Warren Murphy: Union Bust

While waiting for the burgers, he briefly reviewed his morning's reading on collective bargaining. Something big was going to come off in Chicago. And somehow it had to do with the union movement. That was all Upstairs had said.

Remo added an extra dose of ketchup to his hamburgers and consumed them almost in four bites, washing them down with large draughts of the dark, sweet cola.

As he wiped his mouth a strange thing happened. Numbness crept up his arms into his neck, immobilizing his face. He heard a woman shriek, and as the hamburger stand whirled crazily above him, everything became very black.

CHAPTER THREE

"Welcome, International Brotherhood of Drivers."

The banner floated over the quiet convention hall, catching vagrant indoor breezes. Two men stood by the speaker's podium, one watching the banner, the other nervously watching him.

In three hours, the rows upon rows of silent, darkened seats would be filled with cheering, clapping men, big men, strong men, men who could handle the monster tractor trailers and men who could handle those men. It would be a big convention. It always was, and this year Chicago had won over Miami or Las Vegas.

They were big spenders, these union delegates, and it was not the least of surprises that just two months before the convention, it had been switched from the big spending towns to a Midwest city. Many of the delegates were angry about that. They knew who was behind it.

Neither their anger nor the nervousness of his number-two man bothered the president of Local 873, Nashville, Tennessee, that morning. He was absorbed in air currents.

"I wonder where those breezes come from," said Eugene Jethro. "I wonder if some internal force we know nothing about is blowing that banner." He was a young man, in his mid-twenties, and his long golden locks flowed to the shoulders of his green velvet suit. He was too young to be president of a driver local, they said. Too mod to be president of a driver local, they said. Too fresh to be president of a driver local, they said. But here he was, and his name would be entered for the presidency of the International Brotherhood of Drivers.

"What do you care about banners, Gene? In three hours this convention opens and we're gonna get eaten alive," said the vice-president of Local 873, Nashville. He was Sigmund Negronski, a burly, squat man with forearms like bowling pins. "We gotta win the election, or we're gonna do time."

Gene Jethro put a hand to his chin. His face screwed into deep thought.

"I wonder if just thinking about it can make that banner blow one way or another? The discipline of the mind over the essence of matter."

"Gene. Will you get off it? We gotta work some more strategy."

"It's been worked."

"I'm scared. Will you listen to me. I'm scared. We spent money we didn't have. We made deals we can't keep. We've made commitments with some very rough people. If you don't win the presidency, we'll do time. If we're lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, Siggy," said Jethro. He smiled the now famous Gene Jethro smile, a boyish open grin the media had quickly taken a liking to and other driver officers had resented. It was too Kennedyish. It was too political. They were tough men, these drivers, and worked hard for their money. They distrusted flamboyance as much as eloquence. And Gene Jethro had both. In just three months he had risen dramatically to become a national power in the brotherhood. He had this mysterious ability to get done whatever had to be done.

An indictment against a driver official in Burbank, California? Phone Jethro in Tennessee. He could get it quashed in hours.

A dispute over loansharking at a terminal? Somehow this young kid from Appalachia could settle it. Passport trouble of a friend? Get Gene Jethro.

"I don't know what the kid's got, but he's got it." was the common refrain among driver officials. "Of course he's still too young for anything big."

Jethro beckoned his vice-president to the podium.

"Here it is," he said. "Imagine the hall with 3,000 delegates. Screaming. Applauding. And I'm here, and I've got them in the palm of my hand. And with them, the next step."

"There's another step, Gene?"

"There's always another step."

"How about the one at hand? How about the presidency? If we don't get it, we're going to jail. We built that building with funds from the international. Now we don't have that kind of money."

"You think I don't know that you dear, sweet, dumb Polack."

"Hey, lay off that. You know, Gene, you used to be a nice kid. You used to be a comer. I could see you making it in twenty years, making it big. People liked you. But in the last three months, I don't know what's happened to you? You gave up a sweet girl for that broad who hardly wears clothes. You moved out of your apartment into a split level job with a swimming pool. You talk funny now, you think funny now, and I'm beginning not to know you."

"You never knew me, dumbo," said Jethro.

"Well, then, you're going to jail alone."

"We, Siggy. We."

"We nothing, Gene. You. All I did was step down as president of the local so you could take over."

"Is that all, Siggy?"

"Well, my daughter got that kidney machine and don't think I'm not grateful."

"Is that all, Siggy?"

"Well, we got the porch and the new car and I have bread for my girl friend's place."

"Is that all, Siggy?"

"Well, uh, yeah. That's all. It's enough. Don't get me wrong. But it ain't enough to go to jail for."

Jethro stuffed his hands into the pockets of his green bell-bottoms. He spun to the dead microphone and boomed to a nonexistent audience.

"Fellow drivers and delegates to the 85111 Annual Convention of the International Brotherhood of Drivers, I give you my local vice-president. He is a loyal man. He is a man who will stand with you through thick and thin, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. And I will tell you why he will stand with you."

"Aw, come off it, will you Gene?"

"I will tell you why he will stand with you. He has the best of all reasons to stand with you."

"C'mon, Gene."

"Because he doesn't want to be a puddle."

Blood drained from the face of Sigmund Negronski. His lips became dry. He looked nervously around the empty auditorium.

"You really like to hurt," said Negronski.

"I love it."

"You never used to be like this. What happened?"

"I got a swimming pool, a Jaguar, a mistress, a manservant, and enough power to make this union jump. And some day, in the not too distant future, I'm gonna make the country jump. Jump like you jump, you dumb, pathetic, fat Polack."

Sigmund Negronski stood in sullen silence. He had brought this kid along from driver to shop steward to business agent. And then just three months ago the kid had started to change. Nothing you would notice right away, just more relaxed, then smooth, then vicious. What bothered Negronski was that when this kid smiled, Negronski still liked him, although he knew he should hate him for the indignities he inflicted on the older man. He should flatten this arrogant kid like a tomato under a U-Haul-It. But he still liked him. And that rasped to the very marrow of his bones.

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.