Gus Collina died on a summer day, when the light slanted down through Kensington Steel’s tall soot-streaked windows and cut hard-edged columns through the filthy air. Outside those windows the Monongahela River oozed past the town of Monessen, water cooked brown and thick as pudding by the July heat; inside the plant it was hotter still, the year-round heat of the furnaces made even more intolerable by the blazing sun outside. It was one of those days where the sweat pools at the base of your spine, crawls across the palms of your hands under the thick leather gloves, and drips from your forehead onto the lenses of your safety glasses.
Gus was working the coil line that day, where red-hot iron ingots were rolled out into long sheets. He was just coming to the end of another double shift, pushing hard to meet the impossible quotas management demanded. After sixteen hours on the job he was bone-tired, but it was 1937 and he knew he was lucky to have a job at all, and so he kept on working. Until he stumbled, just a little, and one foot caught on the other. He put out a hand to steady himself—and touched the four-foot-wide band of steel, four hundred degrees hot and moving forty-five miles an hour.
Tony Collina saw him die. Tony was Gus’s brother, two years younger, and he watched from a catwalk fifty feet away as Gus was pulled into the works without even time to scream. Tony prayed to Saint Sebastian, the patron of steelworkers, as his steel-toed boots rang down the steps and pounded across the gritty concrete floor, but even as he rushed he knew it was already too late.
They found nothing but blood. Every solid particle of Gus’s body had been crushed out of existence between the turns of hot steel on the ten-ton roll at the end of the line.
-o0o-
Tony moved through the crowd of friends and relations at Gus’s wake, accepting condolences as he passed the hat for Gus’s wife—widow, now. Anna had two daughters, and a baby on the way, and no insurance or savings.
Gino Mattioli came through the front door still in his work clothes, his face filthy and bearing the red marks of his safety glasses. Not even death could slow the production lines at Kensington Steel. “Tony, I’m so sorry I missed the funeral. I came as quick as I could.”
“’S’okay, Gino.” Tony held up his hat, which rattled with silver and paper. “For Anna.”
Gino’s handsome face pinched into a scowl as he dug in his pants pocket. “Jesus, what a situation. How’s she taking it?”
“Not well. My wife’s with her now.”
Gino pulled his hand from his pocket, stared down into it for a moment, then with an expression of resignation dumped the whole pathetic handful of change into Tony’s hat. “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”
“Thanks anyway.”
The two men embraced, the hatful of money jingling in Tony’s ear. Before letting go, Gino asked “How about you?”
“Me?”
Gino pulled back, held both of Tony’s shoulders. “Yeah, you. How are you taking it?”
Fireworks of emotion exploded in Tony’s chest like the sparks from a Bessemer converter. Tony had always been the shortstop to Gus’s pitcher. They’d played together, fought together, got in trouble together, worked together. Gus had handled everything when Pop died of tuberculosis in ’34, shielding Tony from the diagnosis as long as he could. Gus had been the best man at Tony’s wedding, less than a year ago. And now... all of a sudden, at twenty-seven, Tony was the papa of the entire family.
“I’m all right,” he said. He turned away so Gino couldn’t see his face. “I’m all right.”
Gino squeezed Tony’s shoulder. “I’d better go in and pay my respects.”
“Yeah. You do that.” He wiped his eyes quickly and turned back. “Thanks.”
Gino walked into the living room, where Gus and Anna’s wedding photo sat atop a plain pine coffin and a huge cross of flowers perfumed the air. Tony tried not to remember that the coffin was empty except for a pair of bloodstained and mangled steel-toed boots, tried not to think about how much the coffin and the flowers and the priest had cost, tried not to worry about how he was going to support Anna and her kids as well as his own Sofia and little Bella... tried not to wonder how many more men would die before this job was finished.
Gino finished praying and rose to his feet. He kissed his fingers and touched them to the coffin. “It’s a damn shame,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “That’s—what, six already this year?”
“Seven.”
“Jesus.” He shook his head. “They’re killing us. Honest to God, Tony, they’re killing us with this schedule.”
