“Did it look anything like him?” Mel Riorden laughed.
“This isn’t the same guy, is it?” Penny Williamson asked suddenly. He was a bulky, heavy-featured black man with skin that shone almost as blue as oiled steel. He was a foreman in the number-three plant, steady and reliable. He shifted his heavy frame slightly and winked knowingly at Old Bob. “You know, the postal-worker guy again?”
Al Garcia looked perplexed. “I don’t think so. Do you think it could be?”
“So what happened?” Riorden asked as he bit into a fresh Danish. His eyes blinked like a camera shutter. He rearranged’ the sizable mound of sweet rolls he had piled on a plate in front of him, already choosing his next victim.
“Nothing.” Al Garcia shrugged. “They fixed up the monkey and sent him home.”
“That’s it? That’s the whole story?” Riorden shook his head.
Al Garcia shrugged again. “I just thought it was bizarre, that’s all.”
“I think you’re bizarre.” Riorden looked away dismissively. “Hey, Bob, what news from the east end this fine morning?”
Old Bob accepted with a nod the coffee and sweet roll Josie scooted in front of him. “Nothing you don’t already know. It’s hot at that end of town, too. Any news from the mill?”
“Same old, same old. The strike goes on. Life goes on. Everybody keeps on keeping on.”
“I been getting some yard work out at Joe Preston’s,” Richie Stoudt offered, but everyone ignored him, because if brains were dynamite he didn’t have enough to blow his nose.
“I’ll give you some news,” Junior Elway said suddenly. “There’s some boys planning to cross the picket line if they can get their jobs back. It was just a few at first, but I think there’s more of them now.”
Old Bob considered him wordlessly for a moment. Junior was not the most reliable of sources. “That so, Junior? I don’t think the company will allow it, after all that’s happened.”
“They’ll allow it, all right,” Deny Howe cut in. He was a tall, angular man with close-cropped hair and an intense, suspicious stare that made people wonder. He’d been a bit strange as a boy, and two tours in Vietnam hadn’t unproved things. Since Nam, he’d lost a wife, been arrested any number of times for drinking and driving, and spotted up his mill record until it looked like someone had sneezed into an inkwell. Old Bob couldn’t understand why they hadn’t fired him. He was erratic and error-prone, and those who knew him best thought he wasn’t rowing with all his oars in the water. Junior Elway was the only friend he had, which was a dubious distinction. He was allowed to hang out with this group only because he was Mel Riorden’s sister’s boy.
“What do you mean?” Al Garcia asked quickly.
“I mean, they’ll allow it because they’re going to start up the fourteen-inch again over the weekend and have it up and running by Tuesday. Right after the Fourth. I got it from a friend on the inside.” Howe’s temple pulsed and his lips tightened. “They want to break the union, and this is their best chance. Get the company running again without us.”
“Been tried already.” Al Garcia sniffed.
“So now it’s gonna get tried again. Think about it, Al. What have they got to lose?”
“No one from the union is going back to help them do it,” Penrod Williamson declared, glowering at Howe. “That’s foolish talk.”
“You don’t think there’s enough men out there with wives and children to feed that this ain’t become more important to them than the strike?” Howe snapped. He brushed at his close-cropped hair. “You ain’t paying attention then, Penny. The bean counters have taken over, and guys like us, we’re history! You think the national’s going to bail us out of this? Hell! The company’s going to break the union and we’re sitting here letting them do it!”
“Well, it’s not like there’s a lot else we can do, Deny,” Mel Riorden pointed out, easing his considerable weight back in his metal frame chair. “We’ve struck and picketed and that’s all the law allows us. And the national’s doing what it can. We just have to be patient. Sooner or later this thing will get settled.”