ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 10

  "I don't give a shit who likes it," Katz said. The ash on his cigar was over an inch long now. "All I care about is who's going to hate it. They're the ones we have to deal with."

  Wang scanned the top of his desk and came up with a damp, misshapen, empty cardboard coffee cup. He wordlessly handed it to Katz, who was momentarily bewildered, then brushed his cigar ash into it.

  "Okay, who's going to hate the idea?" Ms. Rogard asked.

  "All the people who think they might have something to lose," Katz said, as though he shouldn't have had to explain. He patted at his comb over, fretfully checking to see if the sparse hairs were all obeying orders. "For example, anyone thinks we give out too much foreign aid, or anyone who thinks we might get involved militarily."

  "Those people already hate us," Ms. Rogard said. "They voted against us. And speaking of people who voted against us, the Right Wing will find reasons to attack anything Callaway does. And the racists, of course—open and closeted."

  "Well, some people on our side aren't going to like it either," Wang said. "Our liberal friends, who love to hate the Confederacy. And organized labor—they're already apoplectic about foreign competition and outsourcing. If they get an inkling they might have to compete with Southern labor…"

  "I see what you mean," Ms. Rogard said. "But what about the South, Mr. Pickett—could the announcement cause problems in the CSA?" She looked at Pickett and smiled, as though she'd given him the floor.

  "It's Roy," he said, "and you're absolutely right. The announcement is going to set off a firestorm in the South, especially among the plantation families who like life the way it is and don't want any NAU race-poison. The poor won't like it either, and there are plenty of them. They already resent the North's wealth. And unless we're very careful the Bible thumpers will be livid. You don't want to know what they say about Northern religious cults, and the anti-Christ monkey-man in the White House."

  "Well, isn't that all just swell?" Katz said. "Half of both countries are going to hate the whole idea. No problem there."

  "That's why I asked you to come," Wang said.

  "Okay," Katz said, "Well, my best advice is this: cancel the meeting. Just forget it. Forget the subject ever came up. Send Roy here home with a warm handshake and a nice fruit basket."

  Wang frowned. "That's not particularly helpful, Marty."

  Katz shrugged.

  "Tell me, Eric, what is this Summit meeting really all about?" Ms. Rogard asked.

  "A closer relationship between the two countries," Pickett volunteered.

  "What it's really about," Wang said, "is figuring how we can protect the Confederacy from Mexico without making ourselves a target."

  A light appeared in Ms. Rogard's eyes and she smiled at Pickett. "Roy? Is that true?" She touched her too-blonde hair, as though trying to call attention to it.

  "I wouldn't put it so bluntly, Ms. Rogard, but yes."

  "Jewel, please."

  "Jewel."

  "I hope we can avoid any mention of targets or wars in the announcement," Katz said. He put his cigar butt in the coffee cup and pulled a fresh one from his jacket pocket.

  "You gonna smoke that thing?" Wang asked.

  Katz rolled the cigar between his fingers and looked at it with admiration. "It's not a thing, Eric. It's a Cohiba Piramides Millenium I picked up in Havana last week. It has a unique melody of spice, cream and leather. They retail for $100 each. Care to try one?"

  "I can't afford them, Marty," Wang said. "I'm not a political consultant."

  "Don't have the stomach for it?" Katz asked.

  Wang just shook his head, exasperated. "Okay," he said. "nothing about war. What else?"

  They all sat back and thought, Jewel Rogard making a few notes on a memo pad.

  "I can think of something else we shouldn't mention," Pickett said. "Immigration."

  "You mean from the CSA to the NAU?" Katz asked.

  "Very funny," Pickett said.

  "Here's some stuff we can talk about without raising alarms." Jewel Rogard said. She read from her notebook. "Air pollution, water pollution. Endangered species. Energy issues—buying and selling to each other, that sort of thing. And maybe trade tariffs—easing up on them to keep prices low. How does that sound?"

  "Hmm," Katz said, sucking on his cigar again. He blew one of his smoke rings. "That trick is getting a little tired, Marty," Wang said.

  "What I was about to say," Katz replied, offended, "was I think none of that will raise hackles, even among our enemies."