“I know. But if we don’t make this deadline you know they’ll give the damn bridge contract to Inland and then every single one of us will be on the W.P.A.”
“Now you’re talking like management.”
Tony pursed his lips, drew in a breath through his nose. “I have to go and give this money to Anna.” But as he turned to go, Gino caught his shoulder.
“We don’t have to take this. We can fight them. We can unionize.”
Tony slapped Gino’s hand away. “And we can lose our jobs. Or worse. Remember Republic Steel?”
Everyone knew how the Republic Steel strike had ended. On Memorial Day 1937, a crowd of picketers were met by armed policemen as they approached the plant. Ten men died in the resulting melee, hundreds were injured, and the strike was broken. The newsreels called the strikers a bloodthirsty mob, but the steelworkers’ grapevine said they were just a Memorial Day picnic crowd, including women and children, armed with nothing but placards. Either way, the strike had been a disaster for the union.
Gino’s dark brows drew together as he stared hard into Tony’s eyes. Then he turned away and waved dismissively at Tony. “Go on, then. Tell Anna, if there’s anything I can do...”
“I’ll tell her.”
On the way to the back bedroom where Sofia comforted the grieving Anna, Tony passed through the kitchen. Warm smells of the lasagna and porcetta and ravioli brought by the aunts and neighbor women enticed his nose, but the stove was cold. Cold as death.
-o0o-
Tony sat up in bed. “Who’s there?”
At first there was no sign of what had woken him. Sofia snored gently beside him, and little Bella breathed peacefully in her crib beside the bed. Similar sounds came through the door, where Anna and her two children slept in the living room. Six people made a tight crowd in the four-room company house, but Tony could not shirk his family obligations.
Just as Tony was about to settle back down and close his eyes, he saw something move. It might have been the curtains stirring in the fitful breeze, but no—it was at the foot of the bed. Something rippled in the stripes of yellow light cast by the street light through the Venetian blinds.
Tony’s eyes snapped open and his heart pounded. “Anna? Is that you?”
“Don’t you know me, you moron?” The voice was familiar, but it sounded like a long-distance telephone call from the bottom of a freezer, and the hair rose on the back of Tony’s neck.
“Gus?”
“Who else?”
Tony squinted into the darkness. Was that a human figure perched on the footboard? Or was it just a shadow? Tony could see right through it to the Blessed Virgin on the wall behind it.
“You’re not Gus,” he hissed. He gripped the sheet so tightly he felt it start to tear.
The figure leaned forward, the stripes of light shifting across its face, and Tony thought he saw Gus’s big ears and prominent Adam’s apple. Just like his. “Who else would know about the deal you and I made with Walter Ailes?”
Goosebumps pricked Tony’s forearms. “I never should have let you talk me into it in the first place.”
The shadow seemed to shake its head. “I’m sorry about that, now.”
Tony closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose hard. “This is a dream, right?”
“Maybe. But even if it is, there’s one thing I want you to remember when you wake up.”
Tony let go of his nose, stared at the shadowy figure.
“You’re going to have to decide who your real friends are, little brother. Ailes gives you money, but...”
“I have Anna and your kids to support! There’s no way I can back out now.”
“Don’t make the same mistake I did.” And then, without transition, Gus was gone.
Tony gazed on the face of the Blessed Virgin. Her cheap printed smile was not very comforting. It was just a dream, he told himself. But then he put out a hand to the footboard where his brother’s ghost had sat. The wood was cold under his fingertips, though the July night was sweltering.
Tony put the pillow over his head, just like when he was a kid, and shivered until he fell asleep.
-o0o-
Molten steel glowed orange-red as it seethed from the giant ladle into the ingot molds laid out at Tony’s station. He pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped the back of his neck as he watched the pour, then stuffed it quickly away before guiding the ladle to the next mold. Hot air and sparks roared out of the mold as the steel poured in, burning the scowl on Tony’s face.
Bruno the foreman slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re wanted at the office,” he shouted over the clang and rush of the plant.
