ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (11 page)

Wang put up his hood and pulled the drawstring and Pickett awkwardly followed
his example. "Charlie likes everyone to think he's a pragmatist,"
Wang said, "but he's really an old-fashioned idealist. He's bent on
leaving the world better than he found it. That's the real reason he gave in on
the Bourque meeting."

"Well, your idealist is going to be dealing with the ultimate
opportunist."

"That should be interesting."

By the time they got back to Wang's office, it was past 2 p.m. Marty Katz was
already there, cigar in hand, occupying the chair Pickett had cleared. He
stood when Wang and Pickett walked in. "Jesus, you two been to the
North Pole?"

"Just to the Mall," Wang said. "Showing my guest the
sights." He brushed the snow from his jacket and Pickett did the same.

"Care to introduce us?"

At that moment, the President's Press Secretary, Jewel Rogard, appeared at the
door. She was a tall, gawky, bottle blonde in her late forties, wearing a skirt
too short for her age. "I hope I'm not too late," she said, looking
for someplace to sit. Pickett saw her predicament and cleared off a chair for
her, earning a smile that was more gums than teeth.

"Here," Wang said, removing the stack of papers from the remaining
guest chair. "Have a seat, Roy."

"Roy?" Said Ms. Rogard, winding her pipe cleaner legs tightly around
each other, a gesture with disturbingly erotic overtones. "I don't believe
we've met."

"Jewel—Marty—this is Roy Pickett from N'Orleans. He is an emissary from
the President of the Confederate States of America, Virgil Bourque." He
paused for reactions and he got them—a gasp from Ms. Rogard and a disbelieving
laugh from Katz.

"No, really," Katz said.

"Yes, really," Wang assured him.

"I'll be damned," Katz said.

Ms. Rogard tilted her head coyly. "Well, hello," she said.

Wang explained—as best he could—Callaway's decision to meet with Bourque,
surprising Katz and increasing Ms. Rogard's fascination with Pickett.

"I am very impressed," she said, "that a Black man could achieve
such influence in the CSA, especially someone so young and…" She let the
sentence dangle.

Pickett, who was not subject to blushing, smiled modestly.

"Do people in the South know how close you are to Bourque?" Katz
asked. His cigar choose that moment to go out. He re-lit it automatically and
took a big drag.

"Well, of course everyone at Arcadia knows, but many are under the
impression that I act as Bourque's body man, his personal servant. I don't
correct them."

"I can't imagine you as anyone's servant," Ms. Rogard said sweetly.

"So, Eric," Katz said, taking the cigar out of his mouth and blowing
one of his patented smoke rings, "Why have you sent for Jewel and me? How
can we help?"

Wang leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers behind his head and
stretched, then snapped back to an upright position. "The first thing we
have to do is announce the meeting to the public. I need you to help me
figure out what to say."

"That's going to be tricky," Katz observed. He looked around for an
ashtray, but found nothing.

"Yes," Wang said. "If we do it wrong, the whole thing is going
to come back and bite us. We need to be smart and careful."

"When are we going to let this cat out of the bag?" Ms. Rogard asked.

"Tomorrow," Wang said, and the press lady gasped again.

"This could be trouble," Katz said, still searching for an ashtray
and getting a little anxious.

"Which is why we're all here," Wang said.

"Well, let's analyze this," said Ms. Rogard, untwisting her legs and
retwisting them in the other direction, to the discomfort of the men in the
room. "Who's going to like this and who's going to hate this?"

"I don't give a shit who likes it," Katz said. The ash on his cigar
was over an inch long now. "All I care about is who's going to hate it.
They're the ones we have to deal with."

Wang scanned the top of his desk and came up with a damp, misshapen, empty
cardboard coffee cup. He wordlessly handed it to Katz, who was momentarily
bewildered, then brushed his cigar ash into it.

"Okay, who's going to hate the idea?" Ms. Rogard asked.

"All the people who think they might have something to lose," Katz
said, as though he shouldn't have had to explain. He patted at his comb over,
fretfully checking to see if the sparse hairs were all obeying orders.
"For example, anyone thinks we give out too much foreign aid, or anyone
who thinks we might get involved militarily."

