by Emma Lathen
“When he broke his appointment,” Thatcher remembered aloud. Why was Olmsted so testy? Was he coming clean? “Tell me, has Mrs. Lippert made trouble on this too?”
“She claims one of us, Annie or me, is lying.” There was a buzz on the line. “Unfortunately, there seems to be some misunderstanding. I thought that Harry was going over to see Annie . . .” His voice trailed away.
“Olmsted, I can sense trouble as quickly as the next man, but I still don’t see . . .”
Olmsted took a deep breath.
“Harry never turned up at ILGWU headquarters. Or, if he did, no one really remembers. Annie said she wasn’t there that morning. Anyway, when the police asked Annie about it, naturally she said Harry hadn’t been at union headquarters.”
“If that’s the most serious discrepancy the police have found, I congratulate them,” Thatcher said dryly.
“Yes,” said Olmsted again. “But somebody gave Annie the idea that I was trying to involve the ILGWU in Harry’s murder.”
“Oh,” said Thatcher.
“Annie is on her way back right now,” said Olmsted hollowly. “She just called me. She told me I’ve got an appointment with her tomorrow morning. She wants Dudley Humble to be there, too. She says she knows how Dubinsky would have organized this.”
Unbidden there came to Thatcher’s mind a vivid picture of Annie Galiano leading the ILGWU against the Sloan Guaranty Trust.
“Dudley,” said Olmsted, “is a little worried.”
Thatcher did not reply. He was busy consulting his calendar.
Chapter 19.
Without Embroidery
John Putnam Thatcher had no previous experience with Annie Galiano on the warpath. But his respect for the lady was such that he was not surprised, when he entered ILGWU headquarters in San Juan, to find her solidly planted behind a desk and laying down the law.
Olmsted, Romero and Marten hailed his arrival as if he were the cavalry relieving a siege. Annie simply glared.
“We’ve been trying to explain to Annie how the police got the wrong idea,” Eric Marten said with less than his usual ebullience. Then he sat back and signaled that the ball was in Thatcher’s court.
Thatcher was annoyed. “I am still not clear on what troubles the police.”
Annie had several pungent suggestions about the basic trouble with the Puerto Rican police.
“Yes, yes!” Looking punch-drunk, Pete Olmsted tried to report to his superior. “Look, John, I suppose you could say this is all my fault. When Harry dropped by on the morning of the fire, he told me he had to rush off to union headquarters. When the news of the kidnapping broke, the police and everybody else assumed Harry had been snatched later in the day. I admit I should have been more careful, but it just didn’t seem very important. I told them Harry said he was going to see Annie. Then there was a certain confusion about the story they got here at ILGWU headquarters.”
Annie had begun to rumble ominously as Pete picked his way carefully through the mine field. Thatcher paid no attention, but barked, “What confusion?”
“At first they said Harry wasn’t here. Then, when they saw some pictures, they said he was.”
Thatcher turned expectantly to Annie. Open battle hung in the balance for a moment. But, as Thatcher had hoped, Annie’s initial wrath had been dissipated.
“There’s no mystery about it,” she growled. “The receptionist doesn’t speak English. Harry didn’t speak Spanish. He came up here looking for me, saw my office was empty and left. The receptionist never did get his name.”
Thatcher had already achieved a victory. By getting first Olmsted’s story, then Annie’s, he had imperceptibly become a mediator. To punch this home, he cocked his head thoughtfully and nodded to himself before he spoke.
“That could all happen very easily,” he said at length. “I cannot attach any blame to the receptionist or to Pete here. I fail to see why such a natural misunderstanding should absorb the police.”
Annie’s eyes narrowed. She jerked her head at the Slax contingent. “Ask them,” she advised.
Cesar Romero hesitated. Not so Eric Marten.
“The time for a lot of pussyfooting is over,” he rasped. “You may as well know that Norma is doing her best to throw dirt on everyone, and that includes the Sloan. She’s been having a field day.”