The oak and glass office door closed with a thud, blocking out most of the sound from the plant floor beyond. “I’m Antonio Collina,” he said to the suspicious-looking clerk behind the counter.
Walter Ailes, the plant’s director of personnel, emerged from a back room a few minutes later. His hair and skin were very pale, and wire-rimmed glasses perched atop his hatchet-thin nose. Tony was ashamed of his own swarthy, grimy complexion.
“Thank you for coming, Mister Collina,” said Ailes. “Won’t you please come this way?” His skinny hand was cool and surprisingly strong, easily matching the pressure of Tony’s callused fingers.
Together they moved from the concrete of the plant floor onto hardwood. Tony became increasingly uncomfortable as they walked, acutely aware of the gray grit imbedded in his coveralls, his face, his hair. He was afraid to touch the clean cream-colored walls; he knew he stank of sweat and hot metal. “What’s this all about, Mister Ailes?” Tony whispered. “You said never to come into the office.”
“Yes. But Mister Kensington wanted to have a word with you.” Ailes opened a heavy door on which OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT was written in gold leaf.
The office behind the door was bigger than Tony’s entire house, with high ceilings and oak bookcases full of ledgers. The desk, also of oak, was the size of the altar at St. Cajetan’s. Behind the desk hung a portrait of OUR FOUNDER, Joseph G. Kensington. And below the portrait sat Joseph G. Kensington II, President of Kensington Steel. He stood and held out his hand.
Tony had never met a Kensington before. He was nearly as pale as Ailes, but his nose was round and pink and his jowls seemed to bulge from his high starched collar like a big bubble-gum bubble. “Mister Collina, I was so sorry to hear about your brother Giuseppe.”
“Thank you, sir.” Kensington’s hand felt like a bunch of uncooked sausages. Tony didn’t want to grip it too firmly, for fear it would burst.
“I like to think of everyone here at Kensington Steel as family. And families stick together in time of hardship, do they not?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
Kensington wiped his hand with a white silk handkerchief, then dropped it in the wastepaper basket. “I am aware,” he said, “that some members of the Kensington Steel family do not have the family’s best interests at heart. Mister Ailes tells me that the weekly reports that you and your brother have written on these agitators’ activities have been most informative.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tony gritted his teeth at the memory of the men who had lost their jobs as a result of those reports. But the extra six dollars a week in his pay envelope, which had been a luxury for a family of three, were a necessity for six. It would be even worse when Anna’s baby came.
“I want to make sure that these reports continue. Despite the unfortunate circumstances.”
“Of course, sir.” You cold-hearted bastard, he thought.
“We believe,” said Ailes, “that there may be an increase in... antisocial activity, in the wake of your brother’s death.”
“I don’t understand, sir.” But Tony knew what he meant, and he felt sweat trickling down his sides.
“We are talking about unionization, Mister Collina!” Kensington thundered. “Communists and anarchists. Bloodthirsty men who desire nothing less than the destruction of the American way of life!” His pink cheeks grew pinker.
“All we ask,” said Ailes in a soothing voice, “is that you appear to cooperate with any attempt to unionize the men, and keep us informed of the organizers’ actions.”
“I, uh...” The room was suddenly hotter than the August sun and the proximity of the blast furnaces could explain. “Yes, sir.” He would have to avoid Gino. If nobody asked him to join, he wouldn’t have anything to report on.
“However, Mister Collina,” said Ailes, and his words were suddenly as thin and strong as his fingers, “please do keep in mind that you are not our only such... reporter. If your reports are not complete and accurate, we will know it.”
Six dollars a week. “You can depend on me, sir.”
-o0o-
As Ailes was escorting Tony back to the plant floor, a Serbian laborer came up to him with a large, heavy box. “Where you want this, Mister Ailes?”
Ailes’s face betrayed a sting of annoyance. “Put it with the others.”
“Yessir.”
As the Serb turned away, Tony noticed the words stenciled on the end of the wooden box: AXE HANDLES, TWO DOZ. Aghast, Tony watched as the Serb opened a store-room door. Behind that door were more boxes of axe handles, and other things: tear gas grenades, rifles, and riot guns with barrels the size of beer bottles.
