DIXIE
A novel of the Confederate States of America, 2001
For Elyse Marie
My little story lover
Stephen Sulkey
Prologue
In the summer of 1863, the Confederate States of America and the United States of America were engaged in a desperate conflict that could determine the fate of both nations. The South had been performing well in the war so far, despite the North's advantages in population size and industry. Now, the South had invaded the North, and the two great armies met in a small town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg. From July 1st to July 3rd, they waged a battle that could set the direction of the war. If the South won a significant battle on Union soil, the blow to the North would be devastating, both physically and psychologically. Conversely, if the North achieved a major victory, it could signal the beginning of the end for the Confederate cause.
During the battle on July 2nd, a crucial skirmish occurred on the southern side of the battlefield at Little Round Top, a rocky hill overlooking the surrounding fields. This position was defended by the 20th Maine, under the command of Colonel Joshua Chamberlain. By the 2nd of July, the situation was looking bleak for the Union soldiers. They were enduring relentless Confederate assaults that were wearing them down. To make matters worse, the 20th Maine was running low on ammunition. In a surprising move, Joshua Chamberlain ordered his beleaguered men to load whatever ammunition they had left, if any, and charge wildly down the hill against the Confederate forces. Against all odds, this attack was successful, routing Robert E. Lee's men and securing Little Round Top for the Union. The following day, after failing to break the Union line, Lee ordered Pickett’s charge, which became one of the great military disasters of the Civil War, marking the beginning of the end for the South. Later, after the war, Joshua Chamberlain was elected governor of Maine.
It is often believed that great events shape world history, but what if that is not true? What if a small action, like a single bullet, can profoundly and lastingly affect history? In the following story, a single bullet strikes and kills Colonel Joshua Chamberlain on the morning of July 2nd. Without his leadership, his men falter under the Confederate assault, and Lee captures Little Round Top. Recognizing the advantage, he outflanks the Union army, causing its line to break and leading to a chaotic, disastrous retreat. Though the war continued, the spirit of the North was shattered, and anti-war riots intensified in New York, Boston, and other major Northern cities. Lincoln appointed Grant in a bid to salvage the situation for the Army of the Potomac, but it was far too late. The war concludes with Grant's surrender to Lee. That single bullet not only changes American history but also affects the course of world history, resulting in a very dark chapter indeed.
Chapter 1
The Damned Rebel
"If the two sections can no longer live together, they can no longer live apart in quiet till it is determined which is master."
The New York Times, 1861
Torrential rain had been falling all day across New York City, creating a steady downpour that choked storm drains and turned streets into shallow, black rivers. Sidewalks bustled with drenched and miserable people, scurrying while holding tattered umbrellas against the wind and clinging to inadequate raincoats. Taxicabs cut through the flooded lanes like yellow speedboats, their wakes crashing against the curbs. Some roads in the city were already impassable for traffic, and with more rain on the way, others would soon be as well.
A callow young weatherman on Channel Nine from Secaucus, New Jersey, promised in unwavering, apologetic tones—almost as if he feared a throng of waterlogged New Yorkers would lynch him—that there would be at least three more inches of rain by late evening. He also announced, with obvious discomfort, the added possibility of strong, gusty winds in his gloomy forecast. His bleak predictions were coming to fruition as the rain intensified with the onset of darkness, and streaks of lightning etched their way across the Manhattan skyline.
As Thomas Mann's flight touched down at LBJ Airport, he knew it would be difficult to find a taxi. Securing an empty cab in heavy rain was a long shot, akin to winning the lottery. With two days' worth of sleep deprivation and emotional exhaustion weighing him down, Mann felt grateful when a yellow cab miraculously responded to his summons at the airport's curb. Perhaps, he thought, God had some pity on him after all.
Mann got into the cab with his suitcase, trying in vain to shake off the damp chill of the night air, but he was already too wet to succeed. Rivulets of water ran down his dark brown hair and onto his face.
The driver, a white man with a gray beard, turned his bald head and spoke over his shoulder. "Where to, buddy?"
Mann paused for a moment. He realized that while a hot shower would warm him up, his nerves needed something more. "Do you know where O'Rouke's Pub is?" he asked.
The driver responded with a wry smile.
"Sure, I pick up enough fares from there when they can’t even walk, let alone drive. Then half of them puke in my back seat,” the driver laughed. “The crew at the garage hates that. Yeah, I guess you could say I know the place real well, but I don’t think I’ve ever dropped anyone off there directly from the airport. You’re a first.”
“It’s been a bad week,” Mann said, his thoughts turning to the islands.
The cab driver laughed again. “I hear you, buddy boy,” he quipped as he pulled away from the loading zone. Then he added, “Who am I kidding? It’s been a bad life.”
Mann grinned. Ain’t that the truth, he thought to himself.
“What have you heard today about Puerto Rico?”
“Same old stuff,” the cab driver said. “We won, and they lost. Of course, it wasn’t much of a contest, mind you. Those poor guys had about as much chance as a Black man ever playing baseball in the major leagues.”
“Yeah,” Mann replied without emotion. He stared out the cab’s window into the rain and darkness beyond. “About as much.”
