Penny Williamson strode up, his black skin glistening with sweat, his massive arms streaked with dust. Wasn’t anyone going to beat him this year in the horseshoe tournament, he announced. He was on, baby, he was dead on. Four ringers already. He clapped Old Bob on the back and bent to look at the pictures, asking Al Garcia whose grandbaby that was, wasn’t Al’s for sure, didn’t look ugly like Al, must be a ringer. There was more laughter, kidding.
Old Bob took a deep breath, whispered to Evelyn, asking her to wait for him a moment, excused himself, and moved away. He eased through the knots of people, tasting dust and sweat in the air, smelling the popcorn and cotton candy. People said hello, greeted him as he passed. He moved toward Deny Hpwe, thinking he should probably just let it go. Howe saw him coming, watched him, took a long swig of his beer, shook his head. In his eyes, Old Bob saw suspicion, wariness, and a wealth of impatience.
He walked up to Deny, nodded, said, “Got a moment?”
Howe looked at him, debating whether to give him the moment or not. Then he smiled, the soul of equanimity, sauntered forward to join him, said, “Sure, Robert. What’s up?”
Old Bob swung into step with him and they walked slowly past the participants in the horseshoe tournament. He nodded toward the field. “Having any luck?”
Derry Howe shrugged, looked at him, waiting.
“Heard a rumor that you were planning something special for the Fourth.”
Derry’s expression did not change. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Heard you were planning an accident, maybe.” Old Bob ignored him, did not look at him. “Something to persuade the MidCon people they ought to work a little harder at settling this strike.”
“Man, the things you hear.” Derry tossed the beer can into a metal trash bin and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. He was smiling, being cool. “You planning on coming out for the fireworks, Robert? Celebrating our independence?”
Old Bob stopped now, faced him, eyes hard. “Listen to me. If I know about it, others know about it, too. You’re not being very smart, son.”
Derry Howe’s smile froze, disappeared. “Maybe certain people ought to mind their own business.”
Old Bob nodded. “I’ll assume you’re not talking about me, because we’ve both got the same business interests where MidCon is concerned.”
There was a long pause as Derry studied him. He had misread the comment. “You saying you want in on this?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Old Bob sighed. “I’m saying that maybe you ought to think this through a little further before you act on it. I’m saying it doesn’t sound like a very good idea. If you do something to the company, something that gets people hurt, it might rebound on you. You might get hurt, too.”
Derry Howe sneered. “I ain’t afraid of taking a chance. Not like Mel and the rest of you, sitting around talking all day while your lives go right down the toilet. I said it before, I’ll say it again. This ain’t going to get settled unless we do something to help it along. The company’s just going to wait us out. They’re starting up the fourteen-inch-hell, already started it up, I expect. They’ll have it up and running Tuesday morning, bright and early. They’re bringing in scabs and company men to run it. Some of the strikers are talking about going back, giving in because they’re scared. You know how it goes. When that happens, we’re done, Robert Roosevelt Freemark. And you know it.”
“Maybe. But blowing things up isn’t the answer either.”
Derry pulled a face. “Who said anything about blowing something up? Did I say anything like that? That what you heard?”
“You were a demolitions man in Vietnam. I can put two and two together.”
Howe laughed. “Yeah? Well, your addition stinks. That explosives stuff is an ancient history. I barely remember any of that. Time marches on, right?”
Old Bob nodded, patient the way you were with a child. “So it wouldn’t be your fault if there was an accident, would it?”
“Not hardly.”
“An accident that would make MidCon look like a bunch of clowns, trying to reopen the mill without the union?”