Ailes’s eyes narrowed with anger. “You should not have seen that, Mister Collina. I trust you will keep this information... confidential?”
“Uh, yes sir.”
“Good. And I hope you will understand that we are prepared to defend Kensington Steel from the forces of anarchy.” He lowered his voice and leaned in close. “By any means necessary. Do you understand, Mister Collina?”
“Yes, sir.”
-o0o-
Later, back in the noise and stench of the plant floor, Tony recalled what Gus had said about deciding who his real friends were. But that had just been a dream. The six dollars a week was real, and it would keep his brother’s children from going hungry.
Even so, and even in the heat of the blast furnaces, Tony shivered.
-o0o-
Weeks went by. Tony filed his reports, usually nothing more than repeating his co-workers’ grumbles and anti-management jokes, and the money came in every week. He kept his conversations with Gino focused on baseball and their wives’ cooking. After a while he started to relax.
Then, one night, he dreamed of Gus. They were playing stickball in the street by the house where they’d grown up, though they were both adults and wearing their steel-mill coveralls.
“Heads up!” shouted Gus, and hit a long high ball to Tony.
“Got it!” He reached for the ball, but it sailed past his outstretched fingers and into the bramble bushes behind Uncle Ottavio’s house.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Tony cried.
“I may have hit it,” Gus said, “but you blew your chance to catch it. Now you have to go into those brambles and fetch it out.”
The bramble bush was very dark and tall, and seemed to grow as Tony watched. “I’m scared,” he said, and turned back to Gus.
Gus was covered with blood, and sharp points of broken bones emerged from his cheeks and forehead. The eyes were white and staring in his ruined face. “You should be.”
Tony woke screaming. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and Bella began to cry. Sofia got up to comfort her, but as she patted and rocked the baby she asked Tony, “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Just a bad dream.”
Six dollars a week. He hoped he hadn’t sold himself too cheaply.
-o0o-
The next day Tony sat heavily on a bench in the break area. He took off his hard hat and rested his head in his hands.
“You heard we lost another one?” said Gino as he sat down next to him.
“Aw, Jesus. No, I just didn’t sleep well last night. Who?”
“Negro boy down in the coke yards. Pietro Dani—you know him?—he fell asleep running a crane and dropped a whole load of coke right on top of the guy.”
“Jesus.”
“We’re not going to take this any more. We’re going to take action.”
Tony’s heart felt as though it had just stopped. “Don’t tell me this, Gino.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it. But we’ve got to do something. We’re meeting down at Polish Hall tomorrow night at eight. We’ve got a man from the C.I.O. to help us organize.”
Tony swallowed. “No thanks.”
“Please. It’s important. We’ve been talking about doing something for a long time, but Gus’s death was what finally got us moving. It would mean a lot if you could show your support.”
“Yeah,” said Arturo Cavenini as he sat down on the other side of Tony. “You should come.”
You are not our only reporter, Ailes had said. Could Arturo be one of the others? Now Tony would have no choice but to write Gino up. “I really wish you hadn’t asked me.”
“C’mon,” said Arturo. “What can it hurt?”
Tony thought about axe handles, and gas grenades, and riot guns. “It can hurt a lot.” He stood up to leave.
Then he felt a cold touch at the back of his neck, and heard a voice like a long-distance phone call in his head. Go to the meeting, it said. Do it for me.
“What’s wrong?” said Gino. “You look like hell all of a sudden.”
“It’s nothing. Just gas.”
Go, said the voice.
“OK, I’ll go.”
A broad smile broke out on Gino’s face. “Thanks, Tony. I mean it.”
Tony shook his head to clear it, but the voice and the cold were already gone.
-o0o-
There were about seventy-five men at Polish Hall, shifting and muttering uncomfortably on the long wooden benches. Tony twisted his cap in his hands. It’s not too late to leave, he thought. If he left before the meeting started it would look funny, but then he could tell Ailes he didn’t know who the ringleaders were. He felt like Judas Iscariot.