He thought about some of the Negro League games he had attended over the years. It was no wonder the major league team owners didn’t want Black players; some were better than any white athlete he had ever seen, and that didn’t fit too well with the idea of white superiority.
Twenty minutes later, the cab rolled to a stop in front of O'Rourke's Pub. Mann thanked the driver and slid him an extra five-dollar bill on top of the fare. The old cab driver glanced at the crumpled bill, which featured a picture of President Jefferson Davis, and nodded in appreciation. For a brief moment, his crusty, streetwise features softened as he tucked the five into his shirt pocket. Then, with a hasty wave of his hand, he drove away, leaving Mann and his suitcase on the curb.
A clap of thunder rolled and echoed across the city as Mann, pulling his coat collar tight against the wind and holding his suitcase, headed for the tavern. Even in the rain, it felt good to have the familiar concrete of New York beneath his feet.
He walked through the dark oak doors into the dry, comforting warmth and camaraderie within. Once inside, the familiar ambiance of the pub quickly enveloped him. He felt at home.
He yanked off his wet coat amid the background chatter of the room, shook off the rain, and hung it on the coat rack next to the front door. With his right foot, he shoved his travel case under the coat.
Breathing deeply, Mann savored the heavy aroma of pipe smoke and beer as the sounds of men enjoying themselves and laughter filled his ears. In this agreeable environment, he knew the horrors of Puerto Rico would soon fade into mere painful memories. Here in O’Rourke’s was the reality Mann wanted—a world far removed from guns, war, blood, and suffering. He thought, if there were a heaven, it must be like O’Rouke’s.
Mann sighed with satisfaction; it was good to be back. His time away from the States and New York had only deepened his fondness for the Northern home he had come to appreciate. All around the room, he recognized familiar faces—faces known only by their first names, for at O’Rourke’s, first names were all that were ever needed. He began to relax and feel more at ease.
Before Mann could straighten his jacket, Mike O'Rouke, the pub's proprietor, spotted him from behind the long, polished walnut bar. With his great, thunderous Irish brogue, booming and rolling like thunder outside, he let out a greeting that echoed across the smoke-filled tavern until all other conversations fell silent. One by one, heads turned toward O’Rourke.
"Well, I'll be a son-of-the-‘ol-sod, if it ain't the Rebel, and a damned Rebel at that!" O’Rourke exclaimed in his thick Irish manner.
All heads in the bar turned to look at Mann, many nodding in recognition.
"I thought you must be dead and gone to the Devil for not seeing you in here for going on nearly two whole weeks. Or even worse than death, you could’ve gone on the wagon!"
Mann ignored the curious gazes from strangers and smiled at those he knew. He strolled to the bar with a steadfast, almost boyish grin on his face. Sliding comfortably into his regular seat, he was greeted by the soft, worn leather that curved upward to meet him.
As people around the room lost interest, they returned to their own conversations and games. Many remarked that it had indeed been some time since Mann had last set foot in O’Rourke’s. A tall man threw his next dart into a bull's-eye, and the onlookers erupted in cheers. Two other men went back to their chess match in a smoky corner.
"Try to go on the wagon, Tommy," O’Rourke teased. He knew there was a better chance of the last-place Charleston Blockade Runners winning the '99 World Series than of Thomas Mann becoming a milk-and-cookies boy. Mann was half Irish on his mother's side, and drinking was imprinted in his genes like any good God-fearing son of the Emerald Isle.
"I had to leave town in a hurry, Mike," Mann replied.
The reporter didn't feel like discussing it, but Mike was one of his best friends.
"What’s her name, Tommy?” O’Rourke asked. “Or was it her husband who inspired you to leave town suddenly?"
"Nothing like that,” Mann said, shaking his head. “I drew a special assignment from my editor. The Times sent me down to Puerto Rico to cover the revolt."
O’Rourke studied him, as if he thought Mann was joking. He pointed an incredulous finger at the reporter.
"You!" O’Rourke exclaimed in genuine surprise. "You're a city beat reporter in New York. Your focus is on corruption in the city hall and firemen going on strike. What in the world do you know about wars, Tommy boy? Except maybe how to get yourself shot out there?"
"Aside from gang wars, not much," Mann admitted honestly. "But there were plenty of other reporters covering that aspect. Since I'm a city beat reporter, the Times wanted my perspective on San Juan and how the revolt affected the urban population. I'm writing a four-part series on it for the paper."
O'Rourke shook his head in disgust as he grabbed a sodden bar towel that reeked of stale beer. He twisted it dry in the sink and wiped the area in front of Mann, leaving almost as much old beer there as he had removed. After dropping the rag into the stainless-steel sink, he grunted.
"Hey, what do I know, Tommy? I'm just a dumb Yankee who pours drinks for a living, but let me tell you, it's one hell of a situation, no matter what anyone says! We fought a whole bloody civil war in this country over the rights of states to secede, and now the second one happens, and wham! The whole bloody Confederate army goes in against those poor people with guns blazing. You'd think the North had won the whole war. Those folks never wanted to become a state in the first place. It was your guys in Richmond who forced them into it, and now they’re stuck with it whether they like it or not, facing an M-16 at their heads."
