The Last Western (27 page)

“I have heard that,” said Clio, whose army command now occupied what was formerly Goldenblade’s hacienda, “and my sympathies are sincerely nugatory.”

“I have tried earnestly as a patriotic American to encourage the President of the United States to declare pacification against those monist-Marxist pigs—”

“Hogs,” said Clio.

“Hogs, Mr. Talazar,” said Goldenblade nodding vigorously, “but do you think I can get action?”

“Not from those traitors,” said Clio. “They serve your great people so poorly they ought to be extinguished. But no, that is not good enough for the louses, or lice if you prefer. They should be ooviated as soon as possible, toute suite.”

“You and I talk the same language,” said Goldenblade. “What is it you need?”

So, under the statue of John the Baptist, Clio, showing papers declaring him to be the deputy defense minister of the government of Brazil, and George Doveland Goldenblade negotiated the sale of 100,000 machine guns, 50,000 mortars, 250,000 grenades, 300,000 carbine rifles, and 2 million rounds of ammunition—the entire shipment to be dispatched immediately to Recife, to the personal attention of Senor Talazar himself, and not to subordinates whose loyalty and patriotism were suspect.

The sale was secured on a cash basis, to the astonishment and delight of Goldenblade, with Clio counting out four and a half million dollars in American money, which he had exchanged in Mexico City the day before for the equivalent amount in Brazilian cruzeiros which the Green Army had removed from nine banks in the city of Recife only seventy-two hours earlier.

“Cash is still a beautiful way to operate,” said Goldenblade in awe, stuffing the money into a suitcase brought into the church by the chauffeur.

“You understand,” said Clio, “this shipment is urgently needed. The enemy is very close—as close as that angel there.”

Goldenblade looked up at the statue.

“That’s Saint John the Baptist. The one who was beheaded.”

“But of course,” said Clio. “In the shadows I thought it was another denizen of the heavenly realms. The head perhaps also fooled me.”

The men stood silently for a moment looking up at the statue which seemed to be blessing their transaction.

“I promise that I shall arrange the shipment myself,” said Goldenblade. “I’ll contact our Philadelphia facility this very night.”

“The swine have got to be put to rout,” said Clio. “And if the governments of the JERCUS alliance refuse to act, then we must purchase our strength from courageous and patriotic heroes of business such as yourself—good men who understand the menace of the times and the value of the dollar and the inflating spiral of the economy which is corrupting the youth of all nations.”

“Young man,” said Goldenblade, “if you weren’t such a patriot for your country, I would be tempted to offer you a vice-presidency in our firm here.”

“My country first,” said Clio. “Liberty or death, take your choice.”

They walked out into the last gray light.

“You are the darkest Spaniard I ever saw,” said Goldenblade, “and yet one of the finest.”

“Portuguese, sir.”

“Of course. Another great country, Portugal.”

“One of the best.”

“May God fructify your every effort,” said Goldenblade.

“And may you likewise be fructified,” said Clio.

When the black limo pulled away, Clio sat down on the steps once more.

He knew now he had to leave. Goldenblade had come to the church looking for Willie, and if he found them together, the bargain would be ruined.

So he wrote a note and left it in the last pew of the church.

Will: Sorry I can’t stay. Even sorrier I can’t tell you why I got to go. I made a deal this afternoon with the munitions people which you wouldn’t like. I ask you not to talk about it to anybody or even let on like you know me. I gave them an alias name. You wouldn’t like that either. Please believe I am working for peace and justice just as you are but in a different way. Ever your friend. Clio.

It was just after nine when Willie found the note.

Clio, Clio, he thought, so you will shoot your way to justice.

Take care of him.

Take care of everybody.

And he knelt down to listen.

