“Sure. And they bitch, they get turned in as illegal aliens.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “if they do get turned in and they start discussing this situation with somebody from the justice Department…”
“Course,” Red said. “But these assholes don’t know that. They figure all of us round-eyes are on one side and they’re on the other. They don’t even speak English, you know.”
It was evening. Hawk walked into the compound and squatted on his haunches beside one of the cook fires and began talking to one of the Vietnamese.
“Get him out of there,” Red said. “I’m telling you it’s dangerous in there. Even for him.”
“He’ll be all right,” I said.
“It’s against the rules, too,” Red said.
“No fraternization?”
“Hell no,” Red said. “Bastards start talking to people they may find out they’re being fucked.”
Hawk strolled back.
“What’d they say?” Red said.
“Said they’re bored,” Hawk said.
“You speak the language?”
“Some, and some French, some pidgin,” Hawk said. “I spent time there.”
“With the Frenchies,” Red said.
“Uh huh.”
“I hear the women were something,” Red said.
“Even better than Doreen,” Hawk said.
At lunch at the end of our first week, I said to Plante, “Where do these guys go from here?”
“The forces? They go on permanent station at Transpan installations around the globe.”
“Security?”
“Security, training, and demonstration,” Plante said.
“How ‘bout that mansion over in the corner by the river,” Hawk said.
“Executive house,” Plante said. “Mr. Costigan and his son stay there when they are in the area.”
“Costigan owns all this?” I said.
“This and much more,” Plante said.
“He there now?”
“His son,” Plante said. “Why?”
“Saw all the security over there,” I said. “Kind of like to get a look at Costigan. Man’s a legend.”
Plante nodded. “In an age of collectivism,” he said, “Jerry Costigan is the most powerful sole proprietor in the world.”
“That anything like Soul Brother,” Hawk said. Plante shook his head without smiling. “It’s no joke,” he said. “Mr. Costigan has never yielded an inch. He is an individual swimming strong in a sea of conformity.”
Hawk nodded and drank some lemonade. I said solemnly, “Man’s a legend.”
“When the government came in here and told us we had to let them unionize the work force Mr. Costigan said no, and meant it,” Plante said. “We locked the bastards out and imported workers from the foreign labor pool. Workers, by the way, grateful for the chance. They need discipline. They’re not used to American hustle and stick- to-it. But with guidance they do the job without a lot of pus-gut shop stewards grieving everything you try to do.”
One of the men attendants cleared away dishes and poured coffee.
“Mr. Costigan’s way is clean. There’s no bloat in his operation. He doesn’t subcontract. He doesn’t depend on anyone. He’s stood by the things that got us where we are. Everywhere collectivism, committeeism, collaborationism is oozing over us. Trying to creep in at every fissure. Foreign goods, foreign ideas, decision by committee, by regulatory agency, by boards and unions and…” Plante guzzled some coffee. “… damned community action groups and class action groups and affirmative action groups. Want us to be run by a bunch of fat-ass pansies from Harvard.”
Hawk leaned forward, his face open and interested, his hands folded quietly on the edge of the table. Now and then he nodded. If he wanted to, Hawk could look interested in the Playboy philosophy.
“But Mr. Costigan.” Plante gulped more coffee. A mess steward filled his cup. Plante shook his head rapturously. “Mr. Costigan, he won’t budge. He does it his way. With his own workers, his own forces. He owns it all and he runs it all.”
“And the forces help him,” I said.
“Absolutely.” There was a faint gloss of sweat on Plante’s upper lip. “Absolutely. Transpan is selfcontained. Self-contained. When the collapse comes, we’ll be ready.”
He paused, looked at his watch, and raised his eyebrows. “God, I’m running late,” he said. He stood, rapidly drank a cup of coffee, and hurried out.