Mann waved his arms in a gesture of helplessness. He was tired of being blamed for every action the central government in Richmond made, just because he was born a Virginian. It was like being blamed for something the Kaiser did just because you happened to be German.
"I know I'm a Southerner by birth, but I don't want to hear it. I report the news; I don't make it. I never thought Puerto Rico should have become the fifty-second state either, and I knew there would be big trouble when Richmond made English the official language of all fifty-two states. Just look at all the issues the Canadians have with French and English speakers up there. At least most people in the CS Virgin Islands spoke English when it gained statehood."
O'Rourke placed a glass under the tap.
"The usual?" he asked, already starting to fill the glass, knowing the answer.
"Yeah, Beck's dark."
"Figured as much. A fine Irishman you are, always going for German beer! If they bottled pig’s blood in the German Empire, you'd probably drink that too."
"Don’t forget my father was English," Mann reminded him.
"I know, but I won’t hold it against you," O’Rourke quipped.
Mann took a long, slow drink of Beck's and realized just how much he had missed his favorite watering hole while down in the islands. He had even missed Mike O'Rourke's nightly harassment of the Yankees. It was good to be back from that nightmare and into the relative sanity of New York City, with its mundane murders and mayhem.
"So, tell me," O’Rourke asked, a serious look on his face, "what was it really like down there?"
With another sip of beer, Mann looked beyond O’Rourke into the bar mirror.
"Don't you watch television news, Mike? It was just downright glorious."
With that, he finished his beer in a final deep swallow, placing the empty glass on the bar. O’Rourke took the glass to refill it.
"Sure, I do, but we both know it's half propaganda and the other half bullshit. Most of what they showed in the upper forty-eight on the networks was pictures of loyalist Puerto Ricans waving American flags as the army marched through the streets of San Juan. God, the Stars and Stripes were flying everywhere. It looked like we were liberating the poor bastards, not invading them. Like the Philippines in '54."
O’Rourke looked into Mann’s eyes. The barkeep knew the look of a man who had seen too much. As he refilled the glass, he slid it in front of his friend.
With another sip of beer, Mann glanced around the mirror behind the bar. Being a diehard Yankee to the bitter end, O’Rourke kept a small Federal flag taped on the left side. On the other side of the mirror hung a bumper sticker with the words "THE NORTH SHALL RISE AGAIN" printed in black letters, accompanied by a picture of General Grant. Over the cash register, there was a sticker proclaiming, "Lincoln was right!" Mann knew that true Yankees could never admit they had lost the war, swearing eternal defiance against the South and Richmond.
"It was bad, Mike," Mann said, gulping beer. "Some of those Puerto Rican National Guard units put up one hell of a fight against the Central Army. They were good, brave men fighting for their homes. The Air Force even had to smart-bomb certain buildings in San Juan to flush them out, and not every bomb was as smart as it was supposed to be, if you know what I mean."
O’Rourke nodded. "Yeah, I know. Don't forget I was in the Japanese-American war from '53 to '55. I was only a kid then, wet behind the ears and stupid, but the honorable soldiers of the Rising Sun woke me up real fast. Hell, I'll even admit it; I wet my skivvies and worse more than once, that's for sure. Those slant-eyed SOBs really knew how to fight, especially those Japanese Imperial Marines. There were no little Japs like in the old war movies. They were big mothers with real bad attitudes."
"Then you know what it was like, Mike. You do."
Mann thought about the little girl again. He saw her face in the barroom mirror—her sweet, innocent face with her eyes forever closed by hot shrapnel. Blood ran down her cheeks where innocent tears should have been. He heard the girl's mother crying as she held her daughter's lifeless body, sobbing and screaming something to God in Spanish while raising a blood-covered palm to the sky. He never found out the little girl's name, but he felt he knew her.
Suddenly, the face in the mirror was no longer the child from Puerto Rico; it was Jenny’s, his daughter. In his mind, Claire was holding her, screaming to God, and blood was everywhere.
Mann shut his eyes, knowing the visions would never leave him. Jenny and the Puerto Rican girl would haunt him forever. He drank more beer quickly to drown out the memories. It always helped, at least for a little while.
He looked back at O’Rourke, but Mike was staring up from the bar, his eyes suddenly cold, fixed on something over Mann’s shoulder. Peeking over, Mann followed O’Rouke's gaze. At the front door stood a tall, thin Black man. His tattered hat was clutched tightly in his hands, and his face appeared nervous and taut. For the second time that night, the room fell silent, all eyes on the man as they had been on Mann, but nobody acknowledged him with a familiar nod. The stares began shifting towards O’Rourke.
In his tavern, the patrons regarded O’Rourke as sailors regard their ship's captain. He had to say something; it was his unspoken duty.
O’Rourke sized up the Black man. He was dressed too poorly to be a slave; most masters would be embarrassed to let a slave look that way in public. The man had to be a freed Black man, which, in American society, held about two steps lower social standing than a stray cat or dog.
"Hey, boy, can't you read!?" O’Rourke asked firmly. "The sign in the window says 'No Negroes,' and it means 'No Negroes.'"
Eyes shifted back to the Black man, expecting him to retreat from the bar. Most Black people wouldn’t dare challenge a white man anywhere, let alone in a bar filled with drinking white men.
