Negronski looked at the dead microphone and then at Jethro.
"We just better win this thing tomorrow," said Negronski.
The sounds of striding men echoed through the convention hall—heavy men with heavy footsteps, marching almost in unison. Negronski peered out into the darkness over the rows of empty seats, into the large, dark, disinfectant-smelling auditorium.
"Jethro, you sonuvabitch, I'm here, you little twirp, and today is the day you get yours." The voice was deep and harsh and echoed the wide Boston 'A." It was Anthony McCulloch, president of Local 73, Boston. And it looked as if he had brought his delegates with him. Big men, burly men, they advanced like the Green Bay Packers line going out to lunch.
McCulloch himself stood six-feet-five, and Negronski knew that he weighed 320 pounds because at last year's convention they had all weighed themselves on a freight scale after a round of drinking and a round of betting. McCulloch had claimed he could guess anyone's weight within five pounds. And he had.
McCulloch, despite his friendliness when he drank, was a power in Eastern union politics, and a man Jethro would need if he ever hoped to get close enough to sell the presidency of the international.
"Hello, Siggy," said McCulloch. "Who's your faggy friend?"
"Hi, Tony," said Nebronski.
"Well, well. Anthony McCulloch. Thank you for coming," said Jethro.
"I didn't come here to promise you my support. I came here to tell you that a group of us here found out about that building outside the city."
Jethro smiled. "Ah, Anthony, Anthony," he sighed. "Why must you do everything I figure you will do? Why aren't you some real competition for me?"
McCulloch looked up to the speaker's platform, then back at the men following him. Negronski recognized three presidents, two joint council presidents and five business agents with the rep as good muscle. They all thought this remark by Jethro was rather puzzling. If it had been a threat, they would have laughed in his face, Negronski knew. But his arrogance was only confusing. They obviously did not think of him as a threat.
"Kid," said McCulloch. "You may claim some kind of mental disorder before some judge, but we don't buy that plea. You stole union money, promised union money, our money, to put up some kind of a building outside this city. Without the okay of the council. Without even the written okay of the treasurer of the international, you committed us to millions. Millions, we still don't know how much. Our accountants are checking it out."
"You spoke to the treasurer?" asked Jethro sweetly.
"Yeah. We spoke," said McCulloch.
"And how is he?"
"He'll be walking again by maybe fall. Which is more than we can say for you. You're looking at some people you can't buy, kid. You're looking at people you can't deal for. We've had you, boy. We're gonna run your ass the hell out of the brotherhood."
Little sounds of "tell 'em," "you said it," "sock it to him," could be heard from the group. The convention hall was chilly, waiting for the multitude of warming bodies, but Negronski felt perspiration form on his forehead. He wiped it off. His lips were dry again, and he did not know what to do with his hands.
"You part of this, Siggy?" asked McCulloch.
Negronski looked down at his shoes, back up to McCulloch, and then to Jethro, who lounged against the microphone like a rock singer. Negronski looked back down at his shoes.
"You part of this thing, Siggy?" McCulloch asked again.
Negronski mumbled an answer.
"I didn't hear you," McCulloch said, "You can still get off the hook, Siggy. We know you're okay."
"I'm part of this thing," said Negronski softly.
"What?" asked McCulloch…
"I'm part of it. I'm part of it," yelled Negronski.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Siggy," said McCulloch. "Sorry for you."
Jethro laughed and fondled the microphone head.
"You want to see where your money went?" he asked tauntingly.
"This pineapple is not to be believed," said McCulloch to his men. "And he wants to be president of the international." The McCulloch people laughed.
They stopped laughing forty minutes later when their Cadillacs drove up Nuihc Street, and they saw the building, glistening aluminium spires reaching into a cloudless blue sky. Green sun-windows a story and a half each. Shiny bronze arches over the windows reflecting the sun like daylight torches. They gasped at its beauty.
Even Rocco 'the Pig' Pigarello, business agent for Local 1287, Union City, New Jersey, one of the roughest locals in the country where no local president ever left office on his feet, could not contain himself.
"It's byoootiful," he said. "Real byootiful."
"You guys ought to like it. You paid for it. Triple what it would have cost if it had been put up in a reasonable time."
"Byootiful," said the Pig.
"We need it like we need leukaemia. What do we need it for? It's our money and we don't need it.' McCulloch said.
"Yeah, we don't need it," said the Pig. "It's byootiful."
"That's just the outside. Wait until you see the inside," said Jethro. And the New England representatives became the first union delegates to view the inside of the building on Nuihc Street.
Rocco 'the Pig' Pigarello emitted 147 more 'byootifuls." This was known because Timmy Ryan, Joe Wolcyz and Prat Connor kept count.
"You say 'byootiful' once more, Pig, and you're going to be saying it without teeth," said Connor.
"Yeah," said the Pig. "And you're gonna be hearing it without a head."
"Hold it. Hold it. Don't fight," said McCulloch. 'We got the pineapple to deal with first."
Siggy Negronski, secreted a lead pipe under his jacket. It looked like the end of the line.
"You want to see me all at once in my office, or one at a time?" said Jethro.
"I'll see you first. There won't be any need for anyone else. Pig, Prat, Timmy, you guys, keep an eye on Siggy," said McCulloch.
"We'll take the elevator to my office," said Jethro.
"We'll settle it right here," said McCulloch.
"My office is the biggest surprise," said Jethro.
"Let's see the office," said the Pig. "What would it hurt to see the office?"
McCulloch shot Pigarello a dirty look. "All right. We will go to the byootiful office." His men laughed.
Nine driver officials in an elevator meant to hold a dozen normal-sized people was like packing a small hat box with a fifteen-pound ham. Negronski's hidden lead pipe was discovered immediately by feel. It was brought out from under his jacket rather roughly, taking a piece of his jaw with it. The blood trickled down his neck and onto the shirt of his assailant. Negronski said nothing. It was all over.
"Siggy, baby. You just point out the dude who did that to you. We'll settle, baby. Nobody does that to one of my people," called out Jethro.
But Negronski could not see his president in the crush. Jethro was the smallest man in the elevator, and he was hidden somewhere, Negronski believed behind McCulloch and the Pig. Although Jethro would have to be visible because he had seen what happened with the pipe. Negronski tried to turn his head to see where Jethro was. His face was slapped back into place. Maybe the two of them would just get a beating and then go to jail. Maybe that would happen. Negronski told himself that all the way to the basement floor.
The elevator doors opened on a large room and the men burst into it like the exploding of a sausage skin.
McCulloch cast a disdainful eye at the large map with the strange union title, and demanded to know where Jethro's office was.
"Over there," said Jethro. McCulloch grabbed the smaller man by the back of his shirt collar and hustled him to the door at which Jethro had pointed.
"It's locked," said Jethro.