ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Read online

  Frontenot looked at him with suspicion.

  "He's all right, Jimmy," Bourque said. "He's my body man. Carries my stuff. Opens doors for me."

  "Long as he knows his place."

  Bourque and Pickett exchanged glances, Pickett producing an obsequious little smile.

  "You shoulda seen your Boss during the war, boy," Frontenot said, poking a finger into Pickett's chest. " He was a gen-u-ine hero, taking on the Mexican flagship. We were outgunned two to one, y'know."

  "I've heard the story," Pickett said.

  "La Revolution was steaming north at about 25 knots. We were coming south, down from the delta," the old man said, moving his hands to show the ships' positions. "The Admiral here, he made us hold fire until the last possible moment, then he ordered us to cut right across her path and give her a full broadside—everything we had."

  "Must have been terrifying," Pickett said.

  "Not to him," Frontenot said, gesturing at Bourque. "Your Boss has big brass ones, y'know."

  "Yes. I've heard them clanging," Pickett said, drawing a snort from the President.

  "What's that, boy?"

  "I mean I know he does."

  "We woulda sunk that Mexy ship if she hadn't seen the hurricane coming and turned tail on us," Frontenot recalled.

  "And thank the Good Lord for that hurricane," Bourque said. "That's what really saved New Orleans, y'know."

  "Don't you go sellin' yourself short now," the old man insisted.

  Bourque squeezed Frontenot's shoulder. "Ain't no chance of that," he joked. "You take care of yourself, y'hear?"

  The two old war horses bade each other goodbye and the President and his body man headed toward the limo, while Frontenot reclaimed his pick-up.

  "Did you really remember him?" Pickett asked.

  "Hell, no," Bourque said, getting into the car. "Didn't want to let the old coot down, though."

  "Seems to remember the battle of New Orleans pretty well," Pickett said, sliding in beside his Boss.

  "The Second Battle of New Orleans," Bourque corrected. "Well, we all do, all of us who were there—how old were you then, Roy, 14?"

  ”Sixteen—and old enough to know what would happen if we lost."

  Pinckney had his notebook out again. "Who was that you were talking to," he asked the President.

  "Old shipmate," Bourque told him.

  Pinckney made a note.

  "That was quite a victory, sir," Pickett said, hoping Bourque would launch into one of his wonderful war stories."

  "Indeed it was," Bourque. "Practically perfect."

  "Practically?"

  "Well, if we'd managed to sink La Revolution, we wouldn't have El Presidente Miguel Garcia to deal with."

  "He was on the Mexican ship?"

  "He was the captain of the damn thing," Bourque said. "Most folks don't know that."

  For the rest of the trip—the better part of an hour—Bourque was silent. He just sat there, on the Corinthian leather, intensely staring out the window at the passing scenery, as though he were looking for something.

  When the motorcade arrived at Arcadia, the guards stood aside and the huge iron gates swung open. Instead of circling around the stand of magnolias on the vast front lawn and stopping at the famous columned portico, the motorcade drove around back, between two rows of live oaks, thick with Spanish moss, and into the fluorescent-lit expanse of the underground garage.

  Bourque, Pickett and Pinckney exited the limos and entered the building, which was vibrating with activity—dozens of eager young men in polyester suits scurrying through the hallways and up and down the stairs and a like number of Southern beauty contestants, outfitted like secretaries, rushing in and out of offices with file folders and piles of papers, all accompanied by the low buzz of urgent conversation and the intrusive audio from half a dozen TV sets tuned to the news channel.

  Being used to seeing the President in their midst, few took notice of him and he returned the favor. Bourque stopped at the Vice President's office suite, hoping perhaps to check in with his second-in-command, George "Kooter" Barnes. But the man was nowhere to be found.

  "You know," Bourque said to Pickett—Pinckney hanging on every word, "it was once said of another vice presidency that the job wasn't worth a bucket of warm spit. What he actually said was 'piss,' but no matter. Anyhow, in this case, it's the man who isn't worth a bucket of warm spit. I am surrounded by lunkheads and nincompoops."