"Those people already hate us," Ms. Rogard said. "They voted
against us. And speaking of people who voted against us, the Right Wing will
find reasons to attack anything Callaway does. And the racists, of course—open
and closeted."

"Well, some people on
our
side aren't going to like it
either," Wang said. "Our liberal friends, who love to hate the
Confederacy. And organized labor—they're already apoplectic about foreign
competition and outsourcing. If they get an inkling they might have to compete
with Southern labor…"

"I see what you mean," Ms. Rogard said. "But what about the
South, Mr. Pickett—could the announcement cause problems in the CSA?" She
looked at Pickett and smiled, as though she'd given him the floor.

"It's Roy," he said, "and you're absolutely right. The
announcement is going to set off a firestorm in the South, especially
among the plantation families who like life the way it is and don't want
any NAU race-poison. The poor won't like it either, and there are plenty of them.
They already resent the North's wealth. And unless we're very careful the Bible
thumpers will be livid. You don't want to know what they say about Northern
religious cults, and the anti-Christ monkey-man in the White House."

"Well, isn't that all just swell?" Katz said. "Half of both
countries are going to hate the whole idea. No problem there."

"That's why I asked you to come," Wang said.

"Okay," Katz said, "Well, my best advice is this: cancel the
meeting. Just forget it. Forget the subject ever came up. Send Roy here home
with a warm handshake and a nice fruit basket."

Wang frowned. "That's not particularly helpful, Marty."

Katz shrugged.

"Tell me, Eric, what is this Summit meeting
really
all about?"
Ms. Rogard asked.

"A closer relationship between the two countries," Pickett
volunteered.

"What it's really about," Wang said, "is figuring how we can
protect the Confederacy from Mexico without making ourselves a target."

A light appeared in Ms. Rogard's eyes and she smiled at Pickett. "Roy? Is
that true?" She touched her too-blonde hair, as though trying to call
attention to it.

"I wouldn't put it so bluntly, Ms. Rogard, but yes."

"Jewel, please."

"Jewel."

"I hope we can avoid any mention of targets or wars in the
announcement," Katz said. He put his cigar butt in the coffee cup and
pulled a fresh one from his jacket pocket.

"You gonna smoke that thing?" Wang asked.

Katz rolled the cigar between his fingers and looked at it with admiration.
"It's not a
thing
, Eric. It's a Cohiba
Piramides Millenium
I
picked up in Havana last week. It has a unique melody of spice, cream and
leather. They retail for $100 each. Care to try one?"

"I can't afford them, Marty," Wang said. "I'm not a political
consultant."

"Don't have the stomach for it?" Katz asked.

Wang just shook his head, exasperated. "Okay," he said. "nothing
about war. What else?"

They all sat back and thought, Jewel Rogard making a few notes on a memo pad.

"I can think of something else we shouldn't mention," Pickett said.
"Immigration."

"You mean from the CSA to the NAU?" Katz asked.

"Very funny," Pickett said.

"Here's some stuff we can talk about without raising alarms." Jewel
Rogard said. She read from her notebook. "Air pollution, water pollution.
Endangered species. Energy issues—buying and selling to each other, that sort
of thing. And maybe trade tariffs—easing up on them to keep prices low. How
does that sound?"

"Hmm," Katz said, sucking on his cigar again. He blew one of his
smoke rings. "That trick is getting a
little tired, Marty," Wang said.

"What I was about to say," Katz replied, offended, "was I think
none of that will raise hackles, even among our enemies."

"What about INN?" Wang asked.

"Oh, they'll find a way to put an ugly spin on it, but there's nothing we
can do about that."

"What do you think, Roy?"

"Well, my people will scoff. You don't get much traction on environmental
and energy stuff in the South," he said. "But most folks will think
it's just Buddy Bourque, going to Washington to swindle the North
Americans. That announcement won't scare anyone."

Wang seemed satisfied. "Jewel could you draft a release and get it to me before
the day is over?"