Sunday morning
after Mass, George Doveland Goldenblade went to the private office that he kept on the fourth floor of his Houston mansion, sat down in a leather chair so that he could gaze upon the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima that rose like a golden mountain on the west lawn of his spacious grounds, opened a file that had arrived by messenger just an hour earlier, and dictated a cassette letter to his brother, Earl Cardinal Goldenblade, Archbishop of New Orleans, and one of the most important men in the Catholic church in the United States.

Eminence Earl, Goldenblade began, we had something happen at our Delphi plant on Friday that was like a miracle. To make a long story short, we had to fire a lot of blacks and wetbacks owing to the stupid ending of the Pakistan affair and came very close to having a riot on our hands. These people never had jobs till we came along and you know how it goes with such types once they get into the quick green. We were sure they were going to burn us bad and I had even called H. B. to get Maxie in there with some troops in case the roof went, which we thought it might.

What saved the situation for us was a young black priest, known in Delphi as Father Willie Brother, who appears also to have some chink and even Indian blood running through him and who gave a remarkable speech to the people, which not only calmed the troublemakers down but even paved the way for new work for them, getting us out of a real messy situation and giving the troublemakers something to take their minds off-arson.

What impressed me most about this young nigra was not what he said but his ability to get through to the people, his own people, and to keep them from taking the violent step. With all the rabble-rousing priests you and I have seen these past twenty years, here’s one that is dead against violence and other extreme measures and seems to have the knack of calming the troubled waters. And the reason I am writing you is this: Why not give this young fellow a special job as a sort of trouble-shooter for the church, if you follow. I mean, give him some title or other and send him around to places where blacks and spies or anybody else are acting up?

Now what makes this such an interesting idea to me, and I hope to you, is a couple of facts about this man which one of our investigation teams has discovered in the past forty-eight hours.

Number One, this priest used to be a famous pitcher for Bob Regent’s ball club in New York. You remember the night of your elevation to archbishop going out on Bob’s yacht and how excited he was about this new player he had signed? This is that same boy, which just goes to show you it is a short world after all. And right now as I dictate this, I am paging through a small bible of press clippings on this spade, which recount his feats on the baseball diamond. You and I never cared for the game, but apparently this bird was some kind of miracle pitcher, a great favorite with the fans, very big at the gate, and so on. In other words he has, or at least once had, a name.

Number Two, his family was wiped out in the riots here in the city eleven-twelve years ago. In fact, as far as we know, that is why he left the club. And that’s why he is so opposed to extremist violence—seeing as how it cost him his family. Our people have been trying to get more information on his folks and general background, but it appears just about everybody who knew him when young got smoked in the riot. The diocesan chancery seems to know little about him either, except that he was a bad student and we have checked this out with several classmates who confirm. Bob Regent could probably give us further information but as you have undoubtedly read in the papers, that man is practically cut off from the world now. No one knows where he is from one day to the next, and his business operations are so screwy and so secret and he makes himself so scarce, refusing to see people or meet with people, I wonder if Bob hasn’t burned a circuit. We should surely remember Bob in our prayers.

I am taking the trouble to tell you all this because we are getting into another rough summer here, in many ways very much like the summer of eleven years ago. And I understand things aren’t so sweet in N. O. either. Our field people are sending in various reports from Chicago, L. A., Cleveland and D. C., which are also bad. Wouldn’t we be able to render a great service to the country and to the church if we had somebody to send into these areas just before flash point to cool things down?

As I dictate this I am looking at the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima, which you will recall dedicating for us five years ago. Every morning I pray to Our Lady that she will show us some way out of our troubles. I honestly think maybe she has sent us this spade as an answer. I would be passing all this on to the local arch here, but as you know better than I, he is so out of it these days all he does is go around asking people what ever happened to the pagan babies he ransomed as a kid. He should be put in a home without doubt. As for the new dude, young McCool, well, you remember the trouble Dad had with that s.o.b. who called himself his father. It is not charitable of me to say so, but I do not like a man to smile that much. He knows how I feel, and if I were to recommend the advancement of this Afro to McCool, it would probably be the one sure way to get him sent to the South Pole. But if trouble broke out here, you could talk to the man in Dallas and recommend this boy and there is always the Delegate as you once told me about.

