They used that up and just started reminiscing about the old football team, about life in West Condon, all the ups and downs, wound up at the disaster. Vince asked if Ted had heard anything definite about whether or not No. 9 would reopen. Ted said, no, but he still had hopes. He went on to explain some of the plans he’d been working up, how he’d got the city to buy up some unused property out by the old mine road to offer rent free to industry, how they had drawn up a proposed bill to get another highway diverted through here, how he’d talked a university group into making an objective survey of the area’s industrial potential, how he and some other fellows were working up a special brochure in their spare time, and so on. Vince even began to feel pretty good. But then they drifted back to the business about the fire and the hand and Bruno and all, and they got gloomy again.
Ted sighed. “Sure going to be hell trying to impress some bigwig at DuPont or Westinghouse if they get wind of all this.”
“Yeah, ain’t it the truth?” Wow, that was pretty bigtime! “Seems like something oughta be done.” Vince stroked his chin thoughtfully. He was thinking about getting a few of the boys together and just booting Bruno’s ass right out of town, but he didn’t know if Ted would be too impressed by the idea.
“You know, I just had an idea,” said Ted, cracking his fist — smack! — into his palm. “Something occurred to me at the fire the other night when I saw you, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe, by God, what we need here is some kind of third force, something to bring a little common sense into the community and some peace between Baxter and Bruno. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” said Vince, staring meditatively down at his beer glass. He wasn’t sure Ted was including him in his idea, but he thought he ought to say he was available. “We could get the whole town in on it maybe, get some life here.”
“By God, you’re right!” Ted beamed. Jesus, the guy really looked pleased. Vince drank off his beer. “Get up a kind of committee or something, and, like you say, the more people the better. I think if these people saw how the whole community felt, they might start showing a little, you know, a little common—”
“Common sense.”
“Exactly. Hey, wait! That’s great! A Common Sense Committee!” Ted slapped the porch rail. “How does that sound?”
“Sounds great!” Vince suddenly felt very goddamn bright, very much on top of things. “When do we start?”
“Hell, why not right now?”
“I’m ready.”
“Let’s see, today’s Wednesday, what do you say about Friday night? How many people do you think—?”
“How many do you want?”
Ted laughed. “That’s the boy!” Vince grinned. “Where can we meet, do you think?”
Vince thought about that, stroking his chin. “How about the old auditorium at St. Stephen’s?”
“Not a bad idea. How many does it hold?”
“Couple hundred, I guess.”
“I can probably round up a hundred or so. Think we can fill it?”
“Hell,” said Vince, “we’ll have them standing outside.”
Cavanaugh laughed, slapped him on the shoulder. Over Bonali. “Good man, Vince! By God, I’m glad I stopped over!”
With Etta’s help on the telephone, plus evening visits to the Eagles, the Legion and VFW halls, a couple key taverns and filling stations, and the Knights of Columbus, Vince managed to round up some hundred and twenty people who promised to show up. Ted called him a couple times to see how things were going, and Friday stopped by a few minutes to brief him on the meeting. He told him he’d got the support of the Rotarians and the Chamber board, the Protestant ministers, a couple women’s groups, Father Baglione, the PTA, just about all right-minded West Condon groups. He reminded Vince again how things like this Bruno nonsense could get out of hand, produce mass hysteria, make West Condon an object of national ridicule, but Vince didn’t need reminding, told Ted that was what he’d been telling the others. Ted asked him what he thought about making the mayor chairman of the committee. Vince said it sounded like a good idea. Made it plain this was an all-community affair. Exactly! Ted was really leaning on him.
As soon as Vince and Etta arrived at the Friday night meeting they found themselves surrounded by the people they’d contacted, wanting details, wanting to find out what the pitch was going to be, wanting in on the center of things and apparently figuring Vince was the route. The little auditorium was packed, must have been more than two hundred squeezing in, Jesus, it was just as good as he’d said it would be. And here in St. Stephen’s, Vince and his people felt right at home. He left Etta with a gang of them, told her just to talk and keep their interest up, while he looked for Ted.
He knocked into Chester Johnson, who asked him, “Hey, Bonali! We gonna have a lynchin’, baby?”
“Yeah.” Vince grinned, barely pausing as he moved through. “We’re gonna clean out the lousy pitch players in this town.”
He worked his way over toward where some of the town politicos were buzzing around Mayor Whimple. Felt a tug on his arm, turned: Ted Cavanaugh. “Come with me a minute, Vince.”
He and Ted shouldered their way through the crowd, a lot of eyes on them, respectful mumble, stepped into a little room just outside the auditorium proper. Couple businessmen in there. Vince recognized them, but had never met them personally. They turned toward him. “Maury, Burt, this is Vince Bonali. Maury Castle, Vince. Burt Robbins.” Vince greeted them, gave them a hard handshake. They said they knew him. Joe Altoviti and another guy stepped into the room. Altoviti was alderman from Vince’s part of town. The other guy was introduced as Jim Elliott, Chamber of Commerce secretary. “Man, Ted, that’s a real crowd out there!” Elliott said.
“Vince here had a lot to do with it,” Cavanaugh said simply. They all turned and looked at him. He pulled out a cigar, clamped it in his teeth, reached for matches, but Castle lit it for him. “We don’t have much time,” Cavanaugh went on. “I’m going to get the thing underway by stating the main purposes, telling what I know of Bruno’s group and the trouble that Reverend Baxter is causing, but we’ll need motions to actually get the committee set up and really functioning. Burt, Maury, can you take care of that?”
“Sure.”
“Who should we make chairman of it?”
The guys in the room looked around at each other. Vince didn’t see what was wrong with Ted’s idea. “Why not the mayor?”
Ted seemed to think about that a minute, like he’d forgot. “Okay. Will you take care of the nomination, Vince?”
Again the eyes. Vince nodded. Castle drew the second.
Cavanaugh: “Of course, this is as much a religious problem as a civic one. Maybe we ought to have a couple vice-chairmen. Father Baglione, for example. One of the Protestant ministers maybe. How does that strike you fellows?”
They assented, settling finally on Reverend Edwards of the First Presbyterian, since he also headed up the Ministerial Association. To emphasize it was all nonsectarian, Elliott was charged with nominating Baglione, Altoviti with naming Edwards.
On the way out, Elliott whispered in Vince’s ear, “Say, I hate to seem stupid, but what’s Father Baglione’s first name?”
“Battista.”
Elliott grinned, clapped Vince’s shoulders. “Thanks.”
Vince was thinking over what Ted had said. This was a town of Christians. Catholics and Protestants. We all believe in bringing up our children in our own faith, seeing to it that they get properly oriented to the life ahead of them here in this Christian country, that they learn what’s good and bad, right and wrong. It was true. That was what held them together. It was West Condon.