"Yes, sir," Dowling said.
"All right, then," the president said. "We'll say no more about it. But my decision is final. I do not want this issue raised again."
"Yes, sir," Dowling repeated.
"Good." Hoover hung up.
Dowling emerged from his office feeling like a man who'd survived a bomb going off much too close. Thanks to the Confederates during the war and that damned Canuck afterwards, he knew more about bombs going off too close than he'd ever wanted to learn. What he felt must not have shown on his face, though, for Captain Toricelli said, "I heard you talking to the president, sir. May we go ahead?"
His voice said he was confident of the answer. Well, Abner Dowling had been confident of the answer, too. Much good his confidence had done him. He shook his head. His jowls wobbled back and forth. "No, Captain. In fact, we're ordered not to go ahead, and so we won't."
Toricelli gaped. "But… why, sir?"
"The president feels the scheme smacks of socialism. He says we've had enough government programs trying to get us over the hump, and he doesn't want another one."
"But…" his adjutant said again.
"He's the president. What he says goes," Dowling said. "And he and Coolidge did campaign against government interference, and they did get elected. If I look at it that way, maybe I'm not so surprised."
"But…" Toricelli said once more. After a moment, he gathered himself and managed something else: "We're not competing against any private firm clearing Temple Square. There is no private firm clearing Temple Square."
"If you care to call Powel House, Captain, go right ahead," Dowling said. "As for me, I'm sure I know what the president wants done and what he doesn't. And he doesn't want us giving the Mormons even a dime to haul rocks out of Temple Square."
"A few days ago, we were saying he didn't seem to want to do much of anything," his adjutant observed. "Don't you think this goes too far, though?"
"What I think is, he's the president of the United States. If you set my opinion next to his, I know whose comes out on top. We've been ordered not to proceed. That being so, we won't proceed."
"I can't argue with you there, sir," Toricelli said.
"Good," Dowling said. "I'm glad. For your sake, I'm glad. It's a free country. You can disagree with the president. Nobody will say a word. But when he gives an order, we follow it."
"Of course, sir," Captain Toricelli replied, as any officer in the Army would have done.
A few days later, Dowling received Heber Young in his office. Young, a handsome man in his early thirties, was a grandson of Brigham Young. Given the number of wives and children Brigham had had, that was hardly a unique distinction in Utah these days. This particular Young came as close to being an official leader as the Mormons had. Since, under martial law, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was proscribed, he couldn't be very official. But he wasn't exactly unofficial, either.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Young?" Dowling asked after greetings that were what diplomats called "correct": polite and chilly.
"People here need work, Colonel," Heber Young replied.
"People all over the country need work, sir," Dowling said.
"Will you tell me the problem is not worse here?" Young asked.
"If it is, whose fault is that?" Dowling said. "I was with General Pershing when a Mormon fanatic murdered him-a Mormon fanatic we've never caught, for other Mormon fanatics have sheltered him for all the years since."
"I don't know how you can say that, Colonel, when the U.S. government insists again and again that there is no such thing as the Mormon Church in Utah these days." Young spoke with surprisingly mild irony.
It was still enough to raise a flush on Dowling's plump cheeks. "Funny, Mr. Young. Very funny. Come to the point, if you'd be so kind."
"All right. I will." Young looked serious to the point of solemnity. "We could use-we desperately need-a public-works program to give men jobs, help them support their families, and, most important of all, give them hope."
Dowling sighed. "As it happens, I have discussed that very notion with President Hoover in the past few days. He opposes such programs not only here but anywhere in the USA. Don't expect them. Don't hope for them. You will be disappointed."
Heber Young proved he could quote the Old Testament as well as the Book of Mormon, murmuring, " ' Mene, mene, tekel upharsin. Thou art weighed in the balance, and art found wanting.' As God said to Belshazzar, so I say to Hoover." And he walked out of Abner Dowling's office without a backward glance.
S cipio hadn't got so dressed up since his days as Anne Colleton's butler. The Huntsman's Lodge was as fine a restaurant as Augusta boasted, and expected its waiters to look the part. (It paid no better than any other restaurant, and worse than some. It expected the men who served food to make most of their money from tips. The customers tipped no better there than anywhere else. One reason they'd got rich enough to afford to eat at the Huntsman's Lodge was their reluctance to part unnecessarily with even a penny.)
Walking to the restaurant in boiled shirt, black tie, and tails was torture for Scipio in the sodden heat of late August. If he hadn't needed work of any sort so badly… But he did, and he was glad to have any at all. So many men in Augusta, Negro and white, didn't.
Walking to the Huntsman's Lodge in formal attire was, or could be, torture in more ways than one. It exposed him to the wit, such as that was, of the white citizens of Augusta. He could usually see trouble coming before it struck. That did him no good what ever, of course.
"Looky what we got here!" a fellow in straw hat and bib overalls whooped, pointing at Scipio. "We got us a nigger all tricked out like a penguin! Ain't that somethin'?"
Other whites coming down Marbury Street smiled. One or two laughed. Three or four stopped to see what would happen next. Scipio hoped nothing would happen next. Sometimes one joke was enough to get the meanness out of a white man's system. Smiling what was probably a sickly smile, Scipio tried to walk on by.
As he came closer to the man in overalls, he saw a Freedom Party pin glittering on one overalls strap. His heart sank. That was likely to mean worse trouble than he would have got from somebody else. And, sure as hell, the white man stepped into his path and said, "What the hell's a nigger doin' dressed up like he's King Shit?"
When Scipio tried to walk around him, the man blocked his way again. He had to answer. He did, as meekly as he could: "I's a waiter, suh. I gots to wear dis git-up."
He should have known-he had known-nothing he said would do him any good. Scowling, the white man demanded, "How come you got a job when I ain't, God damn you? Where's the justice in that?" Scipio tried to escape with a shrug. It didn't work. The man shouted, "Answer me, you goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch!"
Because I have a brain, and you haven't. Because my mouth isn't hooked up to the toilet. Because I've had more baths this week than you have this year. If Scipio said any of that, he was a dead man. He looked down at the sidewalk, the picture of a submissive Negro. Softly, he said, "Suh, I been waitin' table forty year now. I's right good at it." What are you good at, besides causing trouble? Not much, I'll bet. One more thing he dared not say.
"You know how many white folks is hungry, and you're marchin' off to work in your goddamn fancy penguin suit?" the man in overalls snarled. "I ought to kick your black ass around the block a few times, teach you respect for your betters."
He drew back his foot as if to do just that. All Scipio could do was take it or try to run. He intended to run-he didn't want his outfit damaged. Getting it repaired or, worse, having to buy a new one would cost him money he didn't have. But then one of the other white men said, "Hell, let him go. Ain't his fault he has to dress up like a damn fool to go to work."