But the Black man only bowed his head slightly in respect and held his ground. "I’m sorry, sir, I can read, but I’m not a slave. I’m a free man, sir."
A nasty murmur arose around the room, accompanied by a few mocking chuckles. Everyone knew it was illegal in the Confederate States of America for even a white man to refer to a Black man as such in public, let alone for a Black man to call himself one. The only acceptable terms would have been 'free Negro,' 'Black,' or worse.
Eyes darted back to O’Rourke. The tension in the room was building.
With a sigh of frustration, O’Rourke blew out a long, deep breath. As a real Yankee, he didn’t care much about the Negro laws. His main concern was keeping the bar running smoothly and ensuring his customers always had a drink in hand. He didn't want to deal with any trouble from the police or, even worse, the Office of Slave Management (OSM). They could revoke his liquor license for being too sympathetic towards Blacks, freed or not.
"Are you ignorant, boy? The sign doesn't say "except freed Negroes". It just says "No Negroes” and I don't give a shit if you're a freed one or not!”
All heads turned back to the black man. There was now a fascination in the tavern about how far O’Rourke would go before he leaped over the bar and physically tossed the black through the wide oak doors.
The Black man stood his ground. Secretly, Mann began to develop a silent respect for him. He thought he wouldn't have the courage to do the same if the roles were reversed.
"I don't want a drink, sir," the man said defensively, feeling the weight of all eyes on him. "I just need some work, if you have any."
Like a tennis match, all eyes in the bar shifted from the Black man back to O'Rourke. The big Irishman was well-known for his bad temper, and everyone expected it to erupt at any moment. However, since Mann had put O'Rourke in a good mood beforehand, things didn’t take a turn for the worse. The Irishman shook his head in mild disdain.
"Dumb nigger," he whispered under his breath to Mann, then turned his gaze to the Black man. "I don't need any help, boy, but take my advice: the next place you look for a job, go to the back door where you belong. Coming in with white men isn't going to make any employer fond of your sorry self. Do you understand me, boy?"
The Black man nodded.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I'll remember that."
He then turned slowly and left.
"God," O’Rourke muttered. "They ought to repeal that Free Negro Act of 1987. Allowing them to buy their freedom and roam around this country is going to ruin it. Damn liberal whites pay for most of the free ones anyway. They should have to feed and take responsibility for them after they buy them out. The next thing you know, they'll want state welfare like whites. What’s this country coming to anyway?"
Mann grinned, surprised by O’Rourke’s attitude.
"Now you're sounding more like a true Southerner, Mike."
"Look, Mann," the big man said. "My great-grandfather may have fought with the Union, but he didn't care at all about any Blacks being freed. Hell, if the North had won the war, Lincoln was going to ship them all back to Africa, where they belonged anyway. I read that somewhere. He was going to call it Liberia and give them their own country.
"My great-grandfather only fought to keep the old Union together. It's too bad white men couldn't have gotten along better back then instead of slaughtering each other over 'darkies.' Did you know he was actually there with Grant when he finally surrendered to Lee at Sugar Run, Pennsylvania, trapped with his back to the Susquehanna River? He said Grant looked at the death around him and actually cried. It had been too high a price to pay for your precious state's rights, let alone to keep some miserable Blacks in chains."
Q With another sip of beer, Mann nodded in agreement.
"True enough, but don't forget, the common Southerner didn't care about any Blacks either. All he wanted was to be left alone and not told what to do by some too-powerful, aggressive federal government. It was the North and Lincoln who pushed the war on the South. It was the North's mistake. Even Lincoln, in his prison memoirs, wrote how the war was a mistake."
"And another thing," Mann said, changing the subject. "Why do you speak with such a thick Irish brogue when you're fifth-generation American?"
"Actually," O'Rourke replied in a perfect Brooklyn accent, "I really talk like this. The brogue is just part of the tavern's atmosphere."
Mann laughed aloud. "You're crazy, you know that? You're really certifiable."
Suddenly, O'Rourke turned to look at the front door again. At first, Mann thought the black man had returned, but he noticed a different coldness in O'Rourke's expression.
"Hey, Tommy," O'Rourke said in low whispers, "don’t look too obvious, but do you see the guy who just came in?"
Mann glanced over his shoulder.
The man in the front doorway was small in stature and dressed neatly in a three-piece suit. He had the appearance of a government official, but he didn’t seem to be any kind of cop—not even from the Central Bureau of Investigation. He looked more like an accountant.
"I forgot to mention earlier," O’Rourke said in hushed tones, "this guy has been in here three or four times this week asking for you. He wanted to know when you would be in again, but I told him I didn’t know."
"Do you think he knows what I look like?" Mann wondered aloud, just as much to O’Rourke as to himself. "I don’t remember him."
"One way to find out. Just sit there cool as a cucumber, and I’ll do the talking when he comes over," O’Rourke replied.
As was his routine, the man hung his overcoat on the rack and walked directly to the bar. He took the stool next to Mann, since O’Rourke was leaning against the bar. The man seemed nervous, his eyes scanning the room frequently, but he didn’t acknowledge Mann at all.
"What’ll it be?" O’Rourke asked with his trademark bartender bravado, the soggy beer-soaked rag slung over one arm.
