'That was somethin' blowin' up,' Scipio said heavily. 'Mebbe it was an accident. But mebbe it was a bomb, too.'
'Oh, sweet Jesus, who'd want to blow things up?' Bathsheba burst out. 'Ain't we seen enough sufferin'?' Out she went, shaking her head.
When Scipio headed for work later that day, he had to take a detour to get to the Huntsman's Lodge. He got a glimpse of the street where the bomb had gone off. The building closest to where it went off had fallen down. Windows or pieces of faзade were missing from several others. It wasn't till he looked down the street from above the Huntsman's Lodge that he realized just where the explosion had taken place. You ain't never seen me, that grinning young Negro had said. You ain't never seen this here motorcar, neither. Nobody would ever see it again. Scipio was sure of that. How much dynamite had it held?
Enough. More than enough. Even here, a good long block from where the bomb had gone off, there were bloodstains under Scipio's shoes. How many dead? How many hurt? Plenty. He could see that. 'Do Jesus!' he said again.
Only shards of glass jagged as knives remained in the windows of the Huntsman's Lodge. The door had a jagged hole in it. As Scipio started to go in, a policeman barked, 'Let me see your passbook, boy.' He handed it over. The policeman matched the photograph and his face, then gave it back. 'You work here?'
'Yes, suh,' Scipio said. 'I's a waiter. You kin go ask Mistuh Dover, suh.'
'Never mind,' the gray-uniformed cop said impatiently. 'You see anything funny when you went home last night? Anything at all that wasn't regular?'
Scipio looked at him. He wore a Freedom Party pin next to his badge. 'No, suh,' the black man answered. 'I didn't seen nothin'. I didn't see nobody. Jus' go home an' mind my business.'
The policeman snarled in frustration. 'Somebody must have, dammit. We catch the son of a bitch who did this, he'll be begging to die before we're through.'
'Yes, suh,' Scipio repeated in studiously neutral tones. 'Kin I go to work, suh?' The cop didn't say no. Scipio walked into the Huntsman's Lodge without another word.
With their third Socialist president in office, with a Socialist working majority in both houses of Congress, the United States should have been a country where labor had the advantage on capital. They should have been. As Chester Martin had bitterly discovered, they weren't-and nowhere was that truer than in Los Angeles.
When construction workers picketed a site, goons often came out in force to break up their picket lines. The cops backed the goons. So did the newspapers. As far as the Los Angeles Times was concerned, strikers were Red revolutionaries who deserved hanging-shooting was too good for them.
Chester remembered the days of the steel-mill strikes in Toledo. Next to this, those had been good times. That, to him, was a genuinely frightening thought. But it was also true. Back in Toledo, he'd had a feeling of solidarity with his fellow strikers, a feeling that their hour was come round at last. They'd been doing something epoch-making: winning strikes that had always been lost before, paving the way for Socialist victories at the polls that had never been seen before.
What was another strike nowadays? Just another strike. Some were won; more were lost. Nobody except the immediate parties-and the Times-got very excited about most of them, and even the immediate parties didn't always bother. The strikes put Chester in mind of some of the later battles on the Roanoke River front during the Great War. They would tear up the landscape and cause a lot of damage and pain to both sides, but things wouldn't change much no matter who won. Either way, the next fight on the same ground would loom around the corner.
When he said as much to Rita one morning before heading out to the latest picket line, she frowned. 'That wasn't what you told me when you first led the construction workers out on strike,' she said. 'Then you thought you were doing something worth doing, something important.'
'I know.' He tried to recapture the feeling of outrage, the feeling of urgency, he'd had then. It wasn't easy. It was, after more than a year, next to impossible. 'Too much has happened since, and not much of it good. Have we got enough money for groceries this week?'
His wife nodded. 'And for the rent when the first rolls around. You're making as much as an agitator as you ever did building houses.'
'Swell,' he said. 'When I build a house, though, I've got something to show for it, something I can see, something people can live in. Same when I was making steel. Once I was done, it was there. It was real. I don't even know that I'm doing any good by agitating. Plenty of people aren't making as much money now as they were before we started striking.'
'They will, though. They'll make a lot more if you get your just demands.' A solid Socialist-more solid than Chester-Rita assumed the demands were just. He'd been sure of that at the beginning of the strikes. He wasn't sure of anything any more.
He shook his head. He was sure of one thing: he had to get out the door to get to the picket line by the time the construction crew got to the site. Some of the workers were leery of crossing picket lines, and the ones who were were usually the real builders, the men who knew what they were doing. Half the time, the scabs the contractors hired to take strikers' places couldn't tell a chisel from a brace-and-bit. Chester wouldn't have wanted to live in a house put up by such half-trained workers.
The sun hadn't risen. December days in Los Angeles were longer than they were in Toledo, but sunrise still came late. And, by Los Angeles standards, it was cold: it had dropped down into the forties. Chester Martin found the idea that that could be chilly laughable. He wore a denim jacket over a cotton shirt and a pair of dungarees. He might have put on the same outfit in April in Toledo. In December, he would have frozen to death with it. But his real cold-weather gear had sat at the back of the closet for years. He'd finally given most of his winter-weight coats and heavy wool mufflers to the Salvation Army. He didn't think he would ever need to wear that kind of outfit again.
He had to watch where he was going as he made his way down to the trolley stop. One thing where Toledo beat Los Angeles hollow was street lights. They were few and far between here. Whole neighborhoods-his, for instance-did without them altogether. Long winter nights made that especially noticeable.
Street lights or not, the southbound trolley came on time. Chester tossed his nickel in the fare box and bought a couple of transfers, too. He rode down toward the suburbs, where most of the building was going on right now. Dawn came as he rattled along. It was a leaden dawn, the sky full of gray clouds. He wondered if it would rain. That would shut things down better than any picket line. Probably not, though. Even by Los Angeles standards, 1939 had been a dry year.
Torrance, where he got off, reminded him of Gardena, the little town to the north of it where he'd started building houses after coming to California. Groves of figs and walnuts and oranges and lemons and alligator pears still flourished. Truck gardens, many of them run by farmers from Japan, shipped strawberries and lettuce and carrots and other produce to half the country, thanks to refrigerated freight cars. And, here and there, clusters of houses with clapboard sides mostly painted white sprouted among the greenery.
At the site where the picket line went up, the houses were still sawdust-smelling wooden skeletons. Strike headquarters was a big tent on a vacant lot two blocks away. Four or five burly men guarded the tent day and night. Contractors had tried to get the police to remove it, but the man who owned the lot was a good Socialist, and wouldn't swear out a trespassing complaint.
One of the guards tipped his battered fedora to Chester. 'Mornin',' he said. 'Pot of coffee's going inside, you want a cup.'
'Good deal,' Chester said. 'Any trouble?'
All the guards shook their heads. 'Not a bit,' answered the one who'd spoken before. 'Bastards don't bother anybody they figure he'll fight back.' This time, all of his friends nodded.
That wasn't true. The class enemies and their lackeys weren't cowards. They defended their interests no less earnestly than proletarians. Things would have been easier if they hadn't. Chester said nothing about that. Why hurt the guards' morale?
He just ducked into the tent. Sure enough, a coffeepot perked above the blue flame on some canned heat. Several not very clean cups sat on a card table nearby. He'd drunk from far worse during the war. There was a sugar bowl, but no cream. Sugar would do. He poured himself a cup, quickly drained it, and took a picket sign. It said, shame! and unfair to workers! so it could be used in almost any strike. The handle was a good, solid piece of