  "What about INN?" Wang asked.

  "Oh, they'll find a way to put an ugly spin on it, but there's nothing we can do about that."

  "What do you think, Roy?"

  "Well, my people will scoff. You don't get much traction on environmental and energy stuff in the South," he said. "But most folks will think it's just Buddy Bourque, going to Washington to swindle the North Americans. That announcement won't scare anyone."

  Wang seemed satisfied. "Jewel could you draft a release and get it to me before the day is over?"

  Ms. Rogard saluted. "Yes, Boss. I got the who, what, where, why and I can fake the how—but what about the when?" Once again, she untwisted her legs, then disconcertingly retwisted them in the opposite direction.

  "Next week sometime," Wang said, forcing himself to look away. "We'll announce the date when we know it."

  "Next week?" Ms. Rogard said, startled.

  "No time like the present," Pickett said.

  "I still think you're crazy," Katz said.

  "Yeah, well you're a little late for that argument, Marty," Wang said.

  Katz puffed on his cigar, but, after a glance at Wang, resisted the urge to produce a smoke ring.

  "Is there more?" Jewel Rogard asked. She was looking at Pickett, not Wang.

  "Not for you, Jewel, at least not for the moment," Wang said. "Let me see the press release, then we'll talk."

  Ms. Rogard stood. "Will you be around for awhile, Roy?"

  "I'm not sure," Pickett said.

  "Well, I hope so. I'd like to talk to you about the South. I've always been curious about it. I'll be back in a couple of hours." She smiled again and walked out of the office.

  "Jesus," Pickett said, when she was out of earshot.

  "I know," Wang agreed, laughing. "And it doesn't matter if you're single or not. I've been thinking of bringing my wife to work."

  "Maybe if she thought I was…"

  "Nope, wouldn't matter."

  "And she's white."

  "Yeah, but color is no protection up here."

  "She's good at her job?"

  "She was great during the campaign. Unflappable, friendly, even charming. And you won't hear her saying something that causes trouble."

  "Okay," Pickett said. "So what's next?"

  "What's next is that I get on the horn and start selling this thing and bringing in some partners,” Wang said.

  "Partners?"

  "Yes. I have to talk to the Pentagon about shifting some frigates down from New Jersey and Delaware to the Virginia, Carolina and Georgia coastline and working with your military people. I gotta convince the Secretary of Defense that this is a good idea. And I want to bring in the FBI, so they can keep an eye out for troublemakers."

  "How quickly can you do that?" Pickett said, concerned.

  "Damned if I know. But I'm going to find out. You better alert your people."

  "This is more complicated than I thought it would be," Pickett admitted. "I was hoping…"

  "You were hoping your guy and my guy would have a sit down, do some horse trading and both of them would walk away happy, no muss, no fuss?"

  Pickett shrugged. "Something like that."

  Wang laughed.

  Then there was a knock on the door. Before Wang could respond, the door opened and Leo Tolstoy appeared. "Now?" He asked, plaintively.

  "Later," Wang said with finality.

  "But you said 5:30."

  "5:30 tomorrow. I promise."


  Tolstoy disappeared and the door closed quietly.

  "Maybe if you had a wooden stake," Pickett suggested.

  But Wang had barely noticed the interruption. "You know," he said, "the announcement is the easy part."

  "Yeah, the meetings—and the negotiations—are going to be a real minefield,

  Pickett said.

  "Maybe," Wang said. "But that's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried about leaks and rumors. I'm worried about provoking every fringe group in the country—your country too. I hope you have a good handle on them, and on public opinion in the CSA."

  Pickett thought about what Wang was saying. "Our FBI isn't comparable to yours," he said. "I’m not used to working for a functional government, you know. And we don't have Gallup polls in the Confederacy. No need for them."

  Wang wasn't pleased. "So you're just going to meander through the cotton fields with no idea where the rattlesnakes are or if they're inclined to bite? I mean, that's your choice—but it could wreck the whole damn thing. We could have protests, demonstrations, bombings and God knows what else."

