Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“Get the fuck off me,” Gordo said, and tried to shrug Roy off. He kept trying until they came to the elevators, but Roy didn’t let himself be shrugged off. Elevator doors opened, a lucky thing because the security guards were right behind, issuing commands Roy’s brain didn’t register. Doors opened and out came Hector from supplies. He had an armful of toner cartridges he could hardly see over, but what he could see alarmed him. Roy felt a hand on his back. He gave Gordo a little push, past Hector-but not quite cleanly-and onto the elevator, occupied by three or four women from maid service, their eyes widening. The doors closed.

Roy turned back to the room. There was toner all over the place. Curtis and Mr. Pegram watched from behind the glass wall, far away, their faces featureless smudges, one black, one white.

Roy worked late, all by himself on the floor, except for maintenance still rebuilding around him. He found the phosphates, lost them again, sorted through several new messages from Kumi, dated the next day. He received a long set of email protocols from the Globax office in New York. It included a warning about personal communications and a reminder that electronic traffic was monitored. He opened the edu message from lbridges.

Roy-interested in a little black powder shooting?

Lee

Bridges. Roy had forgotten the last name. He was wondering whether to reply, and if so what to say, since he wasn’t sure he understood the message, when Curtis came in; walked through the opening, the wall still down.

“Working late?” Curtis said.

“Catching up to do,” Roy said. Curtis pulled up a chair. Could he read the screen from where he was? Depended on his eyesight; black powder shooting looked huge from where Roy sat.

“Bill said to make sure you were properly thanked.”

“For what?”

“For how you handled today’s situation. It bodes well-his words.”

Roy shrugged.

“We’re going to wait forty-eight hours, let things blow over, before making the announcement.”

“What announcement?”

Curtis glanced around; a new wall snapped up in Gordo’s old space, no flag stickers on this one. Curtis lowered his voice. “The promotion, Roy. Your promotion. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even interested.”

Roy lowered his voice in imitation, making their conversation seem intense, as though they’d slipped into italics. “Of course I am.”

Curtis nodded. “I know that. Wouldn’t make sense otherwise.” He gazed at Roy’s screen, resumed a normal volume. “How about a drink? We could try that new place on Edgewood.”

“Thanks, but another time.”

“Or anywhere you like.”

“I wanted to get home and give him a call,” Roy said.

“Who?”

“Gordo.”

Curtis’s eyelid did its fluttering thing.

“It hasn’t blown over for me yet,” Roy said.

Curtis leaned forward. “He wasn’t part of the Globax future.”

Curtis gave Roy a chance to respond. Roy said nothing.

“Not to get too philosophical about it, Roy, but there are new forces on the loose. Whether you choose to recognize them or not won’t change anything.”

Roy knew Curtis was right about those forces: he could feel them, like some kind of accelerator in a NASA g-resistance test.

“Never fired anybody, have you, Roy?” Curtis said.

The maintenance guy heard that: he hoisted two trash barrels instead of one, and struggled off.

“No,” Roy said.

“That’s going to change.”

“I know,” Roy said, but he hadn’t, not consciously, until that moment.

“The hiring makes up for it.”

Roy hadn’t thought about that either.

“New territory,” Curtis said. “But you’ve got the experience, you’ve got the instincts. Remember, when in doubt-there’s always the vision statement.”

Roy’s memory of the vision statement was vague. He recalled a few of the headings as they applied to his department: on time, safety first, team.

The maintenance guy returned, crumpled the irregulars banner and tucked it under one arm, grabbed the stepladder with the other, said, “Look all right now, Mr. Curtis?”

“Better than new,” said Curtis.

Roy called Gordo as soon as he got home. No answer; the machine didn’t pick up.

Roy was restless that night. Forty-eight hours. Why hadn’t Curtis said a day or two, a couple days, a little while? Forty-eight hours made it sound like something from a James Bond movie; this was only a job. Roy went downstairs, tried to work on Rhett’s shelves, couldn’t concentrate. He thought of reading the vision statement, but couldn’t find a copy. He opened the fridge, not from hunger, just for something to do, and saw the steaks, still marinating in the Creole sauce. He checked the time; Marcia and Rhett would probably have eaten by now, but what was there to lose by calling?

Roy called.

“Hello?” said a woman; Roy didn’t recognize the voice.

“Is Marcia there?”

“No.”

“Rhett?”

“He’s doing his homework.”

“This is his father.”

“Just a sec.”

Rhett came on.

“Hi.”

“Who was that?”

“Jenny.”

“Who’s Jenny?”

“The baby-sitter.”

“Ma out somewhere?”

“That’s why Jenny’s here.”

“Think she’ll be back soon?”

“Who?”

“Mom. Your ma.”

“She’s in New York.”

“New York?”

“She’s going to bring me some souvenirs.”

“Barry go with her?”

“He’s here. Want to talk to him?”

“No. Is it for work or something like that?”

“He e-trades at night.”

“I meant Mom. Your ma.”

“I don’t know.”

“When’s she coming back?”

“Tomorrow?”

“What did she… I mean, why all of a-”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“I’m watching The Simpsons.”

Roy didn’t answer right away; he was having air supply problems.

“Dad?”

“I’m here. Done your homework?”

“Most of it.”

“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

“Love you.”

But the last line was spoken to the dial tone.

A horseman with a smudged face bore down on Roy, saber flashing under the moon. Roy felt in his pocket for a gun, but of course he had no gun. Worse, he was wearing the ball and chain.

Roy reached for the phone. “Hello?” The bedside clock read three something; Roy’s vision was blurry.

“Sorry if it’s a little late,” said Gordo. “I can’t sleep.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’m handling it pretty good, Roy.”

“Yeah?”

“Except for the not sleeping part. Guess where I am?”

“Uh-oh.”

Gordo laughed, a laugh that went on a little too long, wavering on the verge of something else. “At the camp,” Gordo said.

“What camp?”

“Our camp, Roy. Seventh Tennessee. I’m on my cell.”

“You’re out there now?”

“On patrol.”

“I thought the camp was only on weekends.”

“Right. The tents aren’t up.”

“Are you alone?”

“I see the stars. I hear the rolling thunder.”

“There’s no thunder.”

“It’s from a song.” Gordo sang it: “ ‘I see the stars. I hear the rolling thunder.’ “ His singing voice surprised Roy: Gordo did much more than get the notes right.

“ ‘How Great Thou Art,’ “ Roy said.

“You listen to gospel, Roy?”

“Not really.” “How Great Thou Art” wasn’t one of his favorites, didn’t do to him what “Milky White Way” did, but he liked how the drummer made a booming sound whenever the rolling thunder part came along. Could Sonny Junior make a booming sound like that, on his drum kit in the barn? Roy had the crazy idea of getting Gordo and Sonny Junior together.