"Don't know. Didn't hang around to find out," he said. "I just drew part of my pay and headed on over here. When they want me again, they'll come after me."
"Well, at least they won't have to scour the saloons to find you," Connie said. "Some of those people…"
George didn't say anything to that. He just tried to look virtuous. He didn't know how good a job he did. For one thing, he intended to take a drink or three while he had the chance. For another, Connie's father had seen the inside of a tavern and the bottom of a glass more than a few times in his day.
But George didn't want to think about that right this minute, either. He asked, "How are things here?"
"Pretty good," Connie answered. "They've been good boys. They haven't tried to pull the ears off the cat or flush the Sears, Roebuck catalogue down the toilet." They had committed the felony with the catalogue, one crumpled page and then more than one crumpled page at a time, till a flood and two spankings resulted. They hadn't messed with the cat's ears, at least not where their parents could catch them. But then Whiskers, unlike the hapless catalogue, could take care of himself.
The cat strolled up to see what the commotion was about. He gave George a leisurely glance, then yawned, showing needle teeth. Oh, it's you, he might have said. He remembered George between trips just well enough to tolerate being petted. And, of course, George smelled of fish, which made him interesting.
"How was the run?" Connie did her best not to sound anxious. Her best could have been better. If the run wasn't good, things got tight. She had to make ends meet on whatever George brought home.
"Pretty good. We brought back a lot of tuna," he answered. "Only question now is how much it'll bring."
"News hasn't been good," Connie said, and he nodded. She went on, "That might drive prices up."
"Maybe. I can hope." He sniffed. "What smells good?"
"I was stewing a chicken," she told him. "We were going to have it for two nights, maybe three, but who cares? I've got to show you I'm a better cook than the Cookie, don't I?"
"You're a lot cuter than Davey, anyhow," he said, which made her squawk. He went on, "I just hope Bill and Pat get sleepy pretty soon." Both boys let out indignant howls. If he'd listened to them, he would have believed they would never fall asleep again. Fortunately, he knew better.
Connie turned red. "My father used to say things like that when he came home from a fishing run."
"So did mine," George said. "I never understood why till not very long ago. I don't remember much about my pa, but that sticks in my mind."
"How come, Daddy?" Bill asked.
"I don't know. It just does," George answered. "It's the sort of thing a fisherman would say, that's for sure." Bill asked why again. George didn't say, not in words. He kissed Connie again instead. As far as he was concerned, that was the best answer he could give.
Jefferson Pinkard looked around at his kingdom and found it… not so good. He turned to Mercer Scott, the guard chief at Camp Dependable. "For Chris-sake, Mercer," he said, "what the hell are we gonna do when those goddamn sons of bitches in Richmond send us another shipment of niggers? This camp'll go boom, on account of there just ain't no room for any more spooks in here. Do they care? Do they give a shit? Don't make me laugh."
Scott shifted a chaw of Red Man from his left cheek to his right. He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. "You sure as hell ain't wrong," he said. "We got us coons hangin' from their heels like they was bats. Dunno where else we can put 'em. On the roofs, maybe?" He laughed to show that was a joke.
Jeff laughed, too, though it was anything but funny. If he could have put bunks on the roofs of the prisoner barracks, he would have done it. He didn't know where else to put them, that was for sure. "Bastards don't send us enough in the way of rations, neither. We got pellagra, we got hookworm, we got plain old-fashioned starvation. Wouldn't take a whole lot more food to make all that stuff a hell of a lot better."
"Damned if I can see why you're gettin' your ass in an uproar about that," Scott said. "They're only niggers. No, they ain't only niggers. They're a bunch of goddamn Reds, too. So who gives a shit if they die? Ain't nobody gonna miss 'em."
"It's not…" Pinkard frowned, looking for the word that summed up how he felt about it. "It's not orderly, dammit. If they give me so many prisoners, they're supposed to give me enough food for that many, too. That's just the way things work."
As a matter of fact, that wasn't the way things worked. They'd worked that way in the prisoner camps down in the Empire of Mexico, not least because Jeff had made sure they did. And they'd worked that way in the Birmingham jail, because it was longstanding policy that they work so. There was no longstanding policy for camps housing political prisoners and Negroes taken in rebellion. Every day that passed saw such policy made.
Scott seemed to understand instinctively the root of that policy. It was, Who gives a shit if they die? Pinkard could see that for himself. A hell of a lot of prisoners left Camp Dependable feet first. He didn't like it. He scavenged across the countryside for more rations than he was officially issued. No doubt that did some good. Against the kind of overcrowding he was facing, it didn't do much.
A guard trotted up to him, heavy belly bouncing above his belt. "Telephone call for you, boss," the man said. He hadn't missed any meals. None of the guards had. Neither had Pinkard himself.
"Thanks, Eddie," he said, though he didn't know why he was thanking the guard. Telephone calls weren't likely to be good news. He tramped back to the office and picked up the phone. "Pinkard speaking."
"Hello, Pinkard." The clicks and pops on the line said it was a longdistance call. "This is Ferdinand Koenig, calling from Richmond."
"Yes, sir!" The attorney general was Jake Featherston's right-hand man. "Freedom!"
"Freedom! I've heard you aren't happy because you haven't been getting enough advance notice of prisoner shipments," Koenig said, as if he'd just finished listening to Jeff bitching to Mercer Scott.
"Uh, yes, sir. That's true," Jeff said. Meanwhile, he was thinking, Goddammit, some son of a bitch here is telling stories about me back in Richmond. Have to find out who the bastard is. He didn't suppose he should have been surprised that Koenig-as attorney general or as Freedom Party big wig? — had spies in Camp Dependable. All the same, he wanted to be rid of them.
The attorney general didn't sound too angry as he said, "Don't suppose I can blame you for that. Here's your news then: you've got about fifteen hundred niggers-maybe two thousand-heading your way. They ought to be there in three, four days."
"Jesus Christ!" It wasn't a scream, but it came close. Pinkard went on, "Sir, no way in hell this camp will hold that many more people. We're overflowing already."
"That's why I'm telling you now." Koenig spoke with what sounded like exaggerated patience. "You have the time to get ready for those black bastards."
"I don't suppose we'll get the rations we need to feed 'em," Jeff said. Only silence answered him. He hadn't really expected anything else. Reproachfully, he continued, "Sir, you know I'm a good Party man. I don't mean any disrespect or anything like that. But what the hell am I supposed to do to get my camp ready for a shipment that big?"
"Whatever you have to do." Ferdinand Koenig paused. Pinkard didn't think he would say anything more, but he did, repeating, "Whatever you have to do. Is that plain enough, or do I have to draw you a picture? I'd better not have to draw you a picture. I heard you were a pretty smart fellow."
Maybe he had just drawn a picture. "Jesus Christ!" Jeff said again, not much liking what he thought he saw. "You mean-?"
Koenig cut him off. "Whatever you have to do," he said for the third time. "You can take care of it, or I'll find somebody else who will. Your choice, Pinkard. Which would you rather?"