Union Bust Read online

  From time to time many employers saved themselves the expense of renting hoodlums and dealt directly with their labor antagonist. They did this with envelopes. Fat envelopes. The proceeds of this corporate largesse often found its way to drivers whose hospital insurance had run out, drivers’ children for whom the local’s scholarship fund could not provide enough, and drivers who could not quite make a down payment on a mortgage. No member of the local was ever laid off for more than a day, and only one driver who belonged to the union was ever fired for cause. He had, for the third time, rammed a tractor trailer into the side of the barn while drunk.

  Bludner pleaded with the owner to give the driver a nondriving job. The owner refused. Abe Bludner pointed out that the driver had four children and a wife. The owner refused. Abe Bludner said the driver had enough problems already. Wouldn’t the owner reconsider? The owner would not. The next day, the owner saw the folly and hardheartedness of his ways. He wired the president of Local 529 that he had changed his mind. He would have come personally, dictated the owner, but he would not be out of hospital for a month and even then doctors were not sure if he would ever walk again.

  Abe “Crowbar” Bludner ran his local with a tight hand, an open pocket, and a heart as big as all outdoors—if you did your work and kept you face relatively clean. He was said to have never made a serious mistake.

  Abe Bludner knew better. He had not seen fit to include the US Government in his list of beneficiaries from the gift envelopes. The US Government appeared not to know this until the day before the 85th annual convention of the International Brotherhood of Drivers.

  Then Abe Bludner discovered that the Internal Revenue Service was deeply grieved at being excluded from his largesse. But Abe Bludner could set things right again, said the man “from IRS.” Abe Bludner could show the bigness of his heart, by giving a young, deserving man a job with his local, by making this newcomer a business agent for Local 529 International Brotherhood of Drivers, New York City.

  Abe “Crowbar” Bludner outlined why this was impossible. A man had to be elected business agent according to union bylaws. His other men would resent someone coming in off the street and taking a major job. Abe Bludner had power because he didn’t do such foolish things—things that would antagonize the very people he depended on for his power. So the IRS would have to ask for something else.

  The something else, as it turned out, would be ten to fifteen years at the Lewisburg Federal Prison. Abe Bludner asked the name of his new business agent.

  “Remo,” said the supposed representative from IRS.

  “Johnny Remo, Billy Remo? What Remo?”

  “Remo is his first name.”

  “All right. That is a nice first name. May I have a last name to put in the union records.”

  “Jones.”

  “A lovely last name. I used it once in a motel.”

  “So did I,” said the man supposed to be from the IRS.

  Thus it was that on this sunny morning Abe Bludner waited for his new business agent and delegate to the convention.

  He did his waiting with two other officials of his local who in other businesses would be called bodyguards. Remo saw them in a booth, sitting at a table laden with food, little cakes, glasses of beading orange juice, and cups of steaming black coffee.

  Remo could smell the bacon and the home fries from twenty feet away. So could his trainer, Chiun, who had been assigned by Upstairs to personally supervise his pupil’s diet.

  “I knew I shouldn’t eat a hamburger, what I didn’t know was that I couldn’t,” Remo had said.

  “Could and should are the same things for the wise man,” Chiun had said. “I have taught you the pathetically basic rudiments of offense and defense. Now I must teach you to eat.”

  And that was Chiun’s assignment. As they approached the Bludner table, Chiun’s face contorted in contempt for the awful smells of the food. Remo’s mouth filled with delicious overwhelming desire. Perhaps he could sneak a roll.

  “Mr. Bludner?”said Remo.

  “Yeah,” said Bludner, a crisp, brown morsel of home fry caught in the corner of his lips.

  “I’m Remo Jones.”

  Bludner tore an end off an onion roll and dipped the soft white interior into the golden, flowing egg yolks. He lifted the roll, dripping yellow over the brown crust dotted with white onion chips toasted black at their corners. Then he mouthed it, swallowing the roll morsel whole.

  “Yeah, well, good to see ya,” said Bludner without enthusiasm. “Who’s he?”

  “He’s my nutritionist,” said Remo.

  “What’s the clothes he’s wearing?”

