The Last Ballad(65)

“No,” Richard said. “No more tonight than I have for months.” He cleared his throat and fought the urge to reach into his jacket for another cigarette. Instead he put his sweaty hands in his pockets. “I was also waiting for you,” he said. “I wanted to speak with you about what’s going on down at Loray. About the situation there.”

Guyon sighed as if it were the last thing he wanted to think about. He raised his head and looked up at the porch’s ceiling, where a single hanging lamp shone down upon them.

“Out with it,” Guyon said. “I’m waiting.”

“Can we have a word, just for a moment?” Richard asked. Guyon lowered his gaze, and Richard’s eyes darted toward Epps and back to Guyon.

“There’s nothing you’ll say that I won’t tell him later,” Guyon said.

Richard nodded his head as if he understood; then he looked behind him, where he could see the empty foyer through the windows. They were alone out here on the porch, and there was no one inside who could see them, but the need for privacy still provoked him. He gestured for the men to follow him to the end of the porch, out of reach of the front door and the light from the lobby.

Richard stopped when they reached the far side of the porch, where three small windows looked into the hallway. He watched waiters, trays held aloft, scurry in and out of the kitchen. Unable to resist the urge any longer, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and when he lifted it to his lips he saw that Epps held a flame out before him. Richard leaned forward and lighted his cigarette. Epps then lifted the flame to a fresh cigar and puffed until its tip glowed orange in the semidark.

“What about the strike, Mr. McAdam?” Guyon asked.

Richard pulled on his cigarette and took a moment to ponder the best way to broach the subject about what the Lytles had seen.

“My future in-laws are from the coast,” he said, hoping that by mentioning their geography it would be clear that their understanding of the world and its diverse economies was not the same as the understanding that men like he and Guyon and possibly Epps shared. “The family is from Wilmington. Has been for generations.”

“I know them,” Epps said. “Known the Lytles for years.”

Richard was surprised, and he knew his face portrayed it.

“How do you know them?”

“Tobacco,” Epps said. He puffed on the cigar and blew a plume of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Business. Land. The ways people know each other on the coast. The way they know each other everywhere else too.” He put the cigar back into his mouth and narrowed his eyes as he took another puff.

“I see,” Richard said. He stared at Epps for another moment, then turned to Guyon again.

“This afternoon, the Lytles left their rooms at the Armington to join us here at the club, and for some reason, perhaps being a curious sort and perhaps a little too cavalier, Mr. Lytle asked the driver to take them by Loray so he could see the strike firsthand.” He stopped and took another drag on his cigarette. “Their car was attacked by some of your strikers, and needless to say, we’re all very upset by this.”

“The attack on the car or their desire to see the strike?” Guyon asked.

“Both, but for different reasons,” Richard said. “I don’t know why in the hell Mr. Lytle wanted to see it, but I couldn’t care less about his reasons. I am concerned, however, about having to pay for the damage to the car—”

“We’ll cover it,” Epps said.

Richard stopped speaking and looked at Epps. Epps stared back at him without blinking. Guyon seemed either not to have heard him or was indifferent to his claim.

“Very well,” Richard said. “I appreciate that, but it’s not the real matter.”

“What’s the real matter?” Guyon asked.

“Well, it’s going on two months now since the strike began,” Richard said, “and—”

“We’re not even at eight weeks,” Epps said. “And the strike has already failed. We’re operating at full power. Production is back to normal.”

“That may be,” Richard said, “but it looks like things haven’t changed.”

Epps sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Guyon turned toward him and put his hand on Epps’s shoulder as if calming him. It was clear that the conversation had provoked Epps, and Richard realized that he might have crossed a line he hadn’t been aware of. His mind cycled back through all the things he’d said since meeting Guyon and Epps after they’d stepped out of the Packard and stood before the club.

“What your in-laws saw was the bad element of outside agitation,” Guyon said. “It’s the work of the NTW. New York City communists, all of them. There’s still a handful of them that we’re rounding up so our workers’ lives can get back to normal. Chief Aderholt has worked very closely with us to see that it’s done as peacefully and quickly as possible.”

“And I appreciate that,” Richard said. “Believe me, I appreciate the difficulty you’ve faced with these communists. But when we have guests from out of town who travel to Gaston County, we want to make certain they leave us with a clear idea of who we are and what we stand for.”

“Mr. McAdam,” Guyon said, “I’m sorry that you’ve been embarrassed, I am. But I can’t apologize on behalf of the NTW or the Communist Party, and, believe me, you won’t hear an apology from them either.”