"Rum and Coke," the man replied, casting only a glance at Mann. Then he added, "Make it a double."
O’Rourke returned with the drink, handed it to him, and waited. He anticipated the usual question and wasn’t disappointed.
"Has Thomas Mann been in yet?" the man asked, continuing to search the room.
The man felt as nervous as a chain smoker in a dynamite factory, Mann thought to himself, and he certainly didn’t know what I looked like. He shot O’Rourke a glance.
"Yeah," O’Rourke said, wiping a glass with a not-so-clean bar rag. "You never did explain why you wanted him."
"That's my business," the man replied curtly, still glancing around the room.
"Then it's my business to warn Mann that someone's looking for him when he comes in again," O’Rourke shot back.
"Look, I'm sorry," the man quickly said, sounding apologetic. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It's just really important that I talk to him. That's all."
At that moment, the front door opened, and a few people came in from the rain. For a brief second, the man felt a surge of apprehension as he looked at them, but then he turned back to O’Rourke when he realized they seemed harmless.
Seeing the fear pass over the man's face, O'Rourke and Mann exchanged glances. Perhaps it was time to end the game. The man, at least, believed his situation to be serious.
“Mister,” Mann said evenly, “maybe I can help you. I know Tommy Mann pretty well. If you give me an idea of why you want to talk to him so badly... well, maybe I can get him down here.”
For a moment, the man seemed to consider the offer, but then shook his head.
“No. I can’t. I'm only a messenger. I can only give my message to Thomas Mann himself. Only to Mann.”
He was adamant.
Mann nodded in understanding, aware that his curiosity was getting the better of him. He had dealt with fruitcakes who had given him false information and leads before, but this guy in a three-piece suit didn’t look like one of them.
“Okay, you found him,” Mann said succinctly, pointing to himself.
With doubt in his eyes, the little man looked to O’Rourke for confirmation.
“That’s no lie,” O’Rourke said. “What you see before you is the sad, sorry, beer-drinking carcass of one Thomas Michael Mann.”
The man seemed to accept O’Rourke’s word, and Mann realized he had no other choice. Clearly, the man didn't know what Mann looked like, and he couldn’t see why O’Rourke would lie.
“Mr. Mann,” he said softly, “can we talk somewhere private? It’s very important.”
O’Rourke looked at Mann with a feigned expression of righteous indignation. The barkeep motioned with his head toward a dark corner that had been the scene of many quiet gatherings over the years—sexual, illegal, or both.
“Use the table there in the back,” O’Rourke said. “That should be private enough. Besides, I can keep an eye on this guy in case he tries to give you any trouble.”
The man, already half O’Rourke’s size and weight, now seemed even more fidgety. He began to chew his lower lip out of nervous habit.
O’Rourke smiled at the man's discomfort as he watched them go to the corner.
When they reached the table, the small man leaned in to speak in soft, conspiratorial whispers, constantly checking the room for any signs of trouble.
“Mr. Mann, my name is Winston Attenwald. I belong to several societies that seek the abolition of Negro slavery in all fifty-two Confederate States.”
He paused, allowing Mann time to digest the information, as if he had just revealed the secret of life.
Mann shrugged. He had encountered many people like Attenwald over the years. Since this guy didn’t strike Mann as someone who thrived on power, Attenwald was probably one of those little people who only felt a sense of purpose when rallying behind a great cause. Mann continued to size him up as he spoke.
"Yeah, so?" Mann said. "You mean groups like the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Blacks?"
"Yes. And it’s the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Negroes. I do belong to the A.S.P.C.N. as well as other organizations. Many of us believe Negroes are just as human as anyone else and deserve full human rights, just like whites."
Looking around the room, Mann could see that no one was listening to them. It was no wonder Attenwald spoke so softly.
"Mr. Attenwald, even what you just said is a violation of the Negro Control Act of 1875. Claiming a Negro to be a human being, rather than equal to livestock, can be considered a felony if the right people hear you say it."
Attenwald’s face reddened.
"How can an intelligent man like yourself sit there and actually think that the black man isn't just that—a man? He’s not some hybrid cow!"
"I didn't say what I thought," Mann replied cautiously. "I just don't want to end up in a Central prison for saying the wrong thing about any Negro."
"It is precisely that attitude which allows Richmond to pass such laws against all that is right and just."
Mann wished he were back at the bar with a third beer in his hand. He hadn’t returned from Puerto Rico just to be lectured by some well-dressed bleeding-heart liberal.
"Maybe so, but a Central offense is a Central offense. If the Central government in Richmond changes its mind, I’ll be all for it, but for now, I'm willing to live with it. God, Attenwald, it would be like going to Berlin to tell the Kaiser that Germany shouldn’t persecute Jews. At least the Kaiser allows the Jews to live in Germany like the blacks. That what’s-his-name, Hitler, back in the thirties, wanted to kill them all until the Kaiser back then finally had him shot."
"Ah," Attenwald retorted, "but no one would have ever heard of Hitler if the Confederate States of America had entered the Great War in 1914 and defeated Germany. That was another great mistake the Central government made."
"Look, I’m not here to debate history or global politics with you. If the German Empire and the British Empire could make peace in 1918, then so can we. So, let’s cut to the chase and tell me what this message is if you still care to share."
