“All we ask,” said Ailes in a soothing voice, “is that you appear to cooperate with any attempt to unionize the men, and keep us informed of the organizers’ actions.”
“I, uh...” The room was suddenly hotter than the August sun and the proximity of the blast furnaces could explain. “Yes, sir.” He would have to avoid Gino. If nobody asked him to join, he wouldn’t have anything to report on.
“However, Mister Collina,” said Ailes, and his words were suddenly as thin and strong as his fingers, “please do keep in mind that you are not our only such... reporter. If your reports are not complete and accurate, we will know it.”
Six dollars a week. “You can depend on me, sir.”
-o0o-
As Ailes was escorting Tony back to the plant floor, a Serbian laborer came up to him with a large, heavy box. “Where you want this, Mister Ailes?”
Ailes’s face betrayed a sting of annoyance. “Put it with the others.”
“Yessir.”
As the Serb turned away, Tony noticed the words stenciled on the end of the wooden box: AXE HANDLES, TWO DOZ. Aghast, Tony watched as the Serb opened a store-room door. Behind that door were more boxes of axe handles, and other things: tear gas grenades, rifles, and riot guns with barrels the size of beer bottles.
Ailes’s eyes narrowed with anger. “You should not have seen that, Mister Collina. I trust you will keep this information... confidential?”
“Uh, yes sir.”
“Good. And I hope you will understand that we are prepared to defend Kensington Steel from the forces of anarchy.” He lowered his voice and leaned in close. “By any means necessary. Do you understand, Mister Collina?”
“Yes, sir.”
-o0o-
Later, back in the noise and stench of the plant floor, Tony recalled what Gus had said about deciding who his real friends were. But that had just been a dream. The six dollars a week was real, and it would keep his brother’s children from going hungry.
Even so, and even in the heat of the blast furnaces, Tony shivered.
-o0o-
Weeks went by. Tony filed his reports, usually nothing more than repeating his co-workers’ grumbles and anti-management jokes, and the money came in every week. He kept his conversations with Gino focused on baseball and their wives’ cooking. After a while he started to relax.
Then, one night, he dreamed of Gus. They were playing stickball in the street by the house where they’d grown up, though they were both adults and wearing their steel-mill coveralls.
“Heads up!” shouted Gus, and hit a long high ball to Tony.
“Got it!” He reached for the ball, but it sailed past his outstretched fingers and into the bramble bushes behind Uncle Ottavio’s house.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Tony cried.
“I may have hit it,” Gus said, “but you blew your chance to catch it. Now you have to go into those brambles and fetch it out.”
The bramble bush was very dark and tall, and seemed to grow as Tony watched. “I’m scared,” he said, and turned back to Gus.
Gus was covered with blood, and sharp points of broken bones emerged from his cheeks and forehead. The eyes were white and staring in his ruined face. “You should be.”
Tony woke screaming. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and Bella began to cry. Sofia got up to comfort her, but as she patted and rocked the baby she asked Tony, “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Just a bad dream.”
Six dollars a week. He hoped he hadn’t sold himself too cheaply.
-o0o-
The next day Tony sat heavily on a bench in the break area. He took off his hard hat and rested his head in his hands.
“You heard we lost another one?” said Gino as he sat down next to him.
“Aw, Jesus. No, I just didn’t sleep well last night. Who?”
“Negro boy down in the coke yards. Pietro Dani—you know him?—he fell asleep running a crane and dropped a whole load of coke right on top of the guy.”
“Jesus.”
“We’re not going to take this any more. We’re going to take action.”
Tony’s heart felt as though it had just stopped. “Don’t tell me this, Gino.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it. But we’ve got to do something. We’re meeting down at Polish Hall tomorrow night at eight. We’ve got a man from the C.I.O. to help us organize.”
Tony swallowed. “No thanks.”
“Please. It’s important. We’ve been talking about doing something for a long time, but Gus’s death was what finally got us moving. It would mean a lot if you could show your support.”
“Yeah,” said Arturo Cavenini as he sat down on the other side of Tony. “You should come.”
You are not our only reporter, Ailes had said. Could Arturo be one of the others? Now Tony would have no choice but to write Gino up. “I really wish you hadn’t asked me.”
“C’mon,” said Arturo. “What can it hurt?”
Tony thought about axe handles, and gas grenades, and riot guns. “It can hurt a lot.” He stood up to leave.
Then he felt a cold touch at the back of his neck, and heard a voice like a long-distance phone call in his head. Go to the meeting, it said. Do it for me.
“What’s wrong?” said Gino. “You look like hell all of a sudden.”
“It’s nothing. Just gas.”
Go, said the voice.
“OK, I’ll go.”
A broad smile broke out on Gino’s face. “Thanks, Tony. I mean it.”
Tony shook his head to clear it, but the voice and the cold were already gone.
-o0o-
There were about seventy-five men at Polish Hall, shifting and muttering uncomfortably on the long wooden benches. Tony twisted his cap in his hands. It’s not too late to leave, he thought. If he left before the meeting started it would look funny, but then he could tell Ailes he didn’t know who the ringleaders were. He felt like Judas Iscariot.