Ms. Rogard saluted. "Yes, Boss. I got the who, what, where, why and I can
fake the how—but what about the when?" Once again, she untwisted her legs,
then disconcertingly retwisted them in the opposite direction.

"Next week sometime," Wang said, forcing himself to look away.
"We'll announce the date when we know it."

"Next week?" Ms. Rogard said, startled.

"No time like the present," Pickett said.

"I still think you're crazy," Katz said.

"Yeah, well you're a little late for that argument, Marty," Wang
said.

Katz puffed on his cigar, but, after a glance at Wang, resisted the urge to
produce a smoke ring.

"Is there more?" Jewel Rogard asked. She was looking at Pickett, not
Wang.

"Not for you, Jewel, at least not for the moment," Wang said.
"Let me see the press release, then we'll talk."

Ms. Rogard stood. "Will you be around for awhile, Roy?"

"I'm not sure," Pickett said.

"Well, I hope so. I'd like to talk to you about the South. I've always
been curious about it. I'll be back in a couple of hours." She smiled
again and walked out of the office.

"Jesus," Pickett said, when she was out of earshot.

"I know," Wang agreed, laughing. "And it doesn't matter if
you're single or not. I've been thinking of bringing my wife to work."

"Maybe if she thought I was…"

"Nope, wouldn't matter."

"And she's
white
."

"Yeah, but color is no protection up here."

"She's good at her job?"

"She was great during the campaign. Unflappable, friendly, even charming.
And you won't hear her saying something that causes trouble."

"Okay," Pickett said. "So what's next?"

"What's next is that I get on the horn and start selling this thing and
bringing in some partners,” Wang said.

"Partners?"

"Yes. I have to talk to the Pentagon about shifting some frigates down
from New Jersey and Delaware to the Virginia, Carolina and Georgia coastline
and working with your military people. I gotta convince the Secretary of
Defense that this is a good idea. And I want to bring in the FBI, so they can keep
an eye out for troublemakers."

"How quickly can you do that?" Pickett said, concerned.

"Damned if I know. But I'm going to find out. You better alert your
people."

"This is more complicated than I thought it would be," Pickett
admitted. "I was hoping…"

"You were hoping your guy and my guy would have a sit down, do some horse
trading and both of them would walk away happy, no muss, no fuss?"

Pickett shrugged. "Something like that."

Wang laughed.

Then there was a knock on the door. Before Wang could respond, the door opened
and Leo Tolstoy appeared. "Now?" He asked, plaintively.

"Later," Wang said with finality.

"But you said 5:30."

"5:30 tomorrow. I promise."

Tolstoy disappeared and the door closed quietly.

"Maybe if you had a wooden stake," Pickett suggested.

But Wang had barely noticed the interruption. "You know," he said,
"the announcement is the easy part."

"Yeah, the meetings—and the negotiations—are going to be a real minefield,
Pickett said.

"Maybe," Wang said. "But that's not what I'm worried about. I'm
worried about leaks and rumors. I'm worried about provoking every fringe group
in the country—your country too. I hope you have a good handle on them, and on
public opinion in the CSA."

Pickett thought about what Wang was saying. "Our FBI isn't comparable to
yours," he said. "I’m not used to working for a functional government,
you know. And we don't have Gallup polls in the Confederacy. No need for
them."

Wang wasn't pleased. "So you're just going to meander through the cotton
fields with no idea where the rattlesnakes are or if they're inclined to bite? I
mean, that's your choice—but it could wreck the whole damn thing. We could have
protests, demonstrations, bombings and God knows what else."

"Hmmm," Pickett said. He propped up his chin with one hand and folded
the other arm across his chest, like Jack Benny. "There is someone…"

"Someone?"

"Yes, someone who regularly travels the CSA, someone who wouldn’t arouse
any suspicion and is very well-liked, someone who can talk with anyone, someone
I trust implicitly."

"Impressive," Wang admitted. "And that person is…?"

"I'd prefer to keep the name to myself, if you don't mind."

"That's your call Roy."

Chapter Six

For people of a certain age—Buddy Bourque's age—the scene was reminiscent
of that moment in the "Wizard of Oz" when Dorothy and her fellow
travelers first spot Oz's glowing green towers, across the vast meadow that
begins where the sleepy poppies end.