Attenwald looked around before leaning closer to Mann. Whatever game he was playing, Mann could see that he was taking it as a matter of life and death.
"A certain individual," Attenwald began, "wants to see you in Washington, Virginia. That person will meet you at the old Federal White House Museum two days from now at exactly one in the afternoon. They have something to tell you—something that will make a great story for the New York Times."
Mann grinned. There was, of course, much more to this than met the eye. He had the feeling his ship was sailing headlong into dangerous waters.
"And, of course, you can't even hint at what this information is now, can you?" Mann asked, already knowing the answer.
"No. I don’t even know what it is. I was just told to get you to go to Washington for the meeting."
"One question," Mann said suspiciously. "Why me?"
"That’s a fair question. First, many people have great respect for you. As a born Southerner from a fine family, you're likely to draw less interest than someone like me, a Yankee. However, you also work for a prominent northern newspaper, so any discoveries you make may actually be reported to the public. The Richmond Stars and Bars is not one of our biggest supporters."
This seemed logical to Mann. Northern newspapers were known for being more honest about the issue of slavery. They often ended up in court, either suing or being sued by the central government over stories that involved slaves, especially when the Office of Slave Management was somehow implicated.
"And how will I know the person I'm supposed to meet?" Mann asked.
"First of all, Mr. Mann, that's a second question. But don't worry, they will contact you. And let me clarify, I never said it was a man, though nice try at any rate."
"Thank you," Mann replied with a smile. "I’ll think about it. If I decide to go, I’ll phone Mike tomorrow so you can check in with him. It would be better if we were not seen together again."
"Very well, Mr. Mann. But trust me, the trip to Virginia will be well worth it. There is much happening in the Confederate States that the public has the right to know about."
With that, Attenwald stood up, put on his raincoat, and left the tavern. After he departed, Mann approached O'Rourke at the bar to fill him in on the message. Mann would trust O'Rourke with his life.
The big Irishman shook his head, expressing skepticism. "To me, it sounds like a load of malarkey."
Mann reflected on past experiences, having followed crackpot leads that led nowhere. He wasn't keen on repeating the mistake. It was late, and he felt tired from his trip. He decided to sleep on it and make a decision in the morning. Perhaps he could leverage his sources in the N.Y.P.D. to learn more about Attenwald, assuming that was his real name. For now, he would have one more beer before heading home.
When Attenwald got home, he searched the hallway in both directions outside his apartment before quickly unlocking the door and slipping inside. After triple-locking and bolting the door, he began to feel a little safer. He thought to himself that he was starting to feel paranoid—even to himself. He hoped Mann hadn’t perceived him as some fanatic or nutcase. If he had lost credibility, Mann would never have made the trip to Washington.
After having a microwave supper, he decided to take a warm, soothing bath, accompanied by a tall glass of white wine to help him relax for a sound night’s sleep.
With great relief, he slid into the tub. Why not? He thought he had done his part, hadn’t he? Now it was all up to Mann to make the next move. His job was done.
Attenwald was nearly dozing off in the tub when, suddenly, he bolted upright, his ear cocked for any sound. Something didn’t feel right. It was probably just his returning paranoia mixed with the buzz from the wine, but he had the unsettling feeling that he wasn’t alone in the apartment.
“Who’s out there?” he called into the next room, hoping that silence would be the only response.
With sheer terror, he watched as the bathroom door slowly opened. For a few seconds, the doorway remained empty. Then a large man dressed in a dark gray raincoat, hat, and gloves silently entered the room. A small scar ran over the man's left eye, moving in unison with his gaze as he looked down at Attenwald. It must have been a nasty wound when it was fresh. A black 9mm automatic rested comfortably in his hand, as if he had been born with it. The dark figure smiled, maintaining a mocking, pleasant expression, but his brown eyes were dead and cold, like a corpse's.
Attenwald mustered the strength to speak, though no trace of saliva remained in his mouth.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, terrified, trying to break the man’s chilling silence.
The man’s smile twisted into an evil grin. If a shark could grin, this would be it. He was no man; he was a demon.
Ice water coursed through Attenwald's veins. He knew the man was going to shoot him. He knew he was going to die.
“Let’s just say I’m an interested party to your latest venture, Winston,” the big man said. His accent was very Southern and somewhat refined, but it lacked any real emotion.
A chill ran down Attenwald's back, despite the warm bathwater causing him to shiver. He thought about screaming but knew no one would hear him; the walls of the old building were too thick for noise to travel far.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?”
Keeping his grin, the man sat on the commode lid, his gun now even more relaxed in his hand. Attenwald felt mesmerized by it, as a cobra hypnotizes a bird.
“Oh, Winston, but you do. I know you passed a message to someone, but I don’t know who you gave it to tonight. You see, Mr. Attenwald, we’ve been watching you for some time now. But, of course, you suspected that, didn’t you? Why else would you have slipped away from us this evening? We know you’ve visited O’Rourke’s Tavern a few times, but by the time we got there, you were already leaving. My question is quite simple: who did you talk to at the bar?”
“Even if I knew what you were talking about, why would I tell you?”
Attenwald was praying for a miracle. Maybe someone would come by the apartment. Maybe the phone would ring. Maybe… anything!