Tony’s decision was made for him then, as the doors closed and Gino took the stage. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m proud to see so many members of our Kensington family here tonight.” An ironic chuckle ran through the crowd. Tony felt sick. “This is a great night for the workers of Kensington Steel, because tonight we begin to reclaim our lives. For the last sixteen months we have struggled with double shifts, impossible production quotas, and tragic losses.” He gestured at Tony, and a few men muttered “yeah.” Tony managed a wave and a weak smile.
Gino began to pace back and forth, the stage floor creaking under his boots. “We’ve been cooperative. We’ve been polite. We’ve tried to work with management. But the situation just keeps getting worse. As you may already know, they aren’t even going to give us Labor Day off.” Tony found himself growling right along with the rest of the crowd. The news was a surprise to him. “Are we going to take that?”
About a dozen men yelled, “No!”
“Are we going to keep working double shifts for twenty-four dollars a week?”
“No!” This time it was most of the crowd.
“Are we going to watch our brothers die, one after another, until no one is left?”
“No!” Tony yelled it too.
“That’s right!” Gino said. “Because tonight, we organize!” He raised his fist, and the crowd responded with applause and shouts of encouragement.
When the noise died down, Gino introduced Mike Kelley of the Congress of Industrial Organization, a beefy, florid man with a brusque manner and a thick working-class Irish accent. He spent the rest of the evening outlining a strategy for organizing a union, passing out packets of leaflets and buttons, and getting men to volunteer as shift captains and other key organizers. The mood of the crowd was upbeat as it dispersed into the night.
As Tony walked home, though, a weight settled onto his shoulders. For one thing, he knew he had to write up a report on the meeting. If he named names, men would lose their jobs; if he didn’t, Ailes
would cut off his money for shirking. For another thing, he knew that any serious attempt at rebellion would be met with well-informed, well-armed resistance. He wanted to run from the whole situation, but both Gino and Ailes—for their own reasons—would expect him to continue attending meetings.
In the dark between streetlights, Tony spotted a beer bottle in the gutter. He kicked it savagely and it flew through the air to smash against the curb on the other side of the street.
The shower of glass fragments seemed to hang in the air for a moment.
Tony swallowed.
The glittering cloud of glass splinters did not fall to the pavement. Instead, it swirled into a manlike form. Gyrating like a swarm of bees, it churned across the street to where Tony stood paralyzed in the dark.
“What’s wrong, little brother?” Gus’s voice came as a scraping and grinding of broken glass. Tiny particles escaped from the swarm, pattering on the sidewalk and stinging Tony’s face.
“G-g-g-...” Tony stammered, then clamped his jaws together. “Gus, I d-don’t know what to do.” He shivered in the hot August night.
“Remember who you are. Stick with your own kind.”
“But if I stick with the union, I’ll have to tell Ailes everything!”
“Yes...” The final s sounded like a bucket of sand being poured out.
“If they march on the plant and Ailes knows they’re coming, people will be killed! Is that what you want?”
A tinkling chuckle came from the figure’s midsection. “I’m not the only one who wants to see a few deaths in the Kensington family.” Then the swarm of fragments clattered to the sidewalk, peppering Tony’s shoes and pants. He slapped at a sudden pain in his cheek, and drew out a sliver of glass. His own blood on his fingers was black in the light from the distant streetlight.
“Gus, you bastard,” he said. But there was no one there.
Gus had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Could his ghost be trusted?
-o0o-
The phone booth at the back of Johnson’s Restaurant smelled of cigarette smoke and fried fish. Tony had to try three times before he got the nickel into the slot, and his fingers trembled as he dialed the number.
“Ailes here.”
“Mister Ailes, this is Tony Collina.”
“Ah yes, Mister Collina. What can I do for you?”
“Mister Ailes, I want out. I don’t want to write reports for you any more.”
Ailes chuckled. “You don’t want me to know about the meeting at Polish Hall, do you?”
Tony drew in a shuddering breath. “If you already know about it, what do you need me for?”
“God gave us two eyes and two ears for a reason, Mister Collina. I always like to keep several men on the hook... I mean, as reporters. Each provides a check on the others.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I still want out.”
“I’m afraid that would be... inconvenient. To you.”
“To me?”
“Yes. If certain reports, in your handwriting, were to be made available to the other members of your nascent union, the results might be... unfortunate.”
Tony gaped into the phone.
“Do we understand each other, Mister Collina?”
Tony gulped. “Yes.”
“Very well then. I expect to see your complete and accurate report on my desk this Thursday as usual. Good evening, Mister Collina.”
“Good evening, sir.” But the line had already gone dead.
-o0o-
Two weeks later the crowd at Polish Hall was up to a hundred and fifty men. They planned a big Labor Day rally at Monessen City Park with all the wives and children, then they’d move to the plant entrance for the three o’clock shift change, to distribute leaflets urging men to join the union. The anger and resentment of men forced to work sixteen hours on a holiday would be sure to pay off in a big groundswell of support. They were excited and confident, and they chattered among themselves in Italian and English as they left the hall.
