinkertons run the whole lot of us south in a wagon train of trucks with deputy sedans full of Cossacks riding shotgun between.
By the time they get all of us unloaded out of them trucks it’s near on dark. The Somerset Cossacks come storming out of the jailhouse puffing up their chests. They line us up like we’re some kind a display they don’t get in this neck of the woods too often.
“Don’t look so tough to us,” they says.
Them Somerset Pinkertons poke our freezing asses and guts with their shotgun muzzles, cursing us “damn shittin foreigners,” and letting us know that we’re gonna have to face a mean Somerset judge come morning.
While I’m getting marched to my cell I finally get a peek at a Windber cop I know, the fella what Sal gave the twenty dollars to back November. He’s funneling coffee down his throat in the jailhouse lobby waiting on some sort a warrant. I twist my way outta the jail cell line and grab hold of the front of his police coat.
“I need some help,” I says to him.
He curses me, saying that he can’t help I was born a dumb pollock. Then he gives me a shove back into the line of union men headed for the cells. I’m grinding my teeth thinking that when I get outta here I’m gonna settle his bill and good. But when none of them Pinkerton guards is looking, he gives me the nod and ducks out the jailhouse door.
The Somerset Pinkertons shove me into a five-man cell that already got ten fellas in it so ain’t nobody too damn pleased to get another body jammed in there. Them fellas are diehard Slovaks from out 42 and I don’t know none of them too good. They’re talking Slovak to each other and giving my clean clothes the evil eye, maybe thinking I’m one of the fellas been scabbing out Central City, so I don’t say shit. I just lean my elbows against the bars and wait for Angelo to send somebody to bail my ass out.
Twenty-Two
It’s damn near four o’clock the next afternoon when Sal gets out to the Somerset jailhouse with my bail. I ain’t even been able to lie down in that cell, let alone get no kinda sleep, so I’m feeling right shot and smelling like a flower when the guards cut me loose.
“Angelo’s plenty pissed at you,” Sal says to me.
Dragging ass past the bars down the jailhouse hall, I just nod, trying to stay awake till I get to the wagon. Miners still locked up in their cells is staring at me walking out next to Sal. Some are whispering and some ain’t so quiet, giving me a good earful of what they think of me for getting bailed outta the pokey by Sal Monteleone instead of waiting for the union lawyer like everybody else.
“Fellas come in from Pittsburgh last night to buy up that shine,” Sal tells me.
“Uh-huh.”
The sun’s already down and the wind’s blowing cold as hell when we get outside and climb into the wagon. It’s starting to snow. I snap the collar of my coat up to try and keep my ears from freezing off. I tell Sal I’m beat all to hell, but he just shrugs and once we’re out on the main road he tosses me the reins and sets to dozing off in the seat.
I know Angelo’s gonna be fierce vexed ’bout me not picking up that liquor, but it ain’t like I done it on purpose. ’Sides there’s more important things going on here than Ashtola moonshine.
“Hey, Sal,” I give him a poke. “Ya know anything what happened with them reporters on the train? Did they see how we was hauled off?”
“Hell if I know,” he says, half-asleep. “I was busy foolin with yer liquor.”
I stick to the side of the road trying to figure what happened with them reporters when they seen us rounded up and trucked off to Somerset. Are they writing stories about how the Pinkertons run us in for nothing? Is it gonna be writ up in all the Philadelphia papers?
Figuring it’s best to give Angelo a chance to cool down about that shine, I let the horse take its time the whole way through Jennerstown and across the length of Somerset ridge and back down the 160 hill into Windber. It’s after seven o’clock when I roll up Tenth Street in front of the shop, but Anglelo’s still fuming in that barber chair. The ’lectric bulb’s shining down so I can see him gripping onto them red leather chair arms and looking daggers at me the whole way from the street.
“We’re here.” I dig Sal in the ribs. “I’m gonna put the wagon away.”
Sal sits up and rubs his eyes. He tells me not to worry about the wagon. He says that I better get my ass into the shop and talk to Angelo. I says fine and jump down off the bench seat onto the sidewalk.
When I walk in, Angelo don’t say a single word to me. He just hops down off of the barber chair and walks to the front door. He tugs down the shade and then turns round to face me. He steps up so close it’s damn near like he’s standing on top of me.
“I’m real sorry ’bout missin the shine pick up,” I says.
Angelo still don’t say a word or even open his mouth. He just brings his knee up right into my balls and hard. Nothing to it, I’m crumpled on the floor like newspaper.
He gives me two kicks with the heel of his shoe before I can even get a hand out to try and head off anything else coming my way. Tears are streaming down outta my eyes, and I tell him to stop, but he keeps layering them kicks on till all I can do is cry out high-pitched as a girl.
