James Kunstler - World Made by Hand

“He wants us to pay half a million dollars to release these four men.

“Can you pay it?”

“I think so.”

“Half a million isn’t what it used to be. You better pay it, if you can. He’s a ruthless son of a gun.”

“I guess you’ve answered my question,” I said.

“Sorry I can’t be of more help. I wish you the best of luck. If they get the mails going again, drop me a line and tell me how it all worked out.”

“Sure,” I said. “Only you tell me something before I go: what if I was a picker or some psycho coming up here looking to steal something?”

“Is that what you are?”

“No. I’m just asking out of curiosity. How do you protect yourself up here in this nasty building?”

I barely saw Furman move a muscle but he seemed to instantly produce a very large automatic pistol, which he held level with my chest.

“I think I understand,” I said.

“You’re not a psycho, right?” he said.

“No.”

“That’s good. You had me going there for a moment. This is the U.S. Army model Colt.45, first issued in 1911. Used through most of the last century. My father carried this piece in Vietnam, sixty-six through sixty-nine. It’d blow your liver clean out of your ribcage.”

“I wish you wouldn’t point it at me, though.”

“That’s exactly the feeling it’s meant to impart.”

The odd thing was, I had a pistol every bit as lethal tucked in the rear of my belt, next to my skin, underneath my shirttails. I’d been carrying it so many days that I had almost forgotten it was there. This was the kind of world we now lived in.

“Good luck with Mr. Curry,” the lieutenant governor said as I left his office.

I hurried down the hill through the ruins of State Street to the grassy riverbank in front of Dan Curry’s headquarters as quickly as I could, reentering another world, another reality. In the time I had been away-under an hour, actually-Curry’s minions had managed to hang two men from the gallows down beside the pump house. Apparently, the hanging had just concluded. Some spectators up front were turning to walk away, while a separate contingent remained up on the broad portico gazing over the balustrade down at the scene in muted conversation. The legs of one victim still twitched, and I recognized that they were the two young Marsden brothers who had importuned me only a little while ago to contact their father in Greenport. I wondered whether this was an object lesson for our benefit. I was still goggling at the swinging bodies when I felt a hand on my shoulder and reflexively spun on my heels. It was Joseph.

“Look what this monster has done now,” he said.

I was speechless.

“Well, let’s go and get Mr. Bullock’s boys before he stretches their necks too,” Joseph said.

“Where are the others?” I said.

Joseph cocked his head. Seth and Elam waited at a remove beside a warehouse under the freeway overpass, perhaps a hundred yards away, mounted, with two more of the horses.

“Where’s Minor?”

“I sent him up ahead with our goods. We’ll catch up with him later. What did you discover up yonder at the statehouse?”

“There’s nothing left up there that can stand up to this.”

“I didn’t think so,” Joseph said. “Well, then, let’s go pay Mr. Curry, then, and be gone, and leave them to their wickedness.”

My knees knocked from the sight of those boys hanging as we climbed the stairs and entered the building. We stopped at the first floor desk as we had before. Joseph told the guard that we had come to pay the fines owed for the release of our four men in custody. He scribbled a message and sent a boy up, as before. A minute later we were ushered back into Curry’s office. Curry was in the act of being barbered in his seat behind the desk with a smock tied over him. An old factotum had just finished shaving the whiskers on Curry’s neck with a straight razor and took up a pair of scissors to groom the beard and mustache.

“Ah, gentlemen, I’m told you’ve come to the right decision.”

“Yes, we have,” Joseph said.

“Excellent,” Curry said. “Birkenhaus, draw up discharge papers on these birds.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary said.

“People complain about these taxes and duties,” Curry said, “but how else would we pay for the many improvements we’ve started, not to mention the ones planned? They don’t give out grants for this kind of thing anymore, you know. We’re on our own here-that’s enough, dammit. Get away from me!” he said to the barber and shoved him aside. The old fellow gathered up the tools of his trade off the desk, rolled them into the smock, and slunk out of the room like a whipped dog.

“Where was I?”

“Civic improvements,” Birkenhaus said.

“Right. It all comes down to good government. And local government is all that’s left, so we have to take every advantage where revenues are concerned. The people expect it. You see what I mean?”

“What about the cargo that was taken off the boat?” I said.

“What cargo?”

“Ten kegs of ninety-proof cider among other things.”

“I don’t know a thing about it,” Curry said, putting on a face of indignant surprise.

“Don’t you have some record?” I said.

“Why should we have a record?”

“How could you calculate an excise tax if you don’t know what the cargo was?”

Curry seemed to flush for a moment, as though embarrassed to be caught in an obvious lie.

“My tax people calculate that,” he retorted, a moment later. “And I’ll thank you to show a little respect for this office. Remember, I still have these persons of interest in my custody, and I enjoy hanging riffraff.”

Curry shot out his cuffs. He was wearing cufflinks in the shape of little acorns. He seemed to make a show of recomposing himself.

“Please, sit down,” he said. “All I know is what my people tell me. I can’t concern myself with every detail of what goes on around here. I’d go insane. A good leader knows how to delegate. These operations run on trust, on my ability to depend on people to discharge their duties. Now, if everyone were as honest and diligent as the people who work for me, we might become a great nation again-and perhaps we will be. And so you see another reason for weeding out the criminal element, the parasites, the tax evaders. Anyway, you can remit payment directly to me. You have the cash, right?”

“What about gold instead of U.S. paper dollars?” Joseph said.

Curry’s eyes widened perceptibly.

“What do you propose?” Curry said, obviously relishing the idea.

“Would an ounce satisfy these charges?”

“In lieu of half a million U.S. scrip?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got gold?”

“I do,” Joseph said.

“You just carry it right on your person?”

“In some situations only gold will answer.”

“My motto exactly-but one measly ounce for four men?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Seems… less than altogether required.”

“We’re talking about some tax owed on freight, aren’t we?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Curry said. “But each man is charged with evasion so the fine is additional and would be multiplied by four. Plus all the other misdemeanors. And there’s the slip fee for that boat of theirs—”

“Maybe you could find a way to calculate the total so it all worked out to what I am offering you,” Joseph said.

“Well, the thing is: is that all the gold you have?”

“You’re a piece of work, sir,” Joseph said.

“I know.” Curry said. “Nervy bastard, aren’t I?”

“I’ll say.”

“But you! You drive a hard bargain.”