  Pinckney jotted this down in his notebook, after which Bourque casually snatched the notebook from his biographer's hand, tore off the first page and stuffed it into his pocket, and handed back the notebook, leaving Pinckney open-mouthed and blinking.

  "Roy, could you come into my office for a few minutes," the President said. He smiled at Pinckney. "I'll catch up with you later, Gerard."

  Bourque and Pickett got into a tiny elevator. Pinckney stood there, excluded and embarrassed.

  The elevator closed and the President turned toward Pickett. "I don't know if I'll ever forgive you for saying yes to that doofus," he said.

  "As I recall," Pickett said pointedly, "you were the one who said yes."

  The President frowned.

  "Anyhow, what's up?" Pickett asked.

  "Just need to talk over something with you."

  The elevator door opened on the second floor, which was much calmer than the first. The President nodded perfunctorily as he crossed paths with some of his senior assistants, and walked Pickett into the famous hexagonal office, closing the big oak door behind them. Pickett reached into his pocket and handed Bourque a couple of Tums without being asked, and they both sat down.

  "Roy," said the President, kicking off his shoes and putting his stockinged feet up on his massive walnut desk, "What do you think of my family?"

  "Your family?"

  "You know. My sister’s boys. My nephews..”

  “Okay,” Pickett said. He clasped his hands over his head and took a deep breath. “Nice boys, both of them.”

  Bourque sighed. “Don’t hold back, Roy.”

  Pickett shrugged. “All right. I’l start with Beau, the eldest. Let’s see. He’s 35, hasn’t worked a day in his life. But he’s an excellent golfer and he’s always got a pretty girl on his arm. Knows his wines.”

  The President held up a hand. "Okay, you made your point. How about Johnny Lee?”

  "Boss, please..."

  "How many DUIs we hushed up for him?"

  "Just a couple."

  "Six."

  "Oh. Yeah. Well, there’s Delphine—she’s a daughter any father would be proud of,” Pickett said.

  Bourque beamed. "And I am, believe me. Lord, if she was 50, or if she was a man, we wouldn't have a thing to worry about."

  "What are you driving at, Mr. President?"

  "Like I said, Roy. Lunkheads and nincompoops. You're my only bright light."

  "Me? If I'm the only bright light around, you've got real trouble."

  "Let's be serious, Roy. You've got brains and you've got guts. And I can trust you."

  "Well, you can trust me, anyhow. That part's true."

  "Keep in mind, young man, that I've known you all your life. I was there in the room behind the kitchen when your Momma birthed you."

  "So you keep reminding me."

  "By the way, how is your Momma?"

  "Outside of the rheumatism, just fine."

  Bourque smiled. "Damn, I miss her jambalaya."

  "I'll see if I can get her to cook you up a pot."

  "Think you can sneak it past the Secret Service? They don't like people bringing food into Arcadia, y'know."

  "I have my ways," Pickett assured him.

  Bourque took a long look at his assistant. "I'm procrastinatin'," he admitted.

  "I know. Might as well get to the point, though."

  The President took his feet down and sat up straight. "Roy, it's time to talk about the future."

  "The future? Whose future?"

  "Mine. Yours. The
country's."

  "Ok."

  "I've been thinking about what happens when I'm gone," Bourque said.

  "Sir, I think it's a bit early for that..."

  "Stop shitting me, Roy. Doesn't do either of us any good." Bourque extended a hand and Pickett dropped a couple of Tums into it. "I'm gonna die and Kooter Barnes is going to be President and I don't think he can hold the country together."

  Pickett opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it.

  "What do you think is going to happen to our credit rating when I'm gone?" Bourque continued. "Do you think the Germans are going to lend money to Kooter Barnes?"

  "He's well-liked..."

  "He's an empty-headed glad-hander and everyone knows it. Not worth a crooked nickle."

  Roy didn't bother to dispute that.

  "Then there's Presidente Garcia, waiting to swallow us up the moment he thinks our defenses are down."

  "But the Bourque Line is impregnable. The enormous pillboxes..."

  "Are crumbling. No rebar. The guns getting rusty, and most of the ammunition is stale. If it weren't for oratory and deception, the Mexys would march out of their Texas garrisons, overrun our Louisiana borders, and sweep right across the country to the Atlantic Ocean."