  "Hmmm," Pickett said. He propped up his chin with one hand and folded the other arm across his chest, like Jack Benny. "There is someone…"

  "Someone?"

  "Yes, someone who regularly travels the CSA, someone who wouldn’t arouse any suspicion and is very well-liked, someone who can talk with anyone, someone I trust implicitly."

  "Impressive," Wang admitted. "And that person is…?"

  "I'd prefer to keep the name to myself, if you don't mind."

  "That's your call Roy."

  Chapter Six

  For people of a certain age—Buddy Bourque's age—the scene was reminiscent of that moment in the "Wizard of Oz" when Dorothy and her fellow travelers first spot Oz's glowing green towers, across the vast meadow that begins where the sleepy poppies end.

  In this case, however, the meadow consisted of an immense field of cotton plants, most of them heavily laden with puffy white blossoms, leading up to another distant, magical structure--the enormous and world famous Glass Church, with its sixty foot solid glass cross. It was one of the CSA's greatest tourist attractions, and the heart and soul of Southern Baptism, created by and presided over by the extremely reverend Harlan Hurbuckle, sixty-seven, shepherd and deacon.

  As the trio of gleaming black Packards drew closer, President Bourque, who was lounging in the back seat of the middle vehicle alone, noted with pleasure the extensive parking lots that surrounded the Church. It was a Sunday and the faithful had made their weekly pilgrimage to their favorite place of worship, nearly 5,000 of them, to judge by the endless acres of closely-parked cars and station wagons, most of them ancient and barely roadworthy, all products of the auto factories in Birmingham.

  Bourque's little caravan came up on the Church, circled around back and stopped at a private entrance. A matched quartet of secret service men alighted from vehicles one and three, surveilled the area and pronounced it kosher. Bourque got out, slipped on his ever-present Panama hat and headed inside, up a staircase composed of thick frosted glass slabs,

  Through dozens of layers of architectural glass, it was possible to see—vaguely, in indistinct blurs of color—the great mass of people filling the huge, fan-shaped sanctuary, which was suspended within the building several floors away. It was even possible to make out the altar, and the ghostly movements of the speaker—Rev. Hurbuckle, no doubt.

  Bourque did not head for the sanctuary. Instead, he sidled down a glass-enclosed corridor heading to a corner of the structure, toward what seemed an invisible dead end. But it was not a dead end. It was a mirrored wall, almost impossible to see unless you knew it was there, and in its center was a mirrored door, which led to Hurbuckle's private office. Bourque doffed his Panama hat and disappeared inside.

  The inside was completely different from the outside. There was no glass, only walls of knotty pine, floors of pegged maple, mostly covered by a museum-quality Persian rug, and a suite of French provincial furniture assembled from Provence originals. Bourque took a seat in a button-tufted green leather Bergere chair and relaxed. He could hear singing, in rising volume. It wouldn't be long now.

  A few minutes later, Harlan Hurbuckle Sr. entered the room, slightly out of breath, dressed in a blue seersucker suit, a bolo tie, and white shoes. He was a tall, slender man—might have been a runner or a pole vaulter in his youth, but that was just a memory. His face was a long oval, pinched at the cheeks, and his complexion was sallow and waxen. Most of his life force seemed concentrated in and limited to his eyes, which were surprisingly blue.

  "Sorry I'm late, Buddy," the good reverend said, his voice deep and resonant. He dropped into the big black leather chair behind the walnut desk with the dainty curved legs,. "Spent more time laying on hands than usual."

  "We live in troubled times, Harlan," Bourque observed.

  "We surely do," Hurbuckle said. "Something is troubling you too. I knew that when I heard your voice on the phone."

  "You're gonna have to make up your mind, Harlan. Are you a man of God or some kinda psychic?"

  The reverend chuckled. "I'm not sure there's much difference."

  Bourque sat back and took a deep breath. "Harlan," he said, "do you consider yourself an imaginative man?"

  "Imaginative? What do you mean?"

  "I mean can you picture things, things that don't exist, events that might happen but haven't happened yet?"

  "As well as the next man, I guess."