Tony’s decision was made for him then, as the doors closed and Gino took the stage. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m proud to see so many members of our Kensington family here tonight.” An ironic chuckle ran through the crowd. Tony felt sick. “This is a great night for the workers of Kensington Steel, because tonight we begin to reclaim our lives. For the last sixteen months we have struggled with double shifts, impossible production quotas, and tragic losses.” He gestured at Tony, and a few men muttered “yeah.” Tony managed a wave and a weak smile.
Gino began to pace back and forth, the stage floor creaking under his boots. “We’ve been cooperative. We’ve been polite. We’ve tried to work with management. But the situation just keeps getting worse. As you may already know, they aren’t even going to give us Labor Day off.” Tony found himself growling right along with the rest of the crowd. The news was a surprise to him. “Are we going to take that?”
About a dozen men yelled, “No!”
“Are we going to keep working double shifts for twenty-four dollars a week?”
“No!” This time it was most of the crowd.
“Are we going to watch our brothers die, one after another, until no one is left?”
“No!” Tony yelled it too.
“That’s right!” Gino said. “Because tonight, we organize!” He raised his fist, and the crowd responded with applause and shouts of encouragement.
When the noise died down, Gino introduced Mike Kelley of the Congress of Industrial Organization, a beefy, florid man with a brusque manner and a thick working-class Irish accent. He spent the rest of the evening outlining a strategy for organizing a union, passing out packets of leaflets and buttons, and getting men to volunteer as shift captains and other key organizers. The mood of the crowd was upbeat as it dispersed into the night.
As Tony walked home, though, a weight settled onto his shoulders. For one thing, he knew he had to write up a report on the meeting. If he named names, men would lose their jobs; if he didn’t, Ailes would cut off his money for shirking. For another thing, he knew that any serious attempt at rebellion would be met with well-informed, well-armed resistance. He wanted to run from the whole situation, but both Gino and Ailes—for their own reasons—would expect him to continue attending meetings.
In the dark between streetlights, Tony spotted a beer bottle in the gutter. He kicked it savagely and it flew through the air to smash against the curb on the other side of the street.
The shower of glass fragments seemed to hang in the air for a moment.
Tony swallowed.
The glittering cloud of glass splinters did not fall to the pavement. Instead, it swirled into a manlike form. Gyrating like a swarm of bees, it churned across the street to where Tony stood paralyzed in the dark.
“What’s wrong, little brother?” Gus’s voice came as a scraping and grinding of broken glass. Tiny particles escaped from the swarm, pattering on the sidewalk and stinging Tony’s face.
“G-g-g-...” Tony stammered, then clamped his jaws together. “Gus, I d-don’t know what to do.” He shivered in the hot August night.
“Remember who you are. Stick with your own kind.”
“But if I stick with the union, I’ll have to tell Ailes everything!”
“Yes...” The final s sounded like a bucket of sand being poured out.
“If they march on the plant and Ailes knows they’re coming, people will be killed! Is that what you want?”
A tinkling chuckle came from the figure’s midsection. “I’m not the only one who wants to see a few deaths in the Kensington family.” Then the swarm of fragments clattered to the sidewalk, peppering Tony’s shoes and pants. He slapped at a sudden pain in his cheek, and drew out a sliver of glass. His own blood on his fingers was black in the light from the distant streetlight.
“Gus, you bastard,” he said. But there was no one there.
Gus had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Could his ghost be trusted?
-o0o-
The phone booth at the back of Johnson’s Restaurant smelled of cigarette smoke and fried fish. Tony had to try three times before he got the nickel into the slot, and his fingers trembled as he dialed the number.
“Ailes here.”
“Mister Ailes, this is Tony Collina.”
“Ah yes, Mister Collina. What can I do for you?”
“Mister Ailes, I want out. I don’t want to write reports for you any more.”
Ailes chuckled. “You don’t want me to know about the meeting at Polish Hall, do you?”
Tony drew in a shuddering breath. “If you already know about it, what do you need me for?”