In this case, however, the meadow consisted of an immense field of cotton
plants, most of them heavily laden with puffy white blossoms, leading up to
another distant, magical structure--the enormous and world famous Glass Church,
with its sixty foot solid glass cross. It was one of the CSA's greatest tourist
attractions, and the heart and soul of Southern Baptism, created by and
presided over by the extremely reverend Harlan Hurbuckle, sixty-seven, shepherd
and deacon.

As the trio of gleaming black Packards drew closer, President Bourque, who was
lounging in the back seat of the middle vehicle alone, noted with pleasure the
extensive parking lots that surrounded the Church. It was a Sunday and the
faithful had made their weekly pilgrimage to their favorite place of worship,
nearly 5,000 of them, to judge by the endless acres of closely-parked cars and
station wagons, most of them ancient and barely roadworthy, all products of the
auto factories in Birmingham.

Bourque's little caravan came up on the Church, circled around back and stopped
at a private entrance. A matched quartet of secret service men alighted from
vehicles one and three, surveilled the area and pronounced it kosher. Bourque
got out, slipped on his ever-present Panama hat and headed inside, up a
staircase composed of thick frosted glass slabs,

Through dozens of layers of architectural glass, it was possible to
see—vaguely, in indistinct blurs of color—the great mass of people filling the
huge, fan-shaped sanctuary, which was suspended within the building several
floors away. It was even possible to make out the altar, and the ghostly
movements of the speaker—Rev. Hurbuckle, no doubt.

Bourque did not head for the sanctuary. Instead, he sidled down a
glass-enclosed corridor heading to a corner of the structure, toward what
seemed an invisible dead end. But it was not a dead end. It was a mirrored
wall, almost impossible to see unless you knew it was there, and in its center
was a mirrored door, which led to Hurbuckle's private office. Bourque doffed
his Panama hat and disappeared inside.

The inside was completely different from the outside. There was no glass, only
walls of knotty pine, floors of pegged maple, mostly covered by a
museum-quality Persian rug, and a suite of French provincial furniture
assembled from Provence originals. Bourque took a seat in a button-tufted green
leather Bergere chair and relaxed. He could hear singing, in rising volume. It
wouldn't be long now.

A few minutes later, Harlan Hurbuckle Sr. entered the room, slightly out of
breath, dressed in a blue seersucker suit, a bolo tie, and white shoes. He was
a tall, slender man—might have been a runner or a pole vaulter in his youth,
but that was just a memory. His face was a long oval, pinched at the cheeks,
and his complexion was sallow and waxen. Most of his life force seemed
concentrated in and limited to his eyes, which were surprisingly blue.

"Sorry I'm late, Buddy," the good reverend said, his voice deep and
resonant. He dropped into the big black leather chair behind the walnut desk
with the dainty curved legs,. "Spent more time laying on hands than
usual."

"We live in troubled times, Harlan," Bourque observed.

"We surely do," Hurbuckle said. "Something is troubling you too.
I knew that when I heard your voice on the phone."

"You're gonna have to make up your mind, Harlan. Are you a man of God or
some kinda psychic?"

The reverend chuckled. "I'm not sure there's much difference."

Bourque sat back and took a deep breath. "Harlan," he said, "do
you consider yourself an imaginative man?"

"Imaginative? What do you mean?"

"I mean can you picture things, things that don't exist, events that might
happen but haven't happened yet?"

"As well as the next man, I guess."

"Okay," Bourque said, "then let me run something by you. Imagine
that I take a trip to Washington and meet up with that new NAU President,
Callaway."

Hurbuckle looked at Bourque as if he hadn't heard right. "What?"

"You know, that young Black fella."

"Meet with him? The nigra?"

"The very same."

"Why in God's name would you want to do that?"

"You know me, Harlan. I always have a plan."

Hurbuckle nodded, allowing that was true. "Still, I don't recall you
treatin' with a nigra, I mean outside of that body man of yours, who is a little
uppity for my taste, but that's your business."

Bourque settled back in his chair. "Harlan, why don't you pour us
something? You know, the good stuff, the stuff I send you every Christmas. The
Evan Williams."

Hurbuckle swiveled around, opened the doors of a low, white-painted console and
pulled out two Baccarat crystal tumblers and a half empty bottle of bourbon.
"Ice?" He asked, pouring.

Bourque frowned. "I thought you knew me better than that." He reached
into his pocket, found a roll of Tums and popped one into his mouth.

"It's been awhile since we shared a drink, Buddy. You don't come around
much any more." He handed Bourque a glass.

"I'm always running around like a chicken with its head cut off,"
Bourque said apologetically. "But I need your advice with this thing, and
your help."

Hurbuckle straightened up and smiled. "You want to pray with me,
Buddy?"

"Mostly I need your approval."

"You mean, of you meeting with the nigra?"

"I don't want to, but I got to."

Hurbuckle's brows knit and he took a swallow of bourbon. "Why's that,
Buddy?"

Bourque sipped from his glass. "Well, to put a plain face on it, Harlan,
we're limping pretty bad these days. The Confederacy, I mean."

"Nothing new about that," Hurbuckle said.

"No. But it's getting worse. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep us
afloat."

Hurbuckle raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know it was
that
bad,
Buddy."

"No one does," Bourque said. "I've kept it to myself."

"So you're going north for help? You know they hate us—and we're not very
fond of them either."

"So I've heard," Bourque said, smiling. "But we need someone to
watch our back, and they just might be willing."

Hurbuckle thought about this for a moment. "Our back. You're thinking
about Garcia."

Bourque nodded. "He's the wolf at the door, all right. And after he
swallows us, he'll surely work up an appetite for the north." He drained
his glass and Hurbuckle filled it again.

"And you think they might be willing to protect us?"

"Just might be to their advantage." Bourque said.

"Hmm," said Hurbuckle, nursing his drink. "But won't they want
something in return?"

Bourque grinned like the Cheshire cat. "Of course. But they'll have to
negotiate with me to get it," he said. "A little horse-trading and
we'll end up with extensive military protection from Garcia and they'll get a
few bushels of Georgia peaches and a barge-full of baled cotton."

Hurbuckle laughed. "I pity that poor nigra," he said. "But I
still don't know what you need from me."

"Well, my friend, Callaway and I are going to announce the meeting
tomorrow. I need you to tell everyone that
he
came to
me
,
asking for help and that I generously agreed to hear what he had to say."

"He came to you?"

"No, Harlan," Bourque said patiently. "It was the other way
around. Like I said. But I want the whole South behind me, rootin' me on,
expectin' me to fleece the boys up north, and bring back bushel baskets full of
diamonds and gold bars."

"I see."

Bourque stood and sidled up to Hurbuckle's desk. He put a paw on Hurbuckle's
hand—the hand with the pinky ring—and he looked into the pastor's eyes, smiling
warmly. "You with me, Harlan?"

There was a timid knock on the door. Bourque frowned and got out the Tums
again.

"Don't you worry yourself," Hurbuckle said, going to the door.
"This won't take but a minute."

He opened the door, and found, standing in the hall, a much younger version of
himself, wearing an identical blue seersucker suit, but half a head shorter,
and eyes a size too small for his face, "Sorry to bother you, Daddy, but I
forgot what you want me to put on the sign for tomorrow."

Harlan signed. "What am I going to do with you, Junior?" He said.
"It couldn't be simpler. Just look it up on the schedule. I'll be giving
the annual 'Love Thy Neighbor' sermon. Didn't I tell you that this
morning?"

Junior looked embarrassed. "I know we talked about it, Daddy, I just
didn't remember."

"Well, there it is, Junior. It's 'Love Thy Neighbor.' Put it on the sign
and light it up real bright, y'hear? Move along, now."

"Yes, Daddy. I'll take care of it," Junior said, "But I don't know
why you're giving that sermon again. The congregation has heard it so many
times they must know it by heart."

Hurbuckle sighed. "People want to hear it, Junior. They expect it around
this time of the year. It comforts them."

