“Why the cheering? I don’t understand.” Father Jancek addressed his remarks to a spot in the air a few feet above the heads of the audience. His question hushed the crowd. “Cheering takes place when something is accomplished, when a long-sought-after goal is attained. Cheering is for the state finals, the World Series. What have we attained, what have we accomplished?”
“It’s true, I suppose, that some of you now have more peace of mind”—Father Jancek’s soft tones flowed like intimate whispers through the room’s sound system—“now that your pensions will continue and your health benefits are secure. But that’s just for pensioners, retirees. Please, don’t get me wrong; what we have done is important, and retirees deserve their pensions. But the day when we can sit down and pat ourselves on the back will be a long time in coming. Meanwhile, save the cheering for the basketball team. We still have a lot of work to do.”
Father Jancek cleared his throat and briefly scanned the notes he had placed on the lectern.
“It is our understanding, and this is from our committee members, that the final layoffs at Kensington Steel are scheduled for late December, possibly the twenty-first, just in time for Christmas. On that day, we expect all of you to be at the front gates at the end of the daylight shift, the last shift ever at Kensington. We’ll form up on either side of the gate, right and left, with former Kensington employees in the front ranks. We’ll be there to shake each man’s hand on his last day and to invite them to join our crusade.”
The audience responded in applause and wild cheering. The twelve people seated on stage signaled for quiet.
“The final demolition of the plant,” Father Jancek said, once order was restored, “will be postponed by winter weather, at least until April. But remember, demolition is the reason for the closing in December. The board of Kensington Steel has voted to close in December in order to give you a winter of personal struggle to forget the plant. So, in spring, demolition can go unobstructed. Remember this: that steel plant is the tax base for this community: taxes that pay for police, road maintenance, the water treatment plant, and the school system. The plant closure will hurt us, hurt us badly. But with the plant standing we have the means to recover. It can reopen. But if we allow that plant to be dismantled, we will be lost. There will be no Midland and no way to rebuild it.
“We have no intention of allowing this to happen.” Father Jancek’s voice had gained strength and its timbre hardened. “We must do whatever is necessary. In McKeesport we failed. And our failure was because of our delusion that we were dealing with reasonable men, men with sensitivity. Well, we were not.
“In McKeesport we used symbolism. We gave the authorities no resistance. When we were removed and arrested, we went peacefully. Well, no more; now we fight. Come April, that plant must remain standing. At any cost, it must remain standing!
“With whatever means possible.” Father Jancek’s voice transcended another octave, and Dorsey felt the power behind it. He’s pulling in his fish, Dorsey thought. The speech begins with his giving them plenty of line. And then he does what he’s doing now, takes up the slack, prepares for the big finish when he lands them in the boat. He must’ve studied the old man’s technique.
“If it means forming a picket line, we’ll form one. If it means putting the bulldozers and wrecking balls out of commission, we’ll do it. And if it comes down to hand-to-hand struggle, we’ll fight to the last man. We’ll stand against the police and state troopers, we’ll stand against the national guard. Because at the end of April, that plant will be standing. And it will be standing at the end of May. And at the end of June, at the end of July, at the end of August. And when we’re done, when the fight is over and the buildings and the smokestacks and the furnaces are still on their feet, then you can cheer!”
Dorsey felt the electric charge coursing through the auditorium, taking in the full effect of the priest’s magic. The crowd was euphoric, as if the calendar read next August and the battle had already been won. Dorsey was on his feet with the others, careful to remind himself that his actions were supposed to be a cover. With his wits collected, he focused on Damjani and was shaken by the realization that the blonde standing next to Damjani, shaking Father Jancek’s hand, was Karen Stroesser—the bad knee from Somerset, Dr. Tang’s patient. And behind her was Mel Stark, back problem from Greensburg. Seated farthest from the right, Dorsey recognized Carl Radovic. Even more ominous was Dorsey’s realization that Radovic was returning his stare, the muscles of his fat face twitching.
“Oh, shit,” Dorsey muttered. “Looks like I’m that Toyota you mentioned.”
Dorsey watched as Radovic shuffled across the stage and took Damjani’s arm, pointing out Dorsey. The two of them started forward. Dorsey moved into the center aisle and made for the door.
It was tough going. Dorsey had to work his way through huddles of men throwing their fists in the air. Watching the empty side aisles as he angled his way along, Dorsey saw Radovic moving quickly along the right wall while Stark hustled along the left. He saw them alert their union brothers at the doors and then looked backward to find Damjani shoving his way toward him. Dorsey’s stomach began to churn as it went acidic and sweat soaked his collar, flowing along his spine. His heart skipped a beat and then another. Dorsey knew he had never been so alone. Deep shit, he thought; the bad guys are after you and the locals aren’t friendly. An ass-beating could be this show’s second act. Maybe the priest will like the idea and ask you back to warm up the crowd at the next rally.
Damjani closed in from behind, shoving away heavy-chested men who didn’t argue, and reached across several others to paw at Dorsey’s shoulder, inches away from taking a firm grasp. Dorsey shrugged him off and pushed forward, watching as Radovic closed in from the right while Stark and two others neared the back of the auditorium from the left. The center doors were manned by two union men. Radovic shouted to them and pointed to Dorsey. The guards stood taller and squared their shoulders. Dorsey shook and tasted bile rising from his stomach.
Over the shoulder of one of the guards, through the small pane of glass in the door’s center, Dorsey saw the head of a man wearing the visor cap of a sheriff’s deputy. Hoping this was not the same deputy who had allowed Damjani through the police cordon, Dorsey prayed that help was only a plywood door away. He grabbed one of the folding chairs, having a tough time holding on to it with his sweat-slippery hands. But once his grip was true, Dorsey swung the chair high and wide at the two men at the center doors who instinctively, but only momentarily, dropped back. Dorsey released the chair at the end of its arc and dove forward, head first, slipping along the polished tile floor into the doors. One door cracked open and Dorsey wiggled through on all fours and found himself in the lobby at the feet of several deputies and borough policemen.
“The hell is this?” one asked.
“A guy is chasing me,” Dorsey said, scrambling to his feet, “big crazy guy. He’s nuts.”
Dorsey turned his left shoulder to indicate the center doors and caught Damjani’s left forearm flush on the cheek. He fell against a policeman, who let him slip to the floor.