“God gave us two eyes and two ears for a reason, Mister Collina. I always like to keep several men on the hook... I mean, as reporters. Each provides a check on the others.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I still want out.”
“I’m afraid that would be... inconvenient. To you.”
“To me?”
“Yes. If certain reports, in your handwriting, were to be made available to the other members of your nascent union, the results might be... unfortunate.”
Tony gaped into the phone.
“Do we understand each other, Mister Collina?”
Tony gulped. “Yes.”
“Very well then. I expect to see your complete and accurate report on my desk this Thursday as usual. Good evening, Mister Collina.”
“Good evening, sir.” But the line had already gone dead.
-o0o-
Two weeks later the crowd at Polish Hall was up to a hundred and fifty men. They planned a big Labor Day rally at Monessen City Park with all the wives and children, then they’d move to the plant entrance for the three o’clock shift change, to distribute leaflets urging men to join the union. The anger and resentment of men forced to work sixteen hours on a holiday would be sure to pay off in a big groundswell of support. They were excited and confident, and they chattered among themselves in Italian and English as they left the hall.
Tony accosted Gino as he locked the doors. “Gino, this isn’t going to work.”
“Sure it will! Management is playing right into our hands. Anything they try to do to stop us will just add to our support.”
Tony could not meet Gino’s eyes. He turned away and watched moths circling the streetlight nearby. “They know what we’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have spies. In the plant. In the union. And they’re ready to hit us back. Hard.”
Gino put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Spies? Who? How do you know?” He tried to turn Tony around, but he resisted.
“I can’t tell you. I just don’t want to see anyone else get killed.”
Gino’s hand tightened on Tony’s shoulder, then he pushed him away with a disgusted sound. “You’re just chicken. If we don’t organize, more men will get killed. Like Gus. Remember Gus?”
Tony still did not meet Gino’s eyes. “Yeah. I remember Gus.”
“He wouldn’t be afraid to do the right thing.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Gino stood silent for a moment, then turned and walked away. Tony listened to his footsteps fading away into the dark.
-o0o-
Labor Day dawned hot and clear, with a big blue sky relieved by a few puffy clouds. The carpenters and the plumbers and the printers were up early, preparing their floats for the afternoon parade. The steelworkers of Kensington who weren’t on shift were up early too, but they didn’t have a float—instead they were cranking out mimeographed leaflets and painting placards.
By lunchtime City Park thronged with people. Women in their Sunday outfits carried picnic baskets; children laughed and ran across the grass. The smells of fried chicken and porcetta were everywhere.
Tony observed the festivities as though from inside a Mason jar. Labor Day’s going to be just like Memorial Day, he thought. At best, the union organizers would lose their jobs; at worst, they’d lose their lives, and the lives of the women and children as well.
Tony had tried to convince Gino and Mike Kelley not to go through with it, but they refused to listen. He’d made clear in his reports that the workers intended no violence, but knowing Ailes he expected deadly force in reaction to any action at all. He’d even thought about leaving town, but where else could he find work?
So here he was, at City Park on Labor Day, feeling like the ghost at the feast. He would keep his own family away from the plant, and take any action he could to prevent violence. But he didn’t feel very confident he could make much of a difference.
A great cheer erupted from the bandstand at the center of the park. “Come on,” said Sofia. “We’re missing everything!” She settled Bella more firmly on her hip and ran ahead with Anna’s two girls, leaving Tony with the picnic basket and Anna with her very pregnant tummy to struggle along behind.
They laid out their picnic blanket in the shade of an oak, ate their roasted-pork sandwiches, and listened to politicians make speeches and brass bands play. For a while Tony could almost forget the coming confrontation. But at one o’clock Gino called through a bullhorn for all the off-shift Kensington workers and their families to gather to the left of the stage.
“Sofia,” Tony said, “I want you to take Anna and the kids home.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, okay?”
“But I wanna go with you, Uncle Tony!” said Lizzie, Anna’s oldest. “All the other kids are going.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” he said, and swung her around by her arms. She laughed and laughed as she flew through the air, then he set her down and bent down to her level. “You be good for your mama and Aunt Sophie, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.” He hugged her, and over her little shoulder he saw Sofia give him a look of deep concern. He straightened quickly and marched away, not wanting her to see the expression on his face.