Thatcher did not have to explore the motives behind Norma Lippert’s behavior. “Have the police given up all idea that Prudencio Nadal was behind Zimmerman’s murder?”
“No, you cannot say that.” Romero was scrupulously exact. “They now have proof that Harry was killed early that Monday. There never was a kidnapping, and the kidnapping letter was an additional piece of cruelty. I think you can only say that the police have broadened the scope of their inquiries. They’re considering Nadal—and others.”
“You mean Lippert.” Thatcher did not have to be as tactful as an employee of Slax. “What does Lippert say?”
Annie gave an unpleasant laugh. “He’s in New York. His wife got him out of town fast.”
“And now she’s trying to rope the rest of us into this,” Eric Marten said with his old vigor. “No, Cesar, stop shaking your head at me. Besides all this bilge about Annie and Pete, she’s been busy with us too. She’s been onto Vallejo because she found out Cesar was looking for another job. My God, anybody in his right mind would be looking for another job!”
“Very well. I suppose that it must come out. But I want you to understand,” Romero said persuasively, “that Norma can scarcely be regarded as responsible. Not only is she making an enormous cry since she discovered that Eric went to the Water Board Monday morning—because the Water Board is several blocks from here—but she is also trying to involve Ramírez.”
“Ramírez?”
“Norma thinks she understands Puerto Rican politics.” Cesar Romero was at last showing signs of hostility. “She is explaining to Captain Vallejo in great detail that the murder of Harry has ended Nadal’s potential as a competitor to Dr. Ramírez.”
Annie looked up. “That’s interesting. Vallejo must have enjoyed the lecture. I’ll see how Ramírez is taking it tonight.”
“Tonight?” Olmsted was puzzled.
“The election rally,” Annie expanded, growing more human by the minute. “Life goes on, you know.”
Annie, of course, was right. The search for Prudencio Nadal continued with unabated vigor. Captain Vallejo’s daily routine intensified. But otherwise Puerto Rico was going back to business as usual.
And for every politician on the island, that business meant one thing—the plebiscite next week. The Commonwealth Party flexed its mighty muscles, the statehood advocates tried to convince themselves of new opportunities, and Dr. Francisco Ramírez Rivera dusted off old notes. There was only one howl of outrage, and that emanated from a commune near the University of Puerto Rico. The elections would be a fraud, shrilled the mimeographed newspaper. How could the Radical Independents campaign? Their leader was the object of a relentless manhunt, their executive committee was in jail, the university itself was in the hands of the forces of oppression. They would not lend their countenance to this farce. They would boycott the candidates’ night sponsored by the AFL-CIO!
“You can’t blame them,” Annie Galiano commented. She was sitting in the front row of the speaker’s platform, examining the packed audience. “If they showed up here tonight, they’d be lucky to get out in one piece.”
Her neighbor did not take this offering in good part. “I am sure,” said Dr. Ramírez, at his stateliest, “that the labor force of Puerto Rico would give the Radical Independents a fair and courteous hearing.”
Annie was blunt. “The labor force of Puerto Rico doesn’t like murder.”
“Certainly not.” Dr. Ramírez frowned. “Mr. Zimmerman’s death was very unfortunate. But we cannot allow that tragedy to color our thinking about the Radical Independents.”
“You sound like that student editorial,” Annie said unflatteringly.
“The one the radicals are complaining about. That’s why they’re yelling about the forces of oppression.”
“But that is their standard complaint.”
Neither Dr. Ramírez nor Annie was struck by the fact that she, a union official from New York, was explaining the local currents to him.
“Oh, no. The students who run the college newspaper had a big crisis of conscience. They decided they couldn’t approve the murder. So their editorial the other day said that, while they sympathized with the arson, they were forced to deplore Harry Zimmerman’s death.”
Ramírez’ voice sharpened. “That,” he snapped, “is simply ridiculous.”
“Well, don’t blame me. I didn’t say it.”