  "No rebar? I didn't know that."

  "Neither does Presidente Garcia, thank God."

  "I didn't realize it was that bad," Pickett said.

  "I'm putting it in the best light I can."

  "I don't understand," Pickett said. "Our border defense—the Bourque Line—is legendary..."

  "The Bourque Line is crap," said the President. "It was never much more than a bluff, and we haven't been able to repair the pillboxes or buy new guns for the last five years."

  "Because of the cotton crop failures," Pickett said. It wasn't a question.

  "Yes, and because of nylon, rayon and goddamn polyester. Don't get me started on polyester. They're killing us, Roy. You know that. I don't know how much more the Germans are gonna loan us, even I go to Berlin to beg in person."

  "One question," Pickett said.

  "Go ahead."

  "Why did you make Kooter Barnes Vice President?"

  "Roy, you know why. 'Cause I had to have someone from Virginia on the ticket and he was the best of a bad lot."

  There was a knock on the office door.

  "Enter at your own risk," Bourque called out cheerfully.

  The big oak door swung open and Delphine Bourque walked in, red-haired, green-eyed, young and gorgeous. "Hi, Daddy," she said cheerfully. "Hi, Roy."

  "Ah," said Bourque, "the Songbird of the South and my favorite daughter. Come hug."

  Delphine did just that.

  "How was Atlanta?" Roy asked.

  "We had almost 2500 people. They wouldn't let me off the stage—three encores."

  "Sing anything from the new album?" the President asked.

  "Just one number—Waitin' For You To Come Home. They really liked it."

  "They'd better, if they know what's good for 'em," Bourque said.

  "Anyhow, I just wanted to tell you that I'm back," she said, glancing at Pickett. "I'll be here until Friday, then it's off to Savannah for a Saturday night concert."

  "That's my girl," Bourque told Pickett, who nodded.

  "How was the doctor's appointment, daddy?"

  "Ok. I'll tell you all about it at dinner—you'll be there, right? In the living quarters?"

  "I'll be there," Delphine said. She left the office, leaving faint tracings of honeysuckle in her wake, and both men gazing at her.

  "Where were we?" the President asked Pickett.

  "Talking about Kooter."

  "Man ain't got the sense the Lord gave an ant."

  "How about Speaker Honaker?" Pickett asked.

  "He's older than baseball. I'll probably outlive him."

  "The majority leader?"

  "Belcher? He's a fairy. You know I don't have anything against fairies, well not too much, but I can't see a fairy as President. Can you?"

  Pickett shook his head no.

  The President got up and opened up a built-in cabinet, withdrawing a bottle of Dickel 12 year old Sour Mash Whiskey and a bottle of club soda. He made two Old Woodies and handed one to Pickett. "Beginning to see my problem?" He asked, sipping.

  "The country's problem you mean?"

  "The very same," Bourque agreed.

  "So what's the solution—and how do you plan to involve me? Surely you don't expect me to take over after you..."

  "What? God damn it, Roy, I have cancer, not Alzheimers. Do I have to remind you that you are a full-blooded member of the nigra persuasion? Do I have to remind you that means you cannot vote, you cannot serve on a jury, you cannot bring a lawsuit against a member of the white race and that holding office is totally out of the question?"

  "No, Mr. President," Pickett said. "You don't have to remind me."

  Bourque was on a roll. "Do I have to remind you that except in special cases, such as yourself, your people are not welcome in our institutions of higher learning? Do I have to remind you're risking your life if you even run your eyes over a white woman, much less commit the mortal sin of miscegenation."

  Pickett threw up his hands. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it."

  "Jesus, I'm sorry Roy," said the President. "Sometimes, my mouth starts running and I forget to turn it off."

  "That's all right. I know you're not feeling well," Pickett said. "But you're right. I'm not the man for the job. I don't know who is."

  Bourque took a long draw of his Old Woodie. "Roy, we've stood by ourselves for 150 years. Proudly. But I think our run is over."

  "Sir..."