  “It’s a kimono.”

  “Well, sit down. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No,” said Remo.

  “Yes,” said Chiun.

  “Well, have you or haven’t you?” said Bludner.

  “Yes and no,” said Remo.

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Bludner.

  “It means I’ve eaten but it doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Well, sit down and have a coffee and Danish. I got your union credentials with me. This is Paul Barbetta and Tony Stanziani, stewards and delegates to the convention.”

  There was a round of handshakes in which Stanziani attempted to crush Remo’s hand. Remo watched the dark-eyed hulk squeeze almost to redness in face. Then with simple compression Remo strained Stanziani’s thumb. He did this not because Stanziani had squeezed hard. Actually it would have been good for Remo to be thought of as weak. No, Remo hurt the thumb because of the Danish he could not have. Golden Danish in rings with brown chips of almonds and cinnamon filling. Rich cheese Danish, with creamy white, pungent filling. Cherry Danish with sweet red sauce.

  Stanziani, despite his sudden pain, was really lucky he had a hand to take back.

  “Ow,” said Stanziani.

  “I’m sorry,” said Remo.

  “You got a tack in your hand or something?” Stanziani blew on his thumb.

  Remo opened his palms to show that nothing was in them.

  “You guys want Danish and coffee?” said Bludner. “I got a special Danish I make right here at the table. I’ll be making it myself. It’s called a ‘Dawn Danish.’ It’s very nice. Named after my wife.”

  “No. We don’t want it,” said Chiun.

  “What? Do you eat for him?” said Bludner. “Look, it’s going to be rough enough passing you off as a driver, I mean what with you looking kind of faggy, no offense. But you know you don’t look as though you carry much weight and those clothes you’re wearing are kind of, well, delicate, know what I mean? And if your nutritionist goes with you everywhere, I think we’re going to be in some traffic, Remo. Know what I mean?”

  “No,” said Remo.

  “You don’t look like a business agent. You look like a stockbroker or something. Like a clerk or a young vice president of a fashion company. Know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” said Remo.

  “I got a reputation and a certain prestige, and I don’t want it to suffer. We’re known as stand-up guys and it’s good being known as that. Know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Let me give you a very brief and important history of our labor union. When we drivers first organized, companies would hire gangsters to drive us out. Tough guys. Pipes, guns, everything. So the drivers knew they had to be just as tough to survive. So only tough guys got to represent them, and you, well, you don’t look tough. You look just, well, average, kind of. No offense. I think you’d make a great whatever you want to be, but you don’t look the part of one of my boys, and I think there are going to be a lot of people feeling you out. Just stay close to Tony and Paul. They’re stand-up guys and they won’t let anything happen to you. Namely, they won’t let you embarrass me.”

  “Right, Abe,” said Tony and Paul in unison. “You stay close to us, kid, and you’ll be all right.”

  “Not if he puts that filth in his stomach,” said Chiun.<
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  “Well, he won’t eat. Okay, Doc?” said Bludner. “You stay with my boys, do whatever you have to do, then get out and we’ll have your name off our books real fast. Right? You know the deal, right?”

  Remo nodded. He knew the deal very well. Kill whoever’s death would stop the giant transportation unions from joining. That was the base plan. The extreme plan was to eliminate the presidents of the four transportation unions, because without them the superunion would take years in forming again. And, of course, leave the blame on Abe “Crowbar” Bludner, because only if the killings were an intraunion squabble could the union movement go on. Should they be considered a management plot, the nation would never recover.

  This was the driver’s convention, but on Friday the three other union presidents would be on the speaker’s platform to announce their joining, according to Smith’s sources. So Dr. Smith’s orders were simple. If it comes to that, kill them. All four. If it comes to that, you can even be seen. After all, when they know it is one of Bludner’s boys, and he proves to be an import, who would ever believe that Abe “Crowbar” Bludner had not imported a professional killer to do the job?

  “I know the deal,” Remo said to Bludner.

  Chiun watched a bacon strip go into Stanziani’s mouth as if the man were swallowing a live snake. He watched the potatoes the same way. Then Bludner snapped his fingers.