A surge of music forced them to their feet. After the audience had paid homage to their beautiful island, the band swung into the tune which tells the initiated that the Governor of Puerto Rico is about to make his entrance. On cue, he appeared at a side door and mounted the podium amidst wild enthusiasm.
He was not the man to waste such an opportunity. His brisk speech was designed to flatten opponents on all sides and bring home to his audience their good fortune in having him and his party at the helm of state during these trying times. There had been those, he marveled, who questioned the viability of the commonwealth form of government. Let them question no longer. Events had taken Puerto Rico from the realm of theory into the realm of fact. The commonwealth had proved it could do everything it claimed and more. It had protected its sovereignty and repelled its enemies. Delicately he hinted that excellence was to be found not only in the form of government but in the person of the Governor. He sat down to tumultuous applause.
The statehood advocate who came next on the agenda was not under any illusions. He knew that the Governor’s hand was stronger than ever. His goal, therefore, was to annex votes from erstwhile independence supporters. No one, he claimed, could be more grateful than he that the fabric of their present government had withstood the dark strains to which it had been subject. No one was more relieved at the strong stand taken by the executive. He ended by reminding his audience that any approach to statehood would necessarily be a protracted process, allowing ample time for necessary adjustments. The readiness was all.
It was Dr. Ramírez’ unenviable task to follow these speakers and to support the theoretical goal of independence while anathematizing every single action taken by its advocates in the past two weeks. He did not do a bad job.
“Ah! I understand!” he cried, when the stewards failed to quell the wave of catcalls at the first mention of independence. “You and I are both revolted by these insensate acts of violence. The radicals call for a social revolution, and what do they give us as a first step in that revolution? The hand of brother turned against brother.”
By the sheer drama of his oratory, Dr. Ramírez stilled his hecklers. He was an impressive sight, his noble face impassive while his hands sketched movements of majestic sweep. The organ notes of his deep voice supported his theme. He was a father addressing his children, pointing a moral for their edification. But oratory can do just so much. The only theme available was that the Radical Independents were abhorrent to all men of good will. And Dr. Ramírez knew better than anyone that the Radical Independents were not going to get any votes anyway. So, with a natural instinct for good theater, he allowed his speech to trail away into a grave and sober view of the immediate future. Independence remained the only desirable end. It was worth striving for, but it was a long way off.
The gentle clap-clap of applause was a tribute to the perfection of the performance, but it represented a low point in the evening’s emotional temperature. Happily there was a stimulant at hand. For this was primarily a gathering of labor. They had come to hear the chief delegates of the parties, but they had also come to hear Annie Galiano.
As she advanced on the microphone, the gentle cloud of melancholy that had been generated by Dr. Ramírez disappeared. There is no official signature tune for the appearance of an ILGWU official, but the band improvised splendidly. It says much for the impact of the American labor movement on Puerto Rico that a Spanish version of “There Once Was a Union Maid” sprang readily to the lips of the audience. Like a prize fighter acknowledging victory, Annie clasped both hands together and waved them dementedly over her head. The eager response deferred the start of her speech for over five minutes.
She spoke without notes and, at first, seemed to be rambling her way toward a formless expression of camaraderie. Puerto Rico, she began, would always be home to her. It was the scene of her early childhood. And the Spanish Harlem of her later youth had simply been Puerto Rico in another guise. True, there had been no sunny skies and mild blue waters, but it was the sunniness that Puerto Ricans carried within themselves that made a home. All these vague statements were received with uncritical acclaim by the audience. But the very critical ears on the platform were not unduly surprised to find these opening chords modulating into a very definite theme. Within minutes, Annie was scattering statistics around like grapeshot. Economic problems could also be carried from one place to another—problems and solutions. Labor’s needs were simple. Labor would not forget its friends. It was to be hoped that, after the election, the friends would not forget labor.