  "Okay," Bourque said, "then let me run something by you. Imagine that I take a trip to Washington and meet up with that new NAU President, Callaway."

  Hurbuckle looked at Bourque as if he hadn't heard right. "What?"

  "You know, that young Black fella."

  "Meet with him? The nigra?"

  "The very same."

  "Why in God's name would you want to do that?"

  "You know me, Harlan. I always have a plan."

  Hurbuckle nodded, allowing that was true. "Still, I don't recall you treatin' with a nigra, I mean outside of that body man of yours, who is a little uppity for my taste, but that's your business."

  Bourque settled back in his chair. "Harlan, why don't you pour us something? You know, the good stuff, the stuff I send you every Christmas. The Evan Williams."

  Hurbuckle swiveled around, opened the doors of a low, white-painted console and pulled out two Baccarat crystal tumblers and a half empty bottle of bourbon. "Ice?" He asked, pouring.

  Bourque frowned. "I thought you knew me better than that." He reached into his pocket, found a roll of Tums and popped one into his mouth.

  "It's been awhile since we shared a drink, Buddy. You don't come around much any more." He handed Bourque a glass.

  "I'm always running around like a chicken with its head cut off," Bourque said apologetically. "But I need your advice with this thing, and your help."

  Hurbuckle straightened up and smiled. "You want to pray with me, Buddy?"

  "Mostly I need your approval."

  "You mean, of you meeting with the nigra?"

  "I don't want to, but I got to."

  Hurbuckle's brows knit and he took a swallow of bourbon. "Why's that, Buddy?"

  Bourque sipped from his glass. "Well, to put a plain face on it, Harlan, we're limping pretty bad these days. The Confederacy, I mean."

  "Nothing new about that," Hurbuckle said.

  "No. But it's getting worse. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep us afloat."

  Hurbuckle raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know it was that bad, Buddy."

  "No one does," Bourque said. "I've kept it to myself."

  "So you're going north for help? You know they hate us—and we're not very fond of them either."

  "So I've heard," Bourque said, smiling. "But we need someone to watch our back, and they just might be willing."

  Hurbuckle thought about this for a moment. "Our back. You're thinking about Garcia."

  Bourque nodded. "He's t
he wolf at the door, all right. And after he swallows us, he'll surely work up an appetite for the north." He drained his glass and Hurbuckle filled it again.

  "And you think they might be willing to protect us?"

  "Just might be to their advantage." Bourque said.

  "Hmm," said Hurbuckle, nursing his drink. "But won't they want something in return?"

  Bourque grinned like the Cheshire cat. "Of course. But they'll have to negotiate with me to get it," he said. "A little horse-trading and we'll end up with extensive military protection from Garcia and they'll get a few bushels of Georgia peaches and a barge-full of baled cotton."

  Hurbuckle laughed. "I pity that poor nigra," he said. "But I still don't know what you need from me."

  "Well, my friend, Callaway and I are going to announce the meeting tomorrow. I need you to tell everyone that he came to me, asking for help and that I generously agreed to hear what he had to say."

  "He came to you?"

  "No, Harlan," Bourque said patiently. "It was the other way around. Like I said. But I want the whole South behind me, rootin' me on, expectin' me to fleece the boys up north, and bring back bushel baskets full of diamonds and gold bars."

  "I see."

  Bourque stood and sidled up to Hurbuckle's desk. He put a paw on Hurbuckle's hand—the hand with the pinky ring—and he looked into the pastor's eyes, smiling warmly. "You with me, Harlan?"

  There was a timid knock on the door. Bourque frowned and got out the Tums again.

  "Don't you worry yourself," Hurbuckle said, going to the door. "This won't take but a minute."

  He opened the door, and found, standing in the hall, a much younger version of himself, wearing an identical blue seersucker suit, but half a head shorter, and eyes a size too small for his face, "Sorry to bother you, Daddy, but I forgot what you want me to put on the sign for tomorrow."

  Harlan signed. "What am I going to do with you, Junior?" He said. "It couldn't be simpler. Just look it up on the schedule. I'll be giving the annual 'Love Thy Neighbor' sermon. Didn't I tell you that this morning?"