"That's right. Got one in mind?"
"I might."
"Any more questions for now?" said Leo, looking round the warehouse office.
"Just one," said Turner. "You really going to blow up Richmond if the Government don't give in? Lot of black folk in that town."
"What would you do, Turner?"
"I don't know, Mr. Leo." Turner looked at his big, scarred hands. "I'll kill whitey's soldiers… I'll kill his cops… but I don't think I could kill my brothers."
"You leave that decision up to the Road," said Leo confidently. "We'll handle our end. The President and the legislature will give in. They'll have to. Just the shock of finding out we have it instead of the Army will scare the pants off of them." He looked at Turner. "So. Are you with me?"
Johnny Turner looked at his men one by one. Their faces did not quite reflect the Railroad man's enthusiasm. "Bo, what you think?"
"Maybe it'll be dangerous… but I been spoilin' for a fight for a long time," said the little man.
"Ben?"
"I guess, Johnny. Yeah. If you're going."
"Willie?"
"S'pose so."
"Sammy?" A nod. He continued around the room until everyone, each in his own fashion, had had his say.
"Okay, Mr. Leo. You got eight strong backs to hump your shell for you."
"Good. Now, we'll meet again tomorrow night—"
"No."
"Look, Turner—"
"You look," said Johnny. "No more meetings. The cops are scrambling all over each other after these Secesh Day riots. Patrollers are out — I met four of 'em on my way here. All they got to do is to catch one of us comin' in or out, and that put the quietus on the whole thing. Boys here and I works together all day. You got more to say, see me — I'll pass it on. You see, Mr. Leo, if you is askin' me to do it, then I'm the man got to be in charge."
He stared at Leo. He looked angry, but he didn't much care. These were his men. He would lead them. There could be no question about that and he was willing to have it out with this whitey-looking kid right now, wounded or not.
But finally Leo relaxed and nodded. "All right. You win; I'll get with you later. Where can I find you?"
He gave him Vyry's address. "I'll be there two, maybe three more days — till this leg's healed up. Finnick, you cover for me at the dock."
"Sure, Johnny."
"All right, then," said Leo.
"That's all you got?"
"All for now."
"That's good." Turner stuck out his hand. "We'll do this right."
He watched Leo's face as his big hand closed. The kid didn't wince. Good. He turned to the others. "Okay, this meeting seem to be over. Let's start going out, two at a time. Sammy, cut off that light."
When they all had gone he rolled up his trouser leg. The blood gleamed dark against his skin. The pain had dulled to an ache. Have to clean it out again with that corn, he thought. Wonder if Vyry's back yet.
Time to go; the men out before him must be over the fence and beyond the tracks by now. He rolled his trouser leg back down and slipped through the door, pulling it to behind him.
Quiet outside now. The river sounds were muted with the lateness of the hour. He started for the fence, taking it slow. He reached it and clambered painfully over it and dropped to the ground. Too late, he saw the old Dixie parked in the shadow of the substation shed.
"Jus' come on over slow," came the same oily voice. "Night shif', huh? Don't make no sudden moves or this here twelve-gauge likely to jus' go off of hitself. Billy, search him up good."
Hands ran over him as he stood still. "Built like a damn truck, but he's clean. Hey — looks like he hurt here in the leg. Lotta blood."
"He going to hurt a lot more than that," said the man with the shotgun. "You got them cuffs? We'll just put him in the trunk. It's only a half hour ride over't the fort."
"Fort? Why you takin' him to the fort? Police station the place for this buck."
"Now, hit obvious you ain't heard," said the man called Billy, with great patience, "but bein' you is about as stupid a bastard as they come I ain't surprised. They got the military and everybody out lookin' for the fuckers started this here riot. Some of them, Baylor says, might be shot up. So we find this here nigger scurryin' round in the dead of night, and he hurt — why, we jus' give him a little ride down to see that Major Quidley, thass all."
"Oh, fuck you, Billy," said the other man. "Okay, nigger. Get in the trunk. Don't bleed on my spare."
FIVE
He stood stiffly, almost painfully, arms locked behind his back.
From eight stories up, early morning mists still softened the outlines of the lower reaches of the Chesapeake. The sun, only a little above the sea to the east, was already a blazing fireball. The fog would burn off soon. It would be another hot day.
Aubrey Lee Quidley IV turned from the window and sat down stiffly at his desk. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, then rubbed cautiously. So early. After such a late night, and so much bourbon. For the second night in a row he'd gone back to the narrow house on Bute Street.
Vyry. The name brought it all back. The smoothness of her skin, darker at armpit and thigh; pert musky nipples, brownish-purple and rigid against his tongue; the strange anguished moan he had finally, after many minutes and two returns, coaxed from her as her mouth opened under his.
He smiled. He'd had many colored women but none of them like this Lewis. Still, he'd tire of her. One always did of low women. Sharon, now….
He felt suddenly guilty for thinking of two so different women in the same context of his own lust. He told himself sorrowfully that he was hung over. He slid open his drawer and swallowed an aspirin and washed it down with the darjeeling that had been waiting, hot, on his desk when he arrived. He pressed the button on his intercom. "Jeannie? I'm in. Night reports?"
"In your basket, sir."
"Any calls?"
"General Norris. Wants to see you as soon as you come in."
"Oh." That didn't sound good. "Is he in yet this morning?"
"He's been here all night, Major."
Even worse. He reached for the Night Reports folder. Best to take a minute and be ready for Norris's questions. He skimmed them quickly; not much; the usual inexplicable hiatus in individual violence that followed a riot had begun. Police reported the robbery of a Granby Street liquor store by a white man with a gun. Chief Mays's men could handle that. Quiet in the fort area. Attempted break-in at a city building in Portsmouth; shot by a guard when he ran, colored, no investigation necessary… the citizen's patrol in the Elizabeth River area had brought in a curfew breaker. Quidley read this one in full, since for some reason they'd brought him in to the fort. The man was hurt… might look in on him later down in the tank. That was it; not a heavy night. He dropped the folder into his briefcase for reference along with the Shiloh operation order. On the way to Norris's office he paused at a mirror, adjusted his Browne belt, flicked a speck of dust from the fresh tunic. He knocked, entered, and saluted so smartly his head gave him a jolt of pain.
"Good morning, General. You wanted to see me."
Norris looked up from his desk. His thin face was haggard and his white hair was tousled and lifeless. Usually the general asked him to sit. This time he just said, "We've got a problem."
"Sir?"
Norris tapped a gray-and-black Confederate Bureau of Investigation folder. "This came in at midnight; urgent, secret. It's been routed to us via Castle Thunder. I've been trying to get hold of you since it came in. Where in the devil have you been?"
"Ah, at my fiancée’s, sir."
"All night, Major?"
"Well, sir—"
"Never mind. I'd reprimand you, but frankly I'm too tired right now. You've got to leave a number even when you're off duty, while this Shiloh thing is pending. Understand?"