The continuing excitement which greeted Annie’s appearance, accompanied her speech and wafted her back to her seat was not lost on Dr. Ramírez. Here was something he had been looking for a long time. Something that was, even under present conditions, a bigger draw than the Governor and the Commonwealth Party. Thoughtfully he pondered this phenomenon as the public presentations of the evening drew to a close and the notables retired to refresh themselves at a small reception. He acknowledged to himself that he was surprised. He had known, of course, that Annie’s influence at the Slax plant was enormous. Without thinking about it much, he had been ready to assume that she would be equally powerful in other labor disputes, that her counsel on whether or not to strike, whether or not to ask for a new wage package, would be persuasive. He had not realized the scale on which she might sway a substantial body of voters. Señora Galiano, he decided, was worth cultivating.
When he finally arranged things so that he and Annie were alone together, slightly removed from the eddying throng, he thought he had struck out on a novel and unanticipated course. Annie, sipping her whiskey, looked at him enigmatically. She was waiting to hear what this latest in a long line of men wanting political favors was going to say. He did not realize it, but she was already comparing him with New York City borough presidents, candidates seeking the endorsement of the Liberal Party and people running for district judge in Georgia.
It had been, she agreed, a very stimulating evening.
Emboldened, Ramírez remarked that there was naturally no doubt about the forthcoming plebiscite. The Commonwealth Party would be upheld by a landslide. The very understandable outrage of the electorate with the atrocities of the Radical Independents had ensured that.
“It won’t make that much difference,” Annie said flatly. “There would have been a landslide anyway. It will just be a little bigger, that’s all.”
Ramírez hastened to agree. Sad to say, the magical influence of Muñoz Marin still prevailed. There could be no rational examination of the defects of the commonwealth system until political life ceased to be overshadowed by the memory of the father of modern Puerto Rico. He himself was working toward that day.
Annie cocked her head and listened in unreceptive silence.
“You may be in for a surprise,” she announced when he came to a halt. “Has it ever occurred to you that the people of Puerto Rico support the commonwealth, not because it was spawned by Muñoz, but because it works?”
Ramírez stiffened. Like most great men, he was used to having his remarks accepted reverently in his presence. Opposition was something that appeared in the newspapers—and, unfortunately, at the election polls.
“In a narr
ow sense, you could say it works,” he said, activating his rusty debating techniques. “There have been temporary economic benefits from American investment. But at what price? We are, after all, a people of Spanish culture. We are not Anglo-Saxons. We speak a different language, honor different values, move to a different daily rhythm. Is it right that we should be required to give this up? That we should cease respecting individuality, abandon our literary heritage and stop playing the guitar—because these are not the habits of North Americans?”
This impassioned plea left Annie cold.
“I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there are a lot more transistor radios and pop records in Puerto Rico than there are guitars,” she said.
Ramírez pounced. “Exactly what I mean. Our young people are being corrupted before our eyes.”
“Why shouldn’t they have the music they want?” Annie demanded. “Just because somebody has a romantic notion of what village life was like in the good old days? How many guitars were being played in starving families, do you think? For that matter, how much time do you spend twanging a guitar?”
Ramírez flushed. “That surely is beside the point.”
“Oh no it isn’t. Not by a long shot. When North Americans want to hear a steel band, they fly to Trinidad and ask where the natives are. That’s pretty patronizing. But, my God, you want to be a tourist in your own country!”
“You speak for special interests yourself,” Ramírez accused her. “Basically, you’re simply interested in an environment which will produce a strong labor movement. That’s why you favor American investment.”
“Look!” Annie pointed a finger like a spear. “What do you think Spanish culture has ever given most Puerto Ricans? Nothing. What do you think American culture will give them? Nothing. And you know why? Because culture doesn’t give things like a lady bountiful. Culture is something that’s created. And Puerto Ricans can create their own as well as anybody else if they don’t have to spend all their time struggling to survive. I don’t say a transistor radio is great. But the villagers are competent enough to decide whether it’s right for them, so long as they get a choice. You don’t want to give them choices. You want to make the decisions yourself.”
