"Good," said Chiun. "Pain is an excellent teacher. What your mind cannot grasp, your body will never forget. Remember this in your pain. Never rush. Time is your ally or your enemy."
"There are some things I must do now, little father."
"Well, be quick about it. A shirt is not the best bandage in the world, even a shirt tied by me."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Remo mounted the podium in the large hall of the new building. Wild, hysterical cheering met his ascent. He waved his good arm to quiet the crowd. But the roar continued and he met it with a smile for the television cameras, the still photographers and, last but not least, his audience.
A new shirt covered his torso, and the jacket was so arranged as to hide the knots Chiun had installed. The pain continued sharp and throbbing, but Remo smiled. He smiled at the three union presidents sitting on the speaker's platform. He smiled at the secretary of labour and he smiled at the delegates he knew. Especially at Abe 'Crowbar' Bludner, who appeared to be cheering the loudest.
The hall in this new building was smaller than Convention Hall, but is was roomy enough for the driver delegates. There were even some empty seats in the second balcony.
Remo leaned down into the mike. The noise subsided.
"Brother drivers," he said. 'Brother drivers. I have sad news that will come as a shock to you." Remo paused to allow the hall to become still, to glean the last bit of attention from the audience. He looked at the few key men he had called to him just an hour ago. They knew what the shock would be. Gene Jethro, always a kook, had run out on the union. Remo had explained this to the few delegates an hour before. His explanation had been believed instantly, because there was no reason for not believing it. Remo had spoken to those key men in a small receptionist's room while most of the membership was still filing into the hall.
They had less than an hour to decide among themselves what the union would do. There were less than a dozen men in the small office.
"You can let this go to the vice-president of the international, or you can make yourself a good deal now. You know the vice-president was only chosen to balance the ticket."
The key delegates nodded. Some sat on chairs, two leaned against a desk, one of them sat on the large pot holding a palm tree. There were sounds of approval. This kid knew what he was doing.
Remo continued. "If we choose the new president now, we can stampede the convention. If we have somebody, nobody can beat us. All we have to do is come to an agreement now. It's gonna be our union or it's gonna be chaos. It's up to you guys to decide. Jethro is gone. You want to make a president now among us?"
In the confusion of the sudden announcement, one delegate offered the job to Remo.
Remo shook his head. "I know someone better. I know someone perfect," Remo had said.
That was an hour ago, and now as he faced the full membership, he knew he could stampede the entire convention momentarily. Remo looked out over the faces of the silent delegates, tobacco smoke rising blue to the ceiling.
"The sad news is that our president, Gene Jethro, has left. He has resigned and left the country. He left giving me this note." Remo waved a paper out in front of the podium. It was blank. But only he could see that.
"I'm not going to read you the words, because the words don't convey Gene Jethro's love of the Brotherhood of Drivers, of unionism, and the American way of life. The words aren't good enough. It was his heart that counted. And what was in his heart was love for you. He told me he thought he wasn't old enough to be president. Yes. That's what he told me. I told him age was measured in more than years. It is measured in honesty and courage and in love for our union. I told him he had an abundance of that, but he would not listen. He said he had won the election but was afraid to lead. He said he was going off to a place he knew where he could think. This resignation says all that. But I don't need it to tell you what was in his heart."
Remo tore the blank paper into tiny strips, and the tiny strips into confetti.
The convention was mumbling now. Many of the delegates were shocked. But certain key delegates were not shocked. They were ready and had been for an hour. They waited for Remo to complete the deal they had made.
"We cannot be leaderless in the troubled sea of trade unionism. We cannot run without rudder or keel," Remo intoned. "We have a man who has worked his way up union ranks. A man who stands with the drivers, behind the drivers and in the forefront of the drivers, lo these many years. A man who knows strength yet is strong with charity. A man who knows unionism as well as peopleism. A man who has led and has followed. A man who has been a driver stalwart in the dark hours of defeat and in the sunny hours of victory. There is only one man this union can elect as president to replace our beloved Gene Jethro. That man is my own local president from New York City, Abraham Bludner."
At the sound of the name, the key delegates led their followers into the aisles for a spontaneous demonstration. Their numbers swelled as each delegate saw the center of new power and did not want to be reminded at some crucial time during the next four years that he had sat on his ass when Abe Bludner needed him most.
Remo waved at Bludner who was now being carried to the podium on the shoulders of his men. Bludner had been ready for this even before the key delegates had been asked to the special caucus meeting. Remo, the politician, had stampeded the fewer than dozen men the way he would stampede the entire convention. He had met with Bludner in Nuihc's private rooms, fountain and all. Bludner had given it a suspicious look, so Remo had shrugged, indicating that he, too, thought it odd.
"Abe," said Remo, sitting by the pool where he had almost lost his life. "How would you like to be president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers?"
"In four years I'll be too old, kid."
"I'm talking about this afternoon."
"What about Jethro?"
"Jethro has had a little family trouble. He's out of the picture for good."
"Oh," said Bludner." One of those things."
"One of those things," said Remo.
"What do you want?" asked Bludner.
"A few favours."
"Of course, what?"
"You don't know whom I represent. But let's not go into that. It is of little import. There are some other allied unions, other transportation unions that want to merge with us. They plan to announce it today. That was Jethro's plan. People who have plans like that tend to have unfortunate family problems also, if you know what I mean?"
Bludner knew what Remo meant.
"I don't think the drivers should ever merge with another union. Do you?"
"And lose our independence? said Bludner indignantly.
"From time to time the organization I work for needs information on who is doing what. They won't hurt your union. Of course, you will be paid for the favour of supplying information."
Bludner thought about that. He nodded.
"You will be contacted by someone. Do not mention me. You never knew me. Right?"
"You leaving?"
"You want to be president, Abe?"
"Kid, I used to think about it, but when I became, I think around 45, I stopped. You know. It was a dream then and it went with all the other dreams. I wouldn't run the international the way I run the local. I think we could do with a bit more class in the international." Bludner smiled. "Of course, not so much class that I'll be a one-term president."
"Now who are the key delegates?" Remo had asked, and Bludner had told him. He also told him they couldn't meet them privately in the room with the flowers and everything, "cause they'll think we're a little bit, you know, kid."
Remo knew. The delegates went for Bludner in private the way they were going for him now in the open convention. The vice-president would be no trouble, Remo had assured them. He was, after all, a lightweight, as everyone agreed, and he would forgo the legal succession. There would be a court case, of course, from some dissidents, but it could be dragged out in the courts until Bludner solidified his power nationally, as he h
ad learned to do locally years before.
Remo had picked a good man. He watched a handful of delegates struggle up the platform steps with Bludner on their shoulders. Bludner tapped a few heads, indicating that he wished to walk up by himself. When he got to the podium, there was a roar. Remo hugged Abe. Abe hugged Remo.
Smiling at the crowd, Remo said out of the corner of his mouth, so that only Bludner could hear:
"You live as long as you keep the deal, Abe."
"I understand, kid," said Bludner.
Remo glanced over his shoulder at the presidents of the three other transportation unions. They, too, were reasonable men, although one of them sat very carefully on a very painful spinal column.
When the enthusiasm was surmountable, Remo yelled into the microphone.
"Voice vote. All in favor of Abe Bludner as president, say "Aye.""
The hall exploded in a roar of ayes.
"All against, say 'Nay.'" There was a single 'nay' that was met by laughter.
"Carried. The new president is Abe Bludner."
There was more cheering and more hysteria.
Remo quieted the audience. "Before I introduce my good and long-time friend, Abe Bludner, to the union he now leads, I would like to say a few words."
Remo looked out into the balcony. A few driver wives dotted those seats. He thought of Chris at the airport. She would wait and he would never come. She would be met instead by agents of the FBI who had a tip. Her testimony would end the careers of the presidents of the three other unions. That exposure, including their using of union funds to pay for the construction of a building for another union, would end their careers for all time. It would also kill the merger idea. The superunion was dead. In a few days at most, Remo Jones would cease to exist. There would be a new face and maybe even a new regional accent. He would never have that family or home, any more than he could now eat a hamburger laced with monosodium glutamate. So be it. He was what he was, and all the longing in the world could not change that.
"I want to tell you something I mean very much," said Remo. His voice was steady, free of the orator's rising pitches. "You have heard many things about America and its wealth. You have heard about its coming demise. You have heard many people say we are rich and fat and weak. But I ask you, where did that wealth come from?
"Did someone give it to you? Did you find it on the streets? Did your parents or grandparents find it on the street? No, I say to you, you are the wealth of this nation. You are what makes it strong. Other continents have more raw material and they are impoverished. Look at South America. Look at Africa. Look at most of Asia and look at many sections of Europe. No, the wealth of any nation is its people, the willingness of its people to work and to get for themselves and their families the best things they can.
"This country is not strong because of some mineral deposit somewhere. Other countries have more and are weak and backward. This country is strong because it offers hope. And strong people have taken that hope. You represent drivers. They are part of that hope. That hope lives. And I say to you, very honestly, it is an honor to die for it."
The last sentence seemed overdramatic to many delegates, even though dramatics was the way with many of these convention speeches. What they could not realize was that they had not heard a song.
A few delegates believed they saw tears in the eyes of their new recording secretary that day. A few said that when he left the building just outside Chicago, he was crying openly. None of them saw him again.
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Union Bust td-7 Page 17
