Part 44 (1/2)

Moss looked toward Nick Cantarella. Cantarella was looking back at him. Moss didn't think it was the sort of invitation they could refuse, not if they wanted to keep breathing. He got to his feet, ignoring creaks and crunches. ”I think we just joined the underground,” he said. Nick Cantarella nodded.

”Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' auld lang syne!”

Scipio didn't think he'd ever heard ”Auld Lang Syne” sung when it wasn't New Year's Eve. He didn't think he'd ever heard it sung in such a variety of accents, either-none of them the least bit Scots.

Jerry Dover grinned at the cooks and waiters and busboys and dishwashers he'd bossed for so long. ”I'd like to tell y'all one thing,” he said. They waited expectantly. His grin got wider. ”f.u.c.k you, you sons of b.i.t.c.hes!”

They laughed like loons. Scipio laughed as loud as anybody, but his mirth had a bitter edge. With Jerry Dover gone, all the Negroes who worked for the Huntsman's Lodge were liable to get f.u.c.ked. Who could say what the new manager would be like? Would he take care of his people the way Dover had? Scipio supposed it wasn't impossible. He also knew only too well it wasn't likely.

”You go kill them d.a.m.nyankees, Mistuh Dover! Shoot 'em down like the yellow dogs they is!” a cook shouted. He swigged from a bottle of champagne. Jerry Dover's sendoff was going to put a dent in the restaurant's liquor stock.

”If I have to pick up a gun, this country's in deeper s.h.i.+t than anybody ever figured,” Dover said, and got another laugh. ”It's the Quartermaster Corps for me.”

That actually made good sense. The Confederate Army was doing it anyway. Jerry Dover knew everything there was to know about feeding people. Feeding them in the Army was different from doing it in a restaurant, but not all that different. He'd help the CSA more doing that than he would in the infantry, and somebody must have realized as much.

Scipio had an almost-empty gla.s.s in his hand. A moment later, as if by magic, it wasn't empty anymore. He sipped. He had had bourbon in there. This was Scotch. He'd feel like h.e.l.l in the morning. Right now, morning felt a million miles away.

”T'ank you, Senor Senor Dover. You give us work.” That was Jose, one of the dishwashers from the Empire of Mexico. He'd taken a job from a black man. Scipio wanted to hate him because of that-wanted to and found he couldn't. Jose was only trying to make a living for himself, and he worked like a man with a gun to his head. How could you hate somebody like that? Dover. You give us work.” That was Jose, one of the dishwashers from the Empire of Mexico. He'd taken a job from a black man. Scipio wanted to hate him because of that-wanted to and found he couldn't. Jose was only trying to make a living for himself, and he worked like a man with a gun to his head. How could you hate somebody like that?

”For he's a jolly good fellow!” The staff at the Huntsman's Lodge started singing again, louder and more raucously than ever. In some ways, blacks and whites in the CSA understood one another and got along with one another pretty well . . . or they would have, if the Freedom Party hadn't got in the way.

Jerry Dover hoisted his own gla.s.s. He'd been drinking as hard as his help. ”You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are good,” he said. ”Sometimes I don't reckon y'all know how good you are. I'm gonna have to whip some new folks into shape, and I don't figure they'll be a patch on you.”

”Take us with you!” somebody behind Scipio shouted. In an instant, everyone was yelling it: ”Take us with you! Take us with you!”

”h.e.l.l, I would if I could,” Dover said. ”I don't think that'll happen, though.”

The clamor went on all the same. Scipio understood why: if these black men were busy cooking for soldiers and serving them, they'd be less likely to go to a camp. Anything-anything at all-seemed better than going to a camp.

”I don't want anybody to get in trouble for being out too late,” Dover said after a while. The response to that was angry and profane. This was a night of license, and would have been even if not fueled by booze. Whatever the restaurant staff did short of burning the place down, he would let them get away with it.

Aurelius tapped Scipio on the arm. ”How you like bein' an old man at a young men's fling?” the other veteran waiter asked.

”Long as I's here,” Scipio answered. ”Long as I's anywhere.”

”Amen,” Aurelius said.

Scipio beckoned him off to one side. Once the two old men had put a little distance between themselves and the rest of the staff, Scipio said, ”Tell you what I was afeared of. I was afeared of a people bomb. I done been through two auto bombs. Don't reckon I'd las' if somethin' else blow up around me.”

”Auto bombs is nasty business,” Aurelius said. ”People bombs . . . People bombs is worse.” He shuddered. ”How you walk in somewhere, knowin' you got 'splosives strapped on you? All you got to do is click the switch or whatever the h.e.l.l-and then you is splattered all over the walls.”

”Way things is nowadays, lotta n.i.g.g.e.rs reckon they gots nothin' to lose,” Scipio said.

Aurelius nodded. ”I know that. I don't like it. If it ain't a judgment on the Confederate States of America, I dunno what would be. But still, no matter how bad things is, is they ever bad enough to blow your ownself up?”

”Dat n.i.g.g.e.r in Jackson done thought so,” Scipio said. ”d.a.m.n n.i.g.g.e.r was a waiter, too. My tips ain't been the same since he done it.”

”Your tips ain't all that's hurtin',” Aurelius reminded him. ”They put all the n.i.g.g.e.rs in Jackson on trains an' s.h.i.+p 'em off to camps. All of 'em, jus' like that.” He snapped his fingers. ”An' the Freedom Party don't try to hide it or nothin'. h.e.l.l, the Freedom Party braggin' to beat the band.”