Tony accosted Gino as he locked the doors. “Gino, this isn’t going to work.”
“Sure it will! Management is playing right into our hands. Anything they try to do to stop us will just add to our support.”
Tony could not meet Gino’s eyes. He turned away and watched moths circling the streetlight nearby. “They know what we’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have spies. In the plant. In the union. And they’re ready to hit us back. Hard.”
Gino put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Spies? Who? How do you know?” He tried to turn Tony around, but he resisted.
“I can’t tell you. I just don’t want to see anyone else get killed.”
Gino’s hand tightened on Tony’s shoulder, then he pushed him away with a disgusted sound. “You’re just chicken. If we don’t organize, more men will get killed. Like Gus. Remember Gus?”
Tony still did not meet Gino’s eyes. “Yeah. I remember Gus.”
“He wouldn’t be afraid to do the right thing.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Gino stood silent for a moment, then turned and walked away. Tony listened to his footsteps fading away into the dark.
-o0o-
Labor Day dawned hot and clear, with a big blue sky relieved by a few puffy clouds. The carpenters and the plumbers and the printers were up early, preparing their floats for the afternoon parade. The steelworkers of Kensington who weren’t on shift were up early too, but they didn’t have a float—instead they were cranking out mimeographed leaflets and painting placards.
By lunchtime City Park thronged with people. Women in their Sunday outfits carried picnic baskets; children laughed and ran across the grass. The smells of fried chicken and porcetta were everywhere.
Tony observed the festivities as though from inside a Mason jar. Labor Day’s going to be just like Memorial Day, he thought. At best, the union organizers would lose their jobs; at worst, they’d lose their lives, and the lives of the women and children as well.
Tony had tried to convince Gino and Mike Kelley not to go through with it, but they refused to listen. He’d made clear in his reports that the workers intended no violence, but knowing Ailes he expected deadly force in reaction to any action at all. He’d even thought about leaving town, but where else could he find work?
So here he was, at City Park on Labor Day, feeling like the ghost at the feast. He would keep his own family away from the plant, and take any action he could to prevent violence. But he didn’t feel very confident he could make much of a difference.
A great cheer erupted from the bandstand at the center of the park. “Come on,” said Sofia. “We’re missing everything!” She settled Bella more firmly on her hip and ran ahead with Anna’s two girls, leaving Tony with the picnic basket and Anna with her very pregnant tummy to struggle along behind.
They laid out their picnic blanket in the shade of an oak, ate their roasted-pork sandwiches, and listened to politicians make speeches and brass bands play. For a while Tony could almost forget the coming confrontation. But at one o’clock Gino called through a bullhorn for all the off-shift Kensington workers and their families to gather to the left of the stage.
“Sofia,” Tony said, “I want you to take Anna and the kids home.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, okay?”
“But I wanna go with you, Uncle Tony!” said Lizzie, Anna’s oldest. “All the other kids are going.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” he said, and swung her around by her arms. She laughed and laughed as she flew through the air, then he set her down and bent down to her level. “You be good for your mama and Aunt Sophie, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.” He hugged her, and over her little shoulder he saw Sofia give him a look of deep concern. He straightened quickly and marched away, not wanting her to see the expression on his face.
The crowd around Gino was festive, men and women in their best clothes laughing an
d singing as they distributed placards and packets of flyers among themselves. Gino and Mike Kelley made inspirational speeches, they all cheered, and then they set off across the grass toward the Kensington Steel plant. Tony found himself carrying a sign that said WIN WITH THE C.I.O.
As the crowd walked down Fourth Street toward the plant, a shadow crossed the sun and the laughter dimmed a bit. It was only the smoke pouring from the plant’s smokestacks, but to Tony it seemed like a bad omen.
They got closer to the plant. Even from a mile away the plant dominated the horizon, but now they were only a few blocks from the main gate and it seemed bigger than the world—a looming gray wall that, even from here, smelled of hot iron and sulfur.
The crowd walked on in silence.
One block from the main gate they could read the sign above it: KENSINGTON STEEL BUILDS AMERICA. And below the sign they could see a line of men.
“Finks,” muttered a man next to Tony. Professional strikebreakers. Muscular, leering men armed with axe handles and riot guns. There were policemen in the line as well, carrying truncheons and rifles.
The leading members of the crowd of workers paused at the sight. The ones behind them came on, unknowing. Between the two groups a press of confusion developed.
One of the policemen stepped up and raised a bullhorn to his lips. “All right, you anarchists. This is as far as you go today. You are ordered to disperse.”
The man next to Tony slowly bent down and set down his picket sign, then picked up a large piece of brick from the street. Others around him did the same.
A cop cocked his riot gun with a metallic ch-chunk that cut through the sounds of the plant.
Tony grabbed the wrist of the man with the brick. “Don’t do anything stupid!” he hissed. But the man just shook him off in annoyance.
Space Magic Page 11