Irene and the girls are fine and outside the lousy ending in Pakistan we are not doing too bad. I hope you are over whatever it was that was tying up your internals.

A week after George Doveland Goldenblade sent this cassette letter to his brother, a white policeman shot and killed a seventeen-year-old drug addict named Martin King Kennedy, who was attempting to rob a grocery store at the corner of 63rd and Halsted in Chicago, Illinois, and the first great riot of the summer began.

Within two hours of the incident, Cardinal Goldenblade of New Orleans had called Cardinal Powers of Chicago and Cardinal Powers had called Archbishop Tooler of Houston who wanted to know what ever happened to the pagan babies Cardinal Powers had ransomed in his youth. The handsome Bishop McCool took the phone.

Bishop McCool did not understand anything about riots but he did understand that it was Cardinal Powers who was making the phone call and if Cardinal Powers wanted the pastor of Our Lady of Guadalupe parish in Delphi to come to Chicago, then he would certainly be happy to arrange it—and Cardinal Powers was welcome, no trouble at all, any time really, it was nice to be able to help a fellow bishop.

The telegram reached Willie in the old church, where 341 Mexican and black people were busily engaged in making, sorting, pricing and boxing blankets.

The telegram said,
A private plane will land shortly at the airport of the Doveblade plant. You are to board this craft and proceed to Chicago, Illinois to assist his eminence Clarence Cardinal Powers in putting down a riot. May God bless you in this good work. Bishop Francis McCool.

Willie looked at the happy, busy, boisterous people in the church, their beautiful skin colors even more beautiful than the blankets they were making.

He looked at the children running about the sanctuary.

The old church had never felt life like this even on the happiest feast days.

The people had taken hold of a moment and made it their own, and the excitement of that choice was in the air, making everything different.

How could he leave them?

Sureness Jack saw the sadness come to Willie’s face.

“Everything all right, Willie?”

“I have to go away, Sureness,” said Willie. “Remember this, won’t you: you can make this work succeed if you stay on together and work as a family. You can be happy and you do not have to make weapons in order to eat.”

“You are not going away for good?”

“No,” said Willie, “I don’t think so. But matters are uncertain. I will try to come back as soon as possible.”

“You cannot leave, Willie,” said Sureness, frightened suddenly.

“The work is yours not mine. You must learn to do it without me.”

“I will tell the people.”

Willie took his hand.

“Not now, Sureness,” he said. “Wait until I am gone. I cannot say good-bye to them.”

Then Willie went out to the airport, where a jet was waiting to fly him to Chicago.

He was wearing a torn sweatshirt and blue Levis, and the pilot of the aircraft said to the priest who was the only other passenger, “That is the man?”

“They told us he was odd,” said the priest, who was the secretary to Cardinal Powers and who knew what he would be doing every half hour for the next six months.

When the plane curved up over the town, Willie looked down on the people.

They had come out of the church and were standing in a ragged circle waving their bright blankets in farewell.

“Good-bye, my loved ones,” he said. “My beautiful brothers and sisters, good-bye.”

“How little people look from the air,” said the priest-secretary. “Flying certainly puts things in perspective, doesn’t it, Father? Would you like a drink?”

And so began Willie’s second public career—queller of riots, messenger of calm, cooler of the hot towns, which were that summer hotter than ever because the fires had burned on steadily from the inside without anyone paying attention and were out of control in ways that men could not measure.

In Chicago
, twelve square blocks were under siege.

The city police, the county police, the state police and the National Guard had moved around the area, arms at the ready.

So far, no one but Martin King Kennedy had been killed in the strife, but the black people in the riot district were on the rampage.

They had set fires to many tenement buildings and loan offices and shiny new buildings in the neighborhood that had the word
opportunity
written on their windows.