  “Now, you’ll see it,” said Bludner. A waiter glided to the table and leaned forward over the fresh daisies in a water-filled pitcher set on the white tablecloth.

  “I wanna bowl of whipped cream,” said Bludner. “I want some fresh cherries, pitted. I want some cherry preserves. I want a bowl of crushed nuts, almonds, cashews, maybe a couple peanuts crushed real good, and I wanna bowl of hot fudge. And bring some more round cinnamon Danish.”

  The waiter repeated the instructions, being reminded that the nuts must be crushed fine, almost pastelike.

  “You want one, Tony, and you want one, Paul, and you don’t want one, Doc. How about you, Remo?”

  “He doesn’t want one,” said Chiun.

  Bludner shrugged. Remo looked at the daisies. “Who are you supporting for the election?” Remo asked.

  “Jethro. Gene Jethro,” said Bludner dropping his fork into an unfinished beautiful, delicious, crisp mound of home fries whose pungent odor Remo could taste and even chew.

  “Think he’s going to win?”

  “Nah. He’s a long shot, but we got a good deal and we can survive the loss. The international needs us as much as we need them. You’re voting for Jethro.”

  “According to the bylaws,” said Remo, watching a bacon crisp float in a golden yellow pool of yolk, “I am obliged to cast my vote independently, free of any reward or pressure, a free honest vote.”

  “You go talking like that, you’re gonna get us all laughed out of the convention, Remo. Now my deal was only to get you in. Not get us ruined. Don’t embarrass us with silly talk like that. That’s all. Don’t embarrass us. We got enough problems without us trying to pass off Bo Peep as a union official. We made a deal and that’s it.”

  “That’s it,” said Stanziani and Barbetta in unison. “That’s it.”

  “Right,” said Bludner agreeing with those who agreed with him.

  “You going to eat the leftover potatoes?” Remo asked Bludner.

  “No. You want ’em?”

  “He doesn’t,” said Chiun.

  “Well, you guys must be excited about your new union building, it going up so quickly and all that,” said Remo.

  “New?” Bludner looked puzzled.

  “Just outside this city. A beautiful building. I guess I should call it our building now.”

  “We ain’t got no new building near Chicago. We got our headquarters in Washington. The capital.”

  “I see,” said Remo. “When do I meet Jethro?”

  “You’ll meet him. You’d probably even like him. He’s kind of, don’t take offense, like you in some ways.”

  “Lucky guy,” said Remo. He smiled at the frowns on the faces of Barbetta and Stanziani.

  Bludner outlined the convention program. “There’s a reception tomorrow night after the election. Today, there’s the dedication, the convocation, and the reading of last year’s minutes. That don’t count. You don’t have to go. Tomorrow is the nominations and the voting. To that, you gotta go. You vote Jethro. You’ll get a button and all that crap. Jethro.”

  The waiter returned with a tray, Remo first smelled the rich chocolate fudge, then the aroma of cherry preserves, tangy and pungent. The whipped cream quivered in a silver bowl, a billowing white mountain of sweetness. The nuts were a rich, oily paste. The cinnamon Danish were round and light. Remo grabbed the metal leg of the table. The leg would support him as well as the table. He squeezed.

  Chiun muttered a Korean word that Remo recognized as “dog droppings.”

  Bludner carefully unspun the round string of cinnamon Danish from a wheel to a long strip. Then he mixed the chocolate fudge with part of the cherry preserve and blended in the nut paste. He coated the inside of the unwound Danish with the reddish-brown sweetness and pushed the bulging pastry back close to its original form. Then he coated the top with the oozing cherry-chocolate paste. Little nut fragments made specks of small rises in the cherry chocolate. Bludner formed three pastries in this fashion and licked the spoon with which he made the paste.

  Then he topped the cherry-chocolate mounds with scoops of the fluffy whipped cream, forming it into delicate, sweet mountains. On top of that, Bludner carefully placed cherries. They sank into the whipped cream mountains, tangy red balls in a rise of white.

  Suddenly the table jerked. The Dawn Danishes quivered but stayed intact. Remo withdrew his hand from the table leg. In his passion he had cracked it.

