The Last Ballad(66)

“But surely something more can be done,” Richard said. “Just last week my daughter was in Washington with her classmates from the women’s college in Greensboro, and they were accosted by a gang of Gastonia strikers.” He pointed to the club, where he knew Claire was somewhere inside. “She was devastated. She came home in tears. It ruined her trip, seeing some poor woman beg Senator Overman for help.”

“We know about the D.C. trip,” Guyon said. “And we know about this ‘poor’ woman. Her name’s Wiggins. She’s not one of ours, but we’ve kept an eye on her. Overman’s office has been in contact. He’s very interested in our situation here. He’s sent a representative down to get to the bottom of things.”

“He’s very interested,” Epps said. “Interested enough to send the best.”

“Pinkertons?” Richard asked.

“Let’s just say he’s sent the best,” Epps said.

The men were quiet for a moment, as if they stood on the edge of a great secret that they all knew but did not want to share.

“Again,” Richard said, “I understand, but when we have guests from out of town, they’re not privy to the same information you’re giving me. Their impression is that Gastonia is a wild, lawless place.”

“Everything is being done that can be done,” Guyon said. “I assure you.” He leaned against the porch rail and put his hands in his pockets. Richard heard something jingle inside Guyon’s pocket. Keys, perhaps a few coins. Guyon cleared his throat. He began to speak, but then he hesitated. He looked at Epps. Epps nodded.

“But there is an opportunity to do more,” Guyon said. He furrowed his brow and looked at Richard through narrowed eyes.

Richard had the vague sense that he was about to hear something he might later regret hearing. A palpable darkness swept over him and he felt a desperate urge to return to the party and forget the Lytles and the mess they saw at Loray. But he feared he’d insulted Guyon earlier, and he didn’t want to leave him with the impression that he was soft or a worrier or a man who was afraid of hard times.

“What is it?” Richard asked. “What else can be done?”

“We’re not being public about it,” Guyon said. “So I apologize for bringing you into something that may make you uncomfortable.”

“Go ahead,” Richard said. “I’m willing to help if I can.”

Guyon took his hands from his pockets and ran his open palms along the wet porch rails. He shook the rain from his hands and put them back in his pockets. Behind him, the wet pine boughs glistened under the moon as if trying to catch Richard’s eye.

“It’s just a small committee,” Guyon said. “A small committee dedicated to ridding this county of the Bolshevists and getting our lives and the lives of our people back in order.”

“What’s the name of the committee?” Richard asked.

“It’s made up of some people you may know,” Guyon replied. “Some you may not. But all of them are committed to this cause. We need to take our city back.”

“Some of the most powerful men in the city have made donations,” Epps said.

“Money or men or—” Guyon stopped speaking, moved his lips in silence as if searching for the best, perhaps safest, word. “Materials,” he said. “They’ve volunteered legal expertise, exerted influence in the mayor’s office, assisted with security, called on the governor.”

“It’s more of a civic group than anything else,” Epps said. “Just concerned citizens.”

“Just concerned citizens,” Guyon echoed. “The best of Gaston County.” He paused. “Would you be interested in joining us?”

“It would send a powerful message if the owner and operator of McAdam Mills were to contribute,” Epps said. “Men in this town think an awful lot of you and your business.”

“An awful lot,” Guyon said.

“I suppose I could make a donation,” Richard said. “If that’s what you have in mind.” The blood that had stagnated in his heart slowly disbursed itself.

Someone threw open one of the windows in the hallway behind Richard. He turned at the sound and saw a colored waiter trying to whisk smoke through the window with a white napkin. The smell of burned cakes floated out to the porch. The waiter looked at Richard through the open window.

“Sorry, boss,” he said.

Guyon raised his brows as if the three of them had narrowly missed being caught doing something they should not have been doing. He motioned for Richard to follow him. The three men walked across the porch and down the steps into the yard. They stopped by the hawthorns that ran along the side of the club in great, wild clumps. The three of them stood in the shadows. The lighted kitchen windows above them cast glowing yellow squares onto the wet grass. The shapes of people moved back and forth through the squares. The windows were open and Richard heard loud but muddled conversations coming from the kitchen above.

Epps pulled a flask from inside his coat and unscrewed the top. He offered it to Richard, who took a pull and passed it toward Guyon, who waved it away. Richard returned the flask to Epps, watched him take a long drink, and then another.

“A donation is a fine gesture,” Guyon said.

“A fine gesture,” Epps repeated.