  "No, listen," said the President, reflecting, "I'm not talking about me dying now. I'm talking about the whole country. We can't stand by ourselves any longer, and if we insist on trying, those of us who survive'll end up jabbering in Spanish, going to Mass three times a day and stuffin' our faces full of tacos and tortilla chips morning, noon and night. We'll be strangers in our own land, Roy. Everything we are will be swept away."

  Pickett took a drink. "So that's it?"

  "No, that's not it, not if I can keep up my strength, not if I live long enough, not if you're willing to be my point man."

  "Of course I'm willing, sir. You know that."

  "What I have in mind is nigh on impossible," Bourque said. "And it would put you right in middle of some damn serious crossfire."

  "Been there, done that."

  "The way I figure it," Bourque went on, "We got one slim little chance, about as big as a bedbug."

  "And that is?"

  Bourque smiled ruefully. "To ask our neighbors up north to give us a hand."

  "What?" Pickett said, incredulous.

  "I've been ruminating over it for months, Roy. There's no other way."

  "They loathe us, y'know," Pickett pointed out. "And when people down here find out, there'll be a full-scale revolt. It won't work."

  "Nonetheless." The President said with finality.

  Pickett looked him in the eye a good five seconds. "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to get into your best Sunday suit, go see that new President of theirs, Callaway, and tell him I'd like to parlay with him, face to face," Bourque said.

  Pickett stared at him in disbelief.

  Chapter Two

  "Dammit," said Julia Callaway, "they're running it again! I don't believe it!"

  Charlie Callaway opened his eyes with an effort—it had been a very late night. His wife was sitting on the bed, her world-famous figure in full view, her lovely legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. She was watching one of the four large-screen TVs that covered the wall. "Who's running what?" He asked.

  "The INN—the 'neutral and unbiased' International News Network," she said. "They're running that despicable documentary again, the one you keep missing."

  Callaway groaned, turned over and put a pillow over his head.

  "Charlie look at this—
or at least listen," Julia implored.

  He chose to listen.

  "...although there is no documented evidence for the claim, his father, Charles Callaway Sr., always said he was a Southie, a former Mississippi house servant who'd braved trigger-happy border guards and land mines to illegally escape to the North..."

  "Illegally," Julie repeated angrily. "Did you hear that?"

  "Mmmm."

  "...his mother was a domestic at the home of a Philadelphia family, whose wealth and political connections were instrumental in getting her young son into Princeton..."

  "Damn them!" Julie said. "Those mumzers make it sound like you needed help getting into school."

  "Not the worst thing that's ever been said about me," Callaway observed.

  "...became a lawyer specializing in environmental issues, then was appointed to fill out the term of a Brooklyn, New York city councilman who'd been arrested for taking bribes..."

  "Bribes," Julia said. "Why do they even have to mention that? You had nothing to do with that."

  "Well, it is INN," Callaway said. He sat up, with some effort, got out of bed and walked into the bathroom.

  "...began his meteoric political rise, mastering the rough-and-tumble of New York City machine politics, got himself elected to the New York State Assembly, then the New York State Senate, and become the youngest Borough President in Brooklyn's history..."

  "There they go again," Julia complained, "Machine politics."

  Charlie stopped brushing his teeth for a moment, looked into the mirror and experimentally flashed his brilliant smile. "Girl, you're going to have to grow a thicker skin or stop watching INN and reading the New York Mail."

  She laughed. It was a pleasant, tinkley sound. "I know. But every time Helmut Metzger or his hired guns takes a pot shot at you, I want to take a pot shot at him. Why couldn't he have been content to corrupt all the newspapers in Berlin, Paris and London?"

  Callaway picked out a shirt and tie, and showed them to Julia, who nodded her approval. "Because men like that can never have enough power," he said.

  "Very insightful," Julie said with a grin. "Especially coming from you."

  "Touché, my dear," Callaway said, smiling.

  "...Today, President Callaway begins his first day in office, after an evening of lavish, even excessive celebration. Will he govern from the center, as he has promised, or will he drift toward the far left, as his history suggests. Tune in 'The Edge,' tonight, for Jack Sullivan's analysis, neutral and unbiased..."