After I take seven or eight in my belly Angelo starts cross the room and I manage to get up to my knees. But I don’t get no further ’fore he’s back with the razor strap. He brings that leather swift and hard down onto me. I can feel it sliding into my skin, but it ain’t even like pain for now. Just heat, almost like getting a burn from brushing against a cherried up coal stove.
I figure we’re getting to the end of the whole thing when I look up to see him standing above me breathing heavy. But then he starts winding the strap round his fist, and I’m thinking that I’m about to catch a real beating now cause he ain’t even gotta worry ’bout messing up his hand.
But Angelo flings hisself on top of me, pinning my arms to the barbershop floor. He gets that damn belt wrapped round my neck. His arms bulging, he rips it tight and starts choking the breath right outta me.
Grunting and coughing, I’m trying like hell to get my fingertips underneath that belt leather and for the first time I’m scared that he really means to kill me. I can’t believe I’m about to get done in on the floor of some wop’s barber shop over not getting twenty gallons of moonshine from some damn Ashtola hicks.
“You listen now!” Angelo finally says. “You listen to me, pollock boy!”
I’m glad when I hear this. I figure, anybody who’s gonna get killed, nobody cares if they’re listening or not. Ain’t like they’re gonna be around to remember what got said.
With Angelo’s whole weight fixed on top of me and that belt so tight, I can’t even shift myself to try and get away. He pushes in so close, ain’t no smell at all but garlic and elderberry wine. Bending over me, he brushes his lips up against my ear and it’s almost like I’m a girl he’s messing with by force.
“No more union for you!” he says. “No more!”
I think he’s gonna get up off of me, but he cuffs me cross the side of my face with the meat of his hand. Then he finally looses the belt up round my neck just enough so I can get a little breath.
“What I say?”
“No more union,” I choke back.
I catch one more across the jaw before Angelo gets up off of me and sets hisself back down in the barber chair. He’s sweating like a cold drink on a hot day and wheezing like he just run a mile. I’m swirling my tongue round my mouth checking for loose teeth.
Slumped a little, Angelo wipes down his face with a barber towel. He throws me a greasy smile and says that I’m a good worker and he really hated to do what he done. But, he says, I can’t be getting no kind of special treatment round here.
“Anybody else, same thing,” he says. “Maybe worse.”
Still flat on my ass, I knead my fingers cross my neck trying to get my blood running. Angelo says again that he’s serious, I can’t be fooling with this union stuff no more. I’m working full time for him now. There’s cash money at stake and this union cost me plenty already.
“I had to send cases a real whiskey to three Sons a Itlee last night,” he says. “Cost ya seventy dollars.”
“Me?” I says.
“Ya don’t think it’s right I’m gonna pay for you missin the pickup?”
I’m too busy feeling for broken ribs to even think about saying nothing. I just shake my head and try to keep my eyes turned to the floor. They’re starting to tear up, but there’s something else going on too. I’m feeling plenty hot about this whole business. I’m socking all of them feelings away to pull back out when they’re gonna do me some good.
Setting up in that barber chair like dago royalty, Angelo says he’ll give me a month to pay him back the seventy dollars. He’ll just take it outta my pay, he laughs. Like the company store. Then he gives me a hand up off the floor. Standing close to me again, he smiles. He yanks a fold of skin at my cheek and gives me a quick, hard slap. He says I’m a good boy. All aches and bruises, I just keep my eyes to the floor, thinking how someday he’s gonna get paid back for this beating and it ain’t gonna be with no dollars.
On my way outta the shop, he says to me one last time that I’m working for him now and nobody else. I nod my head and push the door of the barber shop shut. I start down Tenth Street back to Leone’s, but after a couple blocks I think better of it and head over towards Cesri’s. I want to know if Mr. Paul made it back from Somerset with any news.
Walking along the edge of the plank sidewalk, it’s damp and slick with a dusting of snow. I touch at them bruises purpling my ribs. This whole business is beginning to feel like one big icy sidewalk after chugging a half quart of Ashtola shine. No matter how careful I keep shuffling my feet, there ain’t no way to keep my balance.
When Pauline opens up the door at Cesri’s boarding house, she goes white looking at my face. She pulls me into their room asking if it was the Pinkertons or the jailhouse guards what done it to me. There ain’t nothing I can say to this, so I just ask her where I can find her pa. I need to see him, I says.
“He ain’t here,” she says. “He come in real quick, but he went back out to see Charlie.”
“Where is Charlie?”
“Ya don’t know what happened to Charlie?”
Pauline fetches up a piece of cloth and splashes some water onto it. Frowning, she gives my face a hard swipe, smearing off a little of the dried-up blood. I pull myself away from her, letting her stand there with that rag.
“Pauline,” I says.