The man, still lazily holding his gun, stood up. At Attenwald’s bathroom vanity, he spotted an electric razor. With his free hand, he plugged it in and examined it as if he were seeing an electric razor for the first time in his life.
“You know, Winston,” the man said with a mischievous air, “the electrical codes have really improved over the years. Nowadays, every bathroom and kitchen needs to be on a special breaker called a ground-fault interrupt, which trips if there is an electrical-water accident. They detect the slightest current imbalance from pole to pole and go off just like that.” He snapped his gloved fingers silently. “But these old apartments have some pretty poor wiring, don’t they? They were built before the modern codes. I bet if this razor were to drop in that tub, you’d fry long before the breaker or fuse finally got around to tripping or burning out. What do you say, Winston? Want to try it?”
Sweat began to form on Attenwald’s brow.
“Okay, I’ll tell you anything. Just… please, don’t…”
The man smiled with all the warmth of a snake.
“Now that’s more like it. I do believe we have come to an understanding among gentlemen, haven’t we, Winston? So, for the last time, who did you talk to tonight?”
“It was…” Attenwald hesitated.
The man picked up the razor and, with a push of his thumb, turned it on while holding it above the tub. The electronic buzzing filled the small room, overwhelming Attenwald's mind. A yellow area began to form in the water around his midsection.
"Oh, God, please! I'll tell you anything. It was a man named John Lasher. He's a private detective."
Seeming surprised, the dark man turned off the razor.
"A private investigator? I would have expected something more along the lines of a reporter. Are you sure about this, Winston? I’d hate to think you were mistaken."
He snapped the razor back on.
"Yes! Yes, I'm sure!" Attenwald nearly yelled. "We hired him to gather as many facts as possible before we went to the press. We thought that way, any media coverage would take us more seriously."
The man could see the yellow cloud in the water around Attenwald's groin. Such terror usually revealed the truth.
"All right, I believe you," the man replied. "I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense." He turned off the razor. "You've been very helpful, Winston. I'm glad to see our little meeting has gone so well."
Attenwald began to convince himself that the man would leave him alive. He started to relax, pulling his nerves back from the edge.
"Oh, one more thing, Winston," the intruder added almost casually, with a grin. "Isn't it strange how electricity can come from a razor in water, even when it isn’t switched on?"
Attenwald barely had time to scream as the man flipped the razor into the bathtub. Immediately, he gripped the edges of the tub, and the water around him began to churn and spark. As the man had mentioned, it took a few seconds for the circuit breaker to trip, plunging the room into darkness.
Still grinning, the man added, "Y’all have a nice evening now," before leaving the bathroom and leaving Winston Attenwald floating dead in the dark.
Outside, the man got into a late-model dark silver-gray Davis Continental and drove away. He would need to look up Mr. John Lasher, private investigator, and pay him a proper visit.
Across the city, the rain began to pour with increasing intensity, each drop like a tiny hammer striking the pavement as the storm gained strength. The once gentle patter escalated into a relentless barrage, creating a symphony of splashes that echoed through the streets and filled the air with the fresh, earthy scent of wet asphalt. Flashes of lightning illuminated the darkened skies, while thunder rumbled like a distant giant awakening, setting the scene for nature’s dramatic display. Unknown to Mann, he was now at the center of the storm.
The next day began like any other at the New York Times. Overnight, news broke from the lower islands that a group of rebels in the American Protectorate of Cuba had attempted a terrorist attack, but American Gray Beret Special Forces had killed them in the process. No doubt, the rebels viewed the unrest in Puerto Rico as a signal for a general revolt across all the American-occupied islands in the Caribbean; however, the Central government would never allow it. In the name of martial law, they maintained an iron grip on the island.
After all, the Iceland Accord of 1925 guaranteed that South and Central America fell under the sphere of influence of the C.S.A., just as England had India and the southern part of Africa, Germany controlled northern Africa, and most of Europe. Even after Japan’s defeat in the Japanese-American War, it still assured control over Southeast Asia and certain islands that were not under American or British control, such as the Philippines and Hong Kong. Only the isolated and war-torn lands of Communist Russia found themselves without a sphere of influence among the nuclear powers. With their missiles, the Russians caused no trouble to others, and others troubled them, as the rest of the world hoped their isolation would eventually bring them to their knees.
“Mr. Mann.”
It was Alice Cantrell from the typing pool. Mann found her attractive, and he wanted to ask her out someday. Since his divorce, he could count his dates on one hand.
“Why, Alice, what brings you to the fifth floor? Is the flu taking down another one of our fearless typists?”
“No, unfortunately for me, everyone is healthy today. I’m just playing gopher, running bylines around the building. I thought they hired kids to do this work.”
Laughing, Mann looked at her. She was undeniably attractive, and he felt that she was waiting for him to ask her out. He considered that there was no time like the present and thought that perhaps after some conversation, he could work up the nerve.
“Well, you know the story. Even the Times has to keep the budget trimmed and cut any unnecessary fat. Why hire full-time gophers if temp workers can pitch in and help? Who knows, maybe you have Pulitzer Prize material right in your hands.”
“I doubt it. It’s just the overnight police reports.”
