Mrs. Abe Bludner saw the thin, vital blossoming body in the fishnet and immediately felt depressed, so depressed that she stuffed another hors d'oeuvre into her mouth. Having felt sufficiently depressed with her age and weight, she reminded her husband of how he had left her stranded on the Narragansett Parkway in 1942 and how she should have known back then, back in 1942, left all alone in the family car, that he would do such a thing as vote for that exhibitionist who should be in jail. Jail was for people who exposed themselves. Forgiveness was for people who broke other people's heads with crowbars. At least that wasn't dirty.
Mrs. Rocco Pigarello looked at the man her husband had voted for, looked at the woman he was with, and gently tapped her husband's giant girth. When he turned his face to her, she spat.
The three brass bands emitted trumpet and drum salutes, and Gene Jethro grabbed one of the microphones. A lone clapper accentuated the silence.
"Hi there, dudes," said Gene Jethro.
Silence.
"I'm glad you've come here to help me celebrate a victory, not only for the drivers of America, but for the people of America. We're going to do some great things together. Meaningful things. And I just want to thank you all."
A few claps.
"But I don't think there is anything as meaningful as our own new minimum wage. Airline pilots make well over $30,000 a year base. And they drive planes. Dock-workers, if they work full time all year, can bring home $18,000 a year. If one of our drivers earns $15,000 a year, he's doing all right. Well, that's not all right with me. I don't see the difference between a man who hauls freight on the ground and a man who hauls freight off a ship. I don't see the difference between a man who drives a truck on a road and a man who drives an airplane in the sky.
"Too long have we been taken for granted. Too long has a couple of hundred a week been considered adequate base pay for our union members. Too long have our men come home weary and tired and broken of body and mind for a paltry two hundred a week, if they make that."
Jethro paused to allow his indignation to infect his audience.
"You tell 'em, Geney baby," yelled one of the women. "Give 'em hell."
"We are the biggest and strongest single transportation union in the country. In the world."
Cheers filled the ballroom. Loud whistles rent the air. Hands beat together in a growling, surging applause.
Gene Jethro raised his hands to quiet his audience.
"They tell me that a driver isn't worth $25,000 a year."
Gasps. Disbelief. Some applause.
"But I'm going to tell them that if you want to eat, if you want to drink milk or soda or any thing, else, if you want your television sets or new cars, you're gonna pay your drivers $25,000 a year. And these drivers are going to pay their union representatives the kind of salaries that an executive representing $25,000-a-year men deserves. I'm talking $100,000 for business agents. I'm talking $110,000 for recording secretaries. I'm talking $115,000 for vice-presidents and $125,000 a year for presidents of locals."
Again silence. The figures were beautiful, but unbelievable.
"Now many of you think these figures are too high. Many of you think we can never get that much. Many of you figure that's a nice promise but a weak reality. But let me ask you now. Whoever thought I would become president of this union? Raise your hand. Go ahead. Raise your hand. You're full of shit, Siggy, and you told me just yesterday you thought we were going to jail."
Laughter.
"By this Friday, every one of you will see how we're going to be able to turn this country on and off like a water faucet. By this Friday, you are going to see why the basic salary of a truck driver is going to have to be $25,000 a year if we say so. By this Friday, you will see how I am going to work this thing. I promise you here. I promise you now. I, legally, bindingly, solemnly promise I will resign if every one of you does not see how I am going to work this thing for you. Now that's a promise. And I keep promises."
Jethro dropped his hands to his sides and stared at his audience. There was a stony silence. Then someone clapped and the house came down. Women rushed to the stage to kiss Jethro's hands. They fought their husbands who were trying to shake the same hands. The bands tried to play along with the enthusiasm but were drowned out by shrieking, yelling drivers and their wives.
"Jethro. Jethro. Jethro," the crowd began to chant. "Jethro. Jethro. Jethro." His girl friend's blouse was ripped off in the melee. But that was all right. You could have seen everything before, anyhow. And besides, maybe that was just one of the new styles.
Jethro gracefully skirted away from his adoring followers after a proper enough time to receive adulation. He signalled for Negronski.
"Siggy," he said behind a bandstand where hopefully he would be left alone for a moment. "Why isn't that New York delegate here?"
"I asked him," said Negronski.
"And?"
"And I don't know. He said something funny, like it doesn't make any difference anymore."
"Look. He seemed very strange. I'm hearing even stranger things about him. Now, I want him to be at my suite by noon tomorrow, or I do not want him to be at all. Understand. Take Pigarello and the other New England boys with you. Let them get their hands dirty. If Bludner causes you any trouble, let me know first and I'll handle the whole thing. Okay?"
"Bludner ain't going to let you lean on one of his boys."
"Does Remo Jones look like one of Bludner's boys to you?"
"He's got credentials."
"I'll take vibrations over ink any day of the week. I don't think Bludner would say "boo" if we nailed this Remo Jones to the front of a tractor trailer and rammed it into the convention hall. I don't think he'd say boo."
CHAPTER NINE
The piece about Jethro in the Wednesday morning paper was a typical newspaper story. Remo read it to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju, Remo's trainer since he first went to work for the organization, liked newspaper stories. They were almost as pretty as 'Edge of Dawn' or the other shows with good guys and bad guys and dramatic things going to happen which would dramatically change other things, with subtle reasons for things that didn't happen, and with all those wonderful little songs that politicians and militants and labour leaders and association presidents sing.
'Song' was Chiun's word for beautiful speeches. They were judged on thoughts and words alone and not expected to have anything to do with reality. As Chiun had said, truth ruins the really good songs.
"Read," said Chiun, and lowered himself to lotus position, his robes flowing gently around his frail body.
"Dateline, Chicago," said Remo. "Good-bye, beer bellies and roadside diners. Hello, bell bottoms and Consciousness III. The International Brotherhood of Drivers yesterday in a surprise vote chose the young mod Eugene V, Jethro, 26, as its new president.
"The upset came after a bitter, hard-fought, two-month campaign that showed the youthful Jethro to be a master politician with a gentle touch. Said Jethro:
"I think the day of the strong arm is over. I think the day of the image of the burly driver ready to fight and strike over a bargaining issue has gone with the horse and wagon. We are a new union dedicated to new principles for a new membership. We look to a greater understanding of our relationship to our environment. We will not be turned aside by the old canards of reaction, racism and ruthlessness. Our trucks are headed toward a better total life for ourselves, our families and our neighbours," said Jethro.
"He called the vote a mandate for change. He said America needed an organized transportation front, but did not elaborate."
Chiun nodded.
"Is there anything on Viet Nam? Those are the prettiest songs," he asked.