The Last Ballad(107)

A voice called his name, and he saw Tom pushing his way through the crowd, his pistol drawn and pointed toward the sky. He tripped over something and fell to the street, squeezing off a shot that ricocheted against the blacktop and caromed into the night. The crowd dispersed at the sound of the gunshot, and Tom got to his feet and pointed his pistol at the strikers, who were fleeing in all directions.

“Stop!” Tom yelled. “Police!”

Albert gave chase, the stake raised over his head, but Tom caught him and spun him around.

“What the hell happened?” Tom asked.

“I was attacked,” Albert said. He shook free of Tom’s grasp. “And I didn’t have my goddamned gun! They could’ve killed me, Tom!”

Tom looked up, scanned the crowd, the majority of which was headed up North Loray Street in the direction of the tent colony and union headquarters.

“Who attacked you?”

“All of them, damn it. Every single one of them. They could’ve killed me.”

Tom looked up the street at the backs of the fleeing strikers, then broke into a run behind them. Albert didn’t know what else to do, so he followed. He could hear Tom screaming something but he was too far behind him to hear what it was.

The moon had risen fully, and beneath its light Albert watched as dozens of people scattered through the tent colony on the west side of the road. Oil lamps swung from posts, casting an eerie yellow light and throwing long, thin shadows against the white canvas tents. He heard voices, screams, women’s calls for men to get their guns and go out to the road. They were being attacked.

Up ahead, electric lights burned inside the union headquarters. The door opened and slammed shut, opened and slammed shut again. Loud voices came from inside. Someone extinguished the lights one by one, and the building and the night around it fell into darkness.

Tom was still running, so Albert ran too. His side pained him, and he held his hand cupped against it to stave off the ache, the hot dogs and candied apple and whiskey gathering in the back of his throat. He wanted to stop, catch his breath, but he feared being left behind. Tom slowed as he drew closer to the union building. He held his pistol with both hands, held it pointed at the door, only ten or fifteen yards away. Sirens wailed in the distance. Albert knew the rest of the police department would be there soon, and in his drunkenness and exhaustion he couldn’t decide whether or not that was a good thing.

“Come on out of there!” Tom yelled, his gun still drawn and pointed at the door.

“Go to hell!” a voice said from inside.

Tom took a running leap and kicked the door. It didn’t budge. There was laughter from inside.

“Go to hell!” another voice said.

The sirens were behind Albert now, and beneath their noise he heard the sound of tires coming up the road. He turned and saw two police cars pull into the gravel and skid to a stop. Their doors flew open, and officers scattered, two of them running behind the building. Aderholt climbed from the driver’s seat of his automobile, and Albert felt his stomach lurch in his throat. His mouth flooded with bile.

“What the hell, Roach!” Aderholt yelled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Albert turned and looked for Tom to make sense of what had just happened, hoped he’d be able to explain the past few minutes in a way that made some kind of impression on the chief, that displayed some of the bravery and honor that Albert believed he’d shown.

“We were attacked!” Tom said. He held his gun down by his side and rubbed the knee of the leg he’d used in trying to kick in the door. He nodded toward the building. “They’re holed up inside here.”

Aderholt looked from Tom to Albert.

“You been drinking, Roach?” Aderholt asked.

“No, sir,” Albert said. “I just wanted to come down here and help out.”

“Help with what?” Aderholt said. “What could you have possibly helped with?”

He brushed past Albert, walked up to the building, and knocked on the door.

“Beal!” he said. “Beal, if you’re in there I suggest you come out now and have a word with me. We’ll get this all ironed out so nobody gets hurt.”

They all waited. Albert looked toward the tent colony on the other side of the road. The oil lamps had been snuffed out. Clouds had gathered. The night had grown darker without his realizing it. He wished he had his gun, considered whispering to Tom, asking for him to give it back, but he was afraid of the chief discovering that he still carried it.

“Beal?” Aderholt said. He knocked again, stepped back, put his hands in his pockets. He waited, appeared content to do so all night.

“They attacked us, Chief,” Beal said from behind the door.

“Well, open up and let’s talk about it,” Aderholt said.

Whispered voices followed by hushes came from inside. There was the sound of something heavy sliding across the floor. Furniture, perhaps. The lock clicked. The door opened. A tall young man stepped out. He held a rifle with both hands, kept it pointed toward the sky.

“I want to talk with Beal,” Aderholt said.

“I’m his emissary,” the man said.

“Son, I need you to put that gun down,” Aderholt said.

“I’m on the union’s private property,” the man said. “I got a right to hold this gun. I got more of a right to hold this gun than y’all have to be standing here right now.”