next to a rack.”
The sun felt like a hot iron on Randolph’s shoulders. “Well, why the hell won’t he?”
“The piles is sittin’ on crosspieces under the mud. If he step on one, the whole pile fall over on top of you.” He was holding a work glove by the thumb, and he saluted the animal with it as he walked by. “ He know that.”
The workers had come to Nimbus because they were paid two dollars and twenty-five cents a day, a quarter more than at other mills. Though he wasn’t happy about it, Randolph had to expend this salary to keep a workforce out in the swamp. The state government let him pay in brass tokens redeemable for goods at the commissary, and of course in the saloon. The day before, as he’d made an accounting of the financial records, the bookkeeper reminded him that their commissary’s inflated pricing made up for the extra daily quarter. No one could save a nickel, but then, the mill manager had never known a common worker with a bank account.
When the knock-off whistle roared from the saw shed roof, he looked out the office window and saw his brother step up on the commissary porch, wearing a small, sweat-stained cowboy hat left over from his days in western Kansas. No one greeted him, but the mill manager saw that everyone knew he was there. A few white workers sat on chairs or on the edge of the porch while several Negroes hunched on blocks in a side area paved with clamshells. Randolph’s attention drifted over to where the green-stained bulk of the saloon waited for sundown, its wooden swing-up windows propped open with broken stobs of lath. On its canted porch a man got up from a chair and walked inside, scratching his behind as he disappeared into the smelly dark.
Leaving his office, Randolph walked down and stood in front of the saloon noting two entrances right next to each other, one for each of the races; peering inside he saw a wall bisecting the building into sprawling rooms, each holding a bar and a thicket of scrapwood tables. In the center of this wall was a narrow opening covered with a curtain for the bar-tenders to pass in and out of the different worlds.
His brother came up behind him. “What do you think?”
He didn’t turn around. “It’s a waste of cheap lumber.” He looked at a blood-spotted rag hanging off the back of a porch chair. “When do they start up in there?”
“Tonight’s just practice. Saturday night comes the main event.” He slapped Randolph so hard on the neck that his hat nearly flew off.
“What was that for?”
Byron opened his hand and showed an inch-long horsefly. “You wouldn’t think it, but Sunday night is the worst. Not so crowded, but that’s when the dumb bastards who didn’t learn anything the night before come back.” He dropped the horsefly and turned his boot on it. “Sunday nights are shooting and sticking time.”
His brother turned away from the building to stare over at the railroad equipment. “The foremen, the engineers and such, are they in there on Sundays?”
Byron spat. “That old kraut in the boiler room is, sometimes. You’d think that someone who survived German army service would take it easy on himself.”
“We need that engineer in one piece. Can you keep him out?” He looked up at his brother. “The Italian that runs the place, what’s his name?”
“Galleri. Somebody Galleri. He might own the building and operate it, but a man named Buzetti controls everything. Galleri is all right. He’s not like Buzetti and his Sicilians.”
“Can we convince him to keep the German out?”
Byron shook his head. From inside the saloon came a rasping cough and then a whore’s rising laugh. “I want to close the place down on Sunday. The last mill manager wouldn’t let me. Galleri himself doesn’t want to open on Sundays.”
Randolph stepped closer and looked into the dim interior, now smelling something sour—beer spilled, passed, or spewed. “Well, why the hell does he?”
His brother looked
The sun felt like a hot iron on Randolph’s shoulders. “Well, why the hell won’t he?”
“The piles is sittin’ on crosspieces under the mud. If he step on one, the whole pile fall over on top of you.” He was holding a work glove by the thumb, and he saluted the animal with it as he walked by. “ He know that.”
The workers had come to Nimbus because they were paid two dollars and twenty-five cents a day, a quarter more than at other mills. Though he wasn’t happy about it, Randolph had to expend this salary to keep a workforce out in the swamp. The state government let him pay in brass tokens redeemable for goods at the commissary, and of course in the saloon. The day before, as he’d made an accounting of the financial records, the bookkeeper reminded him that their commissary’s inflated pricing made up for the extra daily quarter. No one could save a nickel, but then, the mill manager had never known a common worker with a bank account.
When the knock-off whistle roared from the saw shed roof, he looked out the office window and saw his brother step up on the commissary porch, wearing a small, sweat-stained cowboy hat left over from his days in western Kansas. No one greeted him, but the mill manager saw that everyone knew he was there. A few white workers sat on chairs or on the edge of the porch while several Negroes hunched on blocks in a side area paved with clamshells. Randolph’s attention drifted over to where the green-stained bulk of the saloon waited for sundown, its wooden swing-up windows propped open with broken stobs of lath. On its canted porch a man got up from a chair and walked inside, scratching his behind as he disappeared into the smelly dark.
Leaving his office, Randolph walked down and stood in front of the saloon noting two entrances right next to each other, one for each of the races; peering inside he saw a wall bisecting the building into sprawling rooms, each holding a bar and a thicket of scrapwood tables. In the center of this wall was a narrow opening covered with a curtain for the bar-tenders to pass in and out of the different worlds.
His brother came up behind him. “What do you think?”
He didn’t turn around. “It’s a waste of cheap lumber.” He looked at a blood-spotted rag hanging off the back of a porch chair. “When do they start up in there?”
“Tonight’s just practice. Saturday night comes the main event.” He slapped Randolph so hard on the neck that his hat nearly flew off.
“What was that for?”
Byron opened his hand and showed an inch-long horsefly. “You wouldn’t think it, but Sunday night is the worst. Not so crowded, but that’s when the dumb bastards who didn’t learn anything the night before come back.” He dropped the horsefly and turned his boot on it. “Sunday nights are shooting and sticking time.”
His brother turned away from the building to stare over at the railroad equipment. “The foremen, the engineers and such, are they in there on Sundays?”
Byron spat. “That old kraut in the boiler room is, sometimes. You’d think that someone who survived German army service would take it easy on himself.”
“We need that engineer in one piece. Can you keep him out?” He looked up at his brother. “The Italian that runs the place, what’s his name?”
“Galleri. Somebody Galleri. He might own the building and operate it, but a man named Buzetti controls everything. Galleri is all right. He’s not like Buzetti and his Sicilians.”
“Can we convince him to keep the German out?”
Byron shook his head. From inside the saloon came a rasping cough and then a whore’s rising laugh. “I want to close the place down on Sunday. The last mill manager wouldn’t let me. Galleri himself doesn’t want to open on Sundays.”
Randolph stepped closer and looked into the dim interior, now smelling something sour—beer spilled, passed, or spewed. “Well, why the hell does he?”
His brother looked
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