”Not too long after de Great War end, I's in de park takin' de air, an' who should come make a speech but Jake Featherston?” Scipio shuddered at the memory, even if it was almost a quarter of a century old. ”Everybody reckon he nothin' but a crazy man. I reckon de same thing back then. But he scare de p.i.s.s outa me even so.”

Aurelius looked around to see if anyone was listening to them. Once he was satisfied, he said, ”That Featherston, he ain't ain't nothin' but a crazy man.” nothin' but a crazy man.”

”No.” Regretfully, Scipio shook his head. ”He a crazy man, sho', but he ain't nothin' but but a crazy man. You hear what I's sayin'? n.o.body who's nothin' but a crazy man kin do as much harm as Jake Featherston.” a crazy man. You hear what I's sayin'? n.o.body who's nothin' but a crazy man kin do as much harm as Jake Featherston.”

Aurelius considered that. He also considered his gla.s.s, which was empty. When he too shook his head, Scipio wasn't sure whether he mourned the empty gla.s.s or the Freedom Party's devastation. Then he said, ”Well, you is right, an' I wish you wasn't.” He could do something about getting more whiskey. n.o.body on the North American continent had had much luck doing anything about Jake Featherston.

Scipio and Aurelius reeled back to the Terry together. No explosions marred the night. No automobiles going up in fireb.a.l.l.s threw jagged metal and blazing gasoline in all directions. No desperate Negroes threw nails and chunks of themselves every which way. Except for a whip-poor-will's mournful call, everything was peaceful and quiet.

”You d.a.m.n c.o.o.ns are late,” grumbled the cop who opened the gate for them. ”Even for y'all, you're late.”

”Sorry, suh,” Scipio slurred. ”We was sayin' good-bye to our boss. He goin' into de Army.”

The cop's left hand had only the thumb and index finger. You didn't notice straight off, probably because he kept that hand in his pocket whenever he could. ”Good luck to him,” he said. ”You spooks don't know when you're well off. You don't got to worry about s.h.i.+t like that.”

Was he right? Scipio didn't think so. If Negroes had the same privileges and rights as whites, wouldn't they be glad to pick up rifles to help defend the Confederacy? It looked that way to him. But if they had all those privileges and rights, the Confederacy they were defending would be a very different place. Just for openers, it would be a place where Jake Featherston could never get elected, and neither could anyone like him.

Well, it wasn't like that, and it never would be. The thump of the gate behind Scipio and Aurelius proved as much, and proved it all too well.

He did have a headache when he got up. Ca.s.sius scowled at him. ”How can you have a good time sayin' so long to a d.a.m.n ofay?” his son demanded.

With a sigh, Scipio answered, ”It ain't as simple as you think it is.”

”Oh, yeah,” Ca.s.sius said scornfully-he'd got to the point where he would quarrel with anything Scipio said just because Scipio said it. ”How come?”

”On account of I be dead if Jerry Dover don't want me alive an' workin' there,” Scipio said. ”On account of you an' your sister an' your mama go to a camp-or else you jus' end up dead, too.”

”Jerry Dover still a d.a.m.n ofay,” Ca.s.sius said.

”Fine.” Scipio didn't feel like arguing with him, especially not with a head pounding like a drop forge. He took a couple of aspirins. They made his stomach sour, but after a while his headache receded.

He hated walking through the cleaned-out parts of the Terry on his way to work that afternoon. Lawns grew tall and untended and full of weeds. Lots of houses had broken windows. Quite a few had doors standing open. A skinny dog trotted out of one of them and gave Scipio a hard stare. If it were a little bigger, it might have gone for him. Stray dogs scrounged whatever they could. So did stray people. The cleanouts hadn't missed many. If not for Jerry Dover, they wouldn't have missed Scipio and his family.

And now Dover was in the Army. Scipio shook his head, dreading what would come next. He'd got to the age where he feared any kind of change. It was too likely to be change for the worse.

A white man waited just inside the kitchen entrance to the Huntsman's Lodge. ”Are you Xerxes or Aurelius?” he asked.

”I is Xerxes, suh,” Scipio answered. The new manager was younger than he'd expected-in his early forties. He had a thin, sharp, clever face and cold blue eyes. Scipio didn't wonder why he wasn't in the Army: he sat in a wheelchair, his legs thin and useless inside his trousers.

”My name's Willard Sloan,” he said, and tapped the arms of the chair with his own arms, which seemed fine. A moment later, he explained why: ”Stopped a d.a.m.nyankee bullet with my back in 1917. I used to be a h.e.l.l of a football player, you know? So much for that.” His mouth twisted. Then he went on, ”Jerry Dover says you've been here since dirt. If I need to know anything special, I'm supposed to ask you.”

”I tells you anything I knows, suh.” Scipio meant it. He didn't expect the white man to like him. It might end up happening, but he didn't expect it. If Sloan found him useful, that would do almost as well.

”All right. If I have to pick your brains, I'll holler. For now, you just go on about your business the way you always have. I'll keep an eye on things, cipher out how they are, before I decide what works good and what needs tinkering.”

”Fair enough, suh. Dis place been de bes' in town a long time. Sure enough want to keep it dat way,” Scipio said. He and the rest of the staff would be judging Willard Sloan as he judged them. The only trouble was, his judgment carried more weight than theirs.