The crowd around Gino was festive, men and women in their best clothes laughing and singing as they distributed placards and packets of flyers among themselves. Gino and Mike Kelley made inspirational speeches, they all cheered, and then they set off across the grass toward the Kensington Steel plant. Tony found himself carrying a sign that said WIN WITH THE C.I.O.
As the crowd walked down Fourth Street toward the plant, a shadow crossed the sun and the laughter dimmed a bit. It was only the smoke pouring from the plant’s smokestacks, but to Tony it seemed like a bad omen.
They got closer to the plant. Even from a mile away the plant dominated the horizon, but now they were only a few blocks from the main gate and it seemed bigger than the world—a looming gray wall that, even from here, smelled of hot iron and sulfur.
The crowd walked on in silence.
One block from the main gate they could read the sign above it: KENSINGTON STEEL BUILDS AMERICA. And below the sign they could see a line of men.
“Finks,” muttered a man next to Tony. Professional strikebreakers. Muscular, leering men armed with axe handles and riot guns. There were policemen in the line as well, carrying truncheons and rifles.
The leading members of the crowd of workers paused at the sight. The ones behind them came on, unknowing. Between the two groups a press of confusion developed.
One of the policemen stepped up and raised a bullhorn to his lips. “All right, you anarchists. This is as far as you go today. You are ordered to disperse.”
The man next to Tony slowly bent down and set down his picket sign, then picked up a large piece of brick from the street. Others around him did the same.
A cop cocked his riot gun with a metallic ch-chunk that cut through the sounds of the plant.
Tony grabbed the wrist of the man with the brick. “Don’t do anything stupid!” he hissed. But the man just shook him off in annoyance.
“You are ordered to disperse,” the bullhorn repeated.
Tony began to back up, pushing his way through the crowd.
Then the tense silence was cut in two by the three o’clock whistle that marked the end of the first shift.
Despite the heat and humidity, Tony felt a sudden chill at the sound—but he did not shiver. Instead, insanely, he was comforted. For some reason it made him think of snowmen, and snowball fights, and snow forts. A protective cocoon of cold.
Tony and Gus stood together within a swirl of snow. They were wearing their winter coats.
“Don’t run,” said Gus. “I need you to stay here.”
“And get killed?”
“You have to trust me.”
“Trust you? Damn it, Gus, you talked me into this deal with Ailes, and then you left me!” Hot tears cooled quickly as they ran down his cheeks.
“I know. I’m sorry. I screwed up, okay? But from... where I am, I can see things I couldn’t before. I can fix it. I gotta fix it. But I need your help.”
Tony’s breath huffed out of his mouth in big white clouds. At last he said “What do you want me to do?”
“Just relax, and let me do all the talking.”
Tony gazed on his dead brother’s face for a moment more, then closed his eyes.
The shift-change whistle was just dying away as he opened his eyes again. He felt funny, like he was under water. Cold water. But it was still a comforting kind of cold.
Tony’s legs began to move, and he found himself pushing through the crowd until he stood between the two groups. His arms raised themselves in the air and he waved for attention.
“Put down your weapons,” he said to the workers. Though the words came from his own mouth, they were a surprise to him, and his voice sounded as though he were talking over a long-distance line. “Too many have died here already.” Amazingly, many of those who had picked up rocks and bricks did put them down. And even though Tony had not raised his voice, he saw men way at the back of the crowd reacting to his words.
Tony turned to the line of men at the factory gate. “Put down your guns and clubs. These people are not your enemies.” Some of the finks lowered their axe handles, but the cops were more disciplined and retained their weapons.
Seeing this, the men in the crowd who had not put down their bricks gripped them tightly, and a few men bent down to pick up new ones. Despite the cocooning cold, Tony began to sweat.
Just then the first-shift workers began to pour from the plant’s doors. But this was not the usual tired shift-change procession. These men were still wearing their work clothes and safety gear, