He stood and walked to his outside office.
When the pool was added he’d simultaneously enlarged the two-car garage into a three-bay carport. On the far end of the elongated building he’d built himself an office. Abutting one wall were a pair of four-drawer file cabinets where he kept his union papers. Among those were a list of current members, along with birthdays, wives’ and children’s names, and other information. He used it religiously to make sure all his members received a birthday and anniversary card, a personal touch left over fromhis political days, the gesture constantly solidifying the fifty-plus votes needed at reelection time.
He found the union roster and carried it over to a counter abutting the opposite wall. Brent could be right. They might be Social Security numbers. But he had no way of determining that for sure. His files did not contain Social Security numbers. Only union IDs. That’s why he needed Brent. He could ask Marlene, and would if Brent didn’t come through soon. But he preferred to keep her out of it. Every time she did something for him, she placed her job on the line. And she wasn’t a union employee, protected by a collective bargaining agreement. She was terminable-at-will, with no recourse. And he did not want her to lose her job.
The house phone rang.
He yanked up the extension.
“Hank.” The voice was his chief steward at the mill. “Paul Zimmerman’s dead.”
He was shocked. Zimmerman was one of his most loyal supporters, even serving two terms on the city council during his last term as mayor. A solid vote, loyal union man, and friend.
“They found his body near Solomon Swamp. He’d gone after hogs. Looks like a hunting accident.”
He knew how Zimmerman loved to hunt. He talked about it all the time. In fact, the freezer in the carport still held the pork chops Zimmerman gave him a couple of months back.
“His wife and kids must be in pieces,” he said.
“It’s pretty bad over there. I just got back and thought you’d want to know.”
“I’ll head right over.”
He hung up and immediately started toward the house to change, the list of numbers on the clipboard forgotten.
DAY TEN
THURSDAY, JUNE 15
8:45A.M.
HANK OCCUPIED HIS USUAL REALM.
His spot filled the northeast corner of the football-field-sized building housing paper machine number three. A grimy plate-glass window lined one wall and overlooked the churning machinery two stories below. Officially, it was designated the electric shop’s break room. But no one outside Hank’s inner circle had actually taken a break there in years. Unofficially, thanks to a federal law that required company space be made available for union activities, the room served as Hank’s office. And he used his designated locale to the fullest, converting what was once an employee break room into a fortified union stronghold. It even had a name. Affectionately dubbed the Boar’s Nest by the electricians to go along with Hank’s personal moniker, Boarhogger.
Two years ago, in a power-flexing move, the company foolishly tried to evict him, claiming the space was needed for expansion of an adjacent control room. In reality management was irritated with the barrage of grievances he’d recently filed. He responded to the challenge by arranging for calls to be made to a Savannah television station alerting them to supposed environmental violations being sent downriver to their viewers. The callers specifically encouraged reporters to contact Hank Reed.
And they had.
Two film crews were sent and the story was in production when management conceded and stopped the eviction. Which simultaneously stopped the story since without a union president to go on camera, stamping validity to the claim, there was nothing to report.
Talk about tit for tat.
The door to the Boar’s Nest opened.
“Hank, we need two more helpers on that generator repair for paper machine number one,” one of his guys said.
He was busy on the landline phone and waved the man in, motioning for the door to be closed, the roar from the paper machine deafening. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “I’ll get somebody down there. Tell ’em to sit tight and not get their panties in a wad.”
The electrician nodded and left, quickly closing the door. Two minutes later another interruption came from his cell phone. Still talking, he checked the display. He quickly ended the call in his ear and answered his cell.
He’d been waiting patiently.
“Hank, they’re headed to the main conference room.”
“The big cheesers?”
“All of ’em. Even Bozin himself. And a surprise. Your boy Brent too.”