"I think the young people are bored with it," Junior persisted.

"Well, they shouldn't be," Hurbuckle said patiently, "There's a
lesson in it for them too. The next generation has plenty of lessons to
learn."

"That's just stupid," Junior muttered under his breath.

"What's that?" Hurbuckle asked sharply.

"Nothing."

"Don't you sass me, boy. Get that sign going."

"Yes, sir." Junior looked as though he had more to say, but let it
drop.

Hurbuckle closed the door and sat down again. "Sorry about that,
Buddy."

"So how's my godson doing?" Bourque asked pleasantly. "I mean,
in general."

"Aw, I don't know. I've given him the responsibility of managing the
building, but sometimes I wonder if I've done the right thing."

"Oh, he'll be all right, Harlan. Just give him a couple of years. He'll be
just like his daddy."

"From your mouth to God's ear," Rev. Hurbuckle said sincerely.
"And speaking of children, how's Delphine?"

"She's the apple of her old daddy's eye," Bourque said, beaming.
"Got a new record out. I'll send you a copy."

Hurbuckle nodded. "Buddy, seems to me you're about to ask me to do
something political."

"Just a mite," Bourque conceded.

"Well, you know I don't cotton much to politics, Buddy," Hurbuckle
said. "I have my hands full tending to my flock's spiritual needs. And I'm
a big believer in rendering unto Caesar. That's why you and I have gotten along
for all these years, just like two pups from the same litter."

"I know, Harlan, and don't think I don't appreciate it. But this is one
ditch I can't jump by myself. I need your help, I surely do."

They looked at each other, remembering the years that had passed, the things
they'd said to each other, the things they'd done together. "What do you
want me to say, Buddy?' Hurbuckle asked.

Bourque sat down again, tired, relieved. "How about this, Harlan: When the
North contacted me, I immediately went to you to pray on it and ask for your
guidance. And we prayed on it and God came to you and told you this was a
wonderful opportunity for the Confederacy. So you gave me your blessing and
told me that you trusted me without reservation."

"Hmmm. You know, I could fold that right into tomorrow's sermon. It's a
perfect fit."

The grin slowly spread over Bourque's face. "That would be excellent,
Harlan."

"When is the official announcement?"

"Tomorrow at noon, simultaneously from the White House and The
Plantation."

It was Hurbuckle's turn to grin. "So I'll scoop the networks by a couple
of hours."

"Exactly."

Hurbuckle nodded thoughtfully. "Buddy, just how far are you going to go
with this?"

"You mean the meeting with Callaway?"

"I mean the deal you're cooking up."

"Dammit, Harlan, there's no fooling you, is there?"

"How far?" Hurbuckle repeated.

"No telling," Bourque said. "As far as I have to."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"That's two of us." They both stood, and they shook hands rather
formally. "I may be coming to you again, Harlan," Bourque warned.

"I know," said Hurbuckle. "I'll be praying for you."

Bourque put on his Panama hat, walked out of Hurbuckle's office and almost
collided with Junior, who was on the way back in. "hello, Junior," he
said.

"You were in there with Daddy?" Junior asked, suspicious.

"Yes. Just some business between old friends. But I'm glad I've run into
you."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Well, your father tells me he's put you in charge of the building. It's
nice to know you're working together."

"Yeah," Junior sneered. "Daddy trusts me, even if you
don't."

"Please, Junior. I trust you just fine. But I couldn't take you on at The
Plantation, like you wanted. I already have an assistant, someone who knows
exactly what I need before I do. I couldn't fire him."

"Yes," Junior said. "That nigra. The one who lives at The
Plantation.

Bourque frowned. "Roy knows all my peculiarities, Junior. Besides, I do
believe you're a lot more suited to religion than politics. It's in your genes,
son."

"Right," Junior said.

Junior walked into his father's office and closed the door behind him.

"Junior? Have you…"

"Turned on the sign? Yes I have. You want to check up on me?"

"Of course not, Junior. Thanks for telling me."

"I just ran into ol' Buddy Bourque. Were you meeting with him?"

"We talked for a bit."

"About what?" Junior asked. It was not a friendly question.