She held up the long list of daily mayhem in New York City.
“See? More murders, rapes, and robberies. Just another day in Gotham, Batman.”
Mann was about to turn away when something caught his eye. Without thinking, he grabbed the reports from Cantrell.
“Well, thank you for asking,” she commented, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
Mann glanced at her.
“Sorry, Alice, but I thought I saw something important.”
As he read down the reports, Mann's eyes landed on an article, and he couldn’t believe what he was reading.
June 3rd, 9:47 PM, 862 46th Street
An apartment superintendent called
police after investigating the cause of
a short in his building. The body of one
Mr. Winston C. Attenwald was found
electrocuted in his bathtub at the scene.
Further investigation by authorities has
been ordered to determine if death was
either accidental, suicide, or the possible
result of foul play.
“Jesus,” Mann murmured under his breath.
“What is it?” Cantrell asked, noticing that Mann looked shaken.
“I don’t know, but I think I just started to take a man I met recently much more seriously. Either that, or he really knows how to capture your interest.”
Simon Wakefield was sitting at his city editor’s desk, reading proofs and sipping stale coffee, when Mann rushed in without even knocking.
“Simon, I have to go to Washington.”
Wakefield, only three years away from retirement, had seen it all during his years with the Times and other newspapers. He set down his cup of coffee and patiently looked up over piles of copy.
“What’s going on, Tom? You just got back last night from Puerto Rico.”
It suddenly occurred to Mann that he really had no idea what was happening. All he knew was that the late Mr. Attenwald had found quite a way to draw attention to himself.
“I’m not sure, Simon. That’s why I have to go to Washington to meet someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Now Simon looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Tom, you aren’t making any sense. You need to hop a jet to Washington to see someone you don’t know about something you don’t know?”
Mann quickly recounted the story of the unexpected meeting in O’Rourke’s Tavern.
“And you believe what he said?” Wakefield asked, quick to be skeptical. He had dealt with bad leads far more than Mann ever had.
Mann had saved his strong point for last. He dropped the police report in front of the editor. Wakefield read it, his eyebrows slightly raised.
“I see this in three possible ways: coincidence, which I personally don’t believe in; a nut committing suicide, which I greatly doubt; or you’re in so deep that you don’t even know where the bottom is. My gut says it’s the last one, and it’s also telling me that if you pursue this, your life insurance agent should cancel your policy.”
“Maybe so,” Mann agreed cautiously, “but you and the Times can be my personal insurance. I’ll keep you updated on every move I make. If I should meet an untimely end, publish whatever you have at that point and send every reporter in New York on my trail. That might scare Mr. Attenwald’s enemies away for a while. People who kill don’t like to be in the public eye, and in the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Sounds reasonable, but before you go to Washington, could you do me one favor?” Wakefield asked.
"Sure, go ahead." Mann immediately regretted his choice of words.
"Could you pay me the twenty bucks you owe me? I want to collect it while I can."
Mann's expression turned dry and somber. "You know, Simon, sometimes you have a very poor sense of humor."
The Davis Continental was waiting in the alley as the man in the raincoat opened the rear door and got in. Inside, his associates were waiting for him. One man, dressed in an expensive gray suit and a red tie, asked a question.
"Well, was Lasher cooperative?"
"Yes, sir. He was very cooperative indeed."
"I see," the man in the gray suit replied. "And did he speak with Attenwald last night?"
"I'm afraid, sir, that I may have been a bit hasty in my disposal of Mr. Attenwald. I underestimated his ingenuity and courage. It seems he lied to us. He did know Mr. Lasher, and the detective had done some work for Attenwald in the past, but they never met at O'Rourke's last night. We are looking for someone else."
Worried, the man in the gray suit momentarily looked out the Continental's window. "Are you absolutely confident Lasher told you the truth?"
"Oh, yes, sir, quite sure."
The man in the dark raincoat opened his gloved hand. In his palm rested a man's index and third fingers, both removed with a pair of garden shears.
"I'm sure our Mr. Lasher told us everything he knew and even wished he knew more."
"Damn it, Creed," the man in the gray suit exploded. "This is getting out of hand. I want to find the individual Attenwald contacted and have this entire situation resolved. You have an extraordinary talent for problem-solving, Creed. Use it! You have no idea what is at stake here. If this goes too far..." He paused, "I don't even want to contemplate the consequences."
"Yes, sir, don't worry. Mr. Lasher was another potential problem anyway, so this wasn't a total loss. In any case, eventually, whoever Attenwald contacted will have to surface, and then I'll be waiting for them."
Alexander Creed, a big man dressed in dark clothing, got out of the car, straightened his coat, and wished the occupants of the Davis Continental goodnight. The man in the gray suit leaned over to look out the window.
"And Creed," he said in a voice that chilled even the killer, "you are a very valuable asset. I hope you never become a problem that needs solving."
Creed simply smiled coolly in response. He didn't mind the threat; it was living close to the edge that truly made life worth living.
He turned and walked down the dark alley, rain running in rivulets off his hat and down his coat. With his left hand, he tossed two dismembered fingers into a trash can and felt a sense of calm in the night air. He dearly loved his profession and sensed that before this was all over, his skills would be put to the test.