  “Let us go to our hotel rooms,” said Chiun. “I cannot watch people degrade their stomachs in such a fashion.”

  “In a minute, Chiun,” said Remo. If he knew it would not harm him, Remo, for that Dawn Danish, would have betrayed any trust in his life. The organization. The country. His mother and father if he had known them. Children if he had had them. And Chiun with a high hurrah.

  “You’re going to eat it now?” said Remo.

  “Yeah,” said Bludner. “I can make another.”

  “No. That’s all right,” said Remo. “Let me watch you.”

  Bludner served his men, and then with a fork cut a small triangular wedge and raised it to his mouth. A cherry peeked out of the side of the whipped cream, and appeared to fall. Remo watched the pastry, cherry-chocolate paste, whipped cream and cherries disappear into Bludner’s mouth.

  “Arghhh,” said Remo.

  “If you are hungry, eat good food,” said Chiun, and tore some petals from the table daisies. Remo cut them in midair with his fingertips, knowing that the men would not even see his hands move.

  Remo got his union card, delegate badge, and Jethro hat from Bludner and returned to his room with Chiun.

  The bellboys were bringing in Chiun’s large, lacquered trunks. They were told to set up the television device first. The device could be attached to any normal set. But Chiun had had his own set shipped with the device. Once in a Washington motel the television set had faulty wiring and Chiun had missed fifteen minutes of Dr. Lawrence Walters, Psychiatrist-at-Large. Remo was not sure how a person could miss a segment because nothing ever happened. He had watched the show on two occasions exactly a year apart, and had had no trouble with the continuity.

  Chiun saw it differently and had refused to speak to Remo for a week, Remo being the only one who would mind not being spoken to by him.

  The television was set up and tuned to a lady’s show. Dr. Lawrence Walters would be on in half an hour, followed by As the Planet Revolves, Edge of Dawn, and Return to Drury Village. There was a half hour for exercises. Chiun worked Remo on the fall advance, a basic step that Chiun said was learned anew each time a student improved. Remo thought this absurd when he firs
t mastered the step, but then as he progressed in the discipline, he came to understand that just the simple act of falling and then moving forward had many varied and subtle ramifications.

  Remo worked hands, torso, and neck; then hips, thighs, and feet; and finally, as he had done every day since the burns of the electric chair on his hands, feet, and forehead had healed, every day for the last eight years, Remo who had been known as Remo Williams when he was alive and had a different face, and when he was a policeman who had suddenly found himself charged with a murder he did not commit, and gone to the chair when no policeman had gone to the chair for more than sixty years and when there was even talk of the death penalty being abolished—Remo, now Remo Jones, worked on his breathing.

  He breathed as few men did, straining his lungs, pushing them to painful limits, imperceptibly farther each day, forcing his bloodstream to make greater and greater use of less oxygen, attuning his very nerve cells to a new consciousness.

  He was in a sweat when he finished. He showered, shaved, and donned a double-breasted gray suit with striped tie and shirt. Remembering how Bludner and his men looked, he took off the tie.

  “I’m going to the convention, Chiun. What am I having for lunch?”

  “A Dawn Danish,” said Chiun, laughing.

  “Don’t you push me, you sonuvabitch.”

  “A Dawn Danish,” said Chiun, chuckling again. “Who could eat that?”

  “I’ll smash that TV. I will, Chiun. What can I have?”

  “Rice and water and three ounces of raw fish. Not cod or halibut. Don’t eat the scales.”

  “I’m not going to eat the frigging scales, for Chrissakes.”

  “Anyone who would eat a Dawn Danish would eat a fish scale,” said Chiun. “Heh, heh.”

  “Heh, heh. I hope they discontinue As the Planet Revolves.”

  Remo arrived at the convention early, as he knew Bludner would. The opening ceremonies were usually attended only by a few wives, a couple of delegates, the incumbent president and his officers. A rabbi, priest and minister offered prayers. Somehow the rabbi got unionism to relate to a greater need for more charities, the priest connected unionism with sex, and the minister alluded to unionism as the social action of its day. Nobody talked much about God.