She takes a step back toward the window, letting the rag go limp at her side. She opens her mouth wide and blows her breath out slow and down, like somebody who’s tried hard as they can not to give up. She looks over at the paint peeling wall and I can tell she don’t wanna say what she’s got to tell me.
“Charlie’s up the Miners’ Hospital,” she says. “He’s hurt bad.”
“Jesus,” I says. “What happened?”
“I heard McMullen got to him somewhere on that train.”
“What about them reporters?” I ask her. “How could McMullen get at Charlie with them reporters watching?”
“How should I know, Chet? You was closer than me.”
Pauline and me look each other in the eye for a second. When she takes a step towards me, I reach out and pull her into my arms and lace my hands round the small of her back. Even with them bruises, her weight feels right against my chest and her white face is warm pressing in on my cheek.
Stepping back after a minute, I run my fingers down Pauline’s arms till I’m just holding onto her hands. I squeeze her fingertips and run my thumbs cross the soft backs of her hands.
“I’m goin up to the Miners’,” I tell her. “I’ll send yer pa back.”
I press a kiss onto Pauline’s cheek before I turn to get outta that boarding house room. Not letting me go, Pauline keeps hold of me with one hand while she reaches up to trace a finger cross a belt cut on my face with her other hand. She smiles a little crooked at me and lets me go.
“Be careful,” she says.
“I’m always careful,” I lie.
I snap my coat collar back up over my ears and turn back around out the door. Tromping back down the stairs and out into the cold, I start hoofing it to the Miners’ Hospital down the East End.
Twenty-Three
I recognize a couple of union fellas standing round the infirmary steps from that last union meeting up Gerula’s. Cigarettes smoldered down to stubs in their thick hands, and eyes pegged to the street, these is the same heavy-shouldered, no nonsense fellas that rode with Charlie down from Cresson when men was grumbling about keeping on with the strike.
They must still be worried about the Pinkertons getting to him, cause they’re shoulder to shoulder at the hospital door, and they ain’t much on letting folks by. I guess they can see I ain’t no phony police or else they’re letting me slide on account of my face being all cut, cause I waltz right through ’em. I poke my nose into a whole mess of hospital rooms looking for Charlie, till I finally spot Mr. Paul sipping on a coffee down at the end of the hall.
“Mr. Paul,” I shout. “Boy, I’m glad to see you.”
Mr. Paul tries to shush me cause patients is out cold sleeping. But when I get closer and he sees my face is all cut up, he yanks me round the corner into the waiting room. Running his fingertips over them belt prints marking up my neck, he lets out a whistle.
“Them guards really gotcha,” he says.
I keep quiet for a second trying to figure how to answer. But when Mr. Paul lifts up my chin for a closer look at them cuts, he can see in my eyes, weren’t no guards done this.
I’m thinking he’s gonna say something about how I deserve to catch it this way for working for them Black Handers in the first place. But he just clenches his teeth and plops down on the long plank bench.
“Where they got Charlie?” I ask him.
Shaking his head, Mr. Paul blows his nose on his sleeve a bit and points back to the ward room. I sidle down the h
all and peek my head round the corner. Inside the room, I see Charlie laid out on the bed. Both his legs is coated up with plaster and hanging down from ceiling wires and his head’s wrapped up so I can’t see none of his hair. His eyes is sliding round and they’re glassy as shooter marbles.
“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” I says. “What happened to ya?”
“McMullen’s boys broke his legs. Then the bastards cracked him cross his skull.” Mr. Paul’s followed me into Charlie’s room. He drops his hand down onto my shoulder.
“What about them reporters?” I says. “Didn’t they see how ya got beat? Didn’t they watch us get rounded up?”
“There weren’t no reporters on that train, Chet” Mr. Paul says.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Chester,” Charlie says soft. He sighs and his eyes slide off sideways to look at the fella next to him.
“They wouldn’t come,” Mr. Paul says to me.
“What ya mean they wouldn’t come?”
“Berwind got a crew a stooges together. He sent them all down to Philly saying the strike was over,” Charlie croaks out. “They made out like the strike already been settled and it was just a few bad apples still holding out.”
I look from Charlie’s busted skull over to Mr. Paul who’s staring down at the tile floor. I stand there waiting for one of them to start saying how the union’s gonna move on from what happened, but it’s boneyard quiet in that room. Nobody’s saying nothing. Not a damn word. I grab onto the sleeve of Mr. Paul’s coat and ask him what we’re gonna do.
“It’s over, Chet,” Mr. Paul says.
“Charlie,” I says. “Tell him it ain’t over!”
Charlie looks down to his hung-up legs and then over to the ward room wall. I’m watching his face close, but there ain’t nothing coming. His lips is flat slack, and he just looks played out. Not a trick up his sleeve.
“There ain’t nothin we can do, Chet,” Mr. Paul says. “We give it our best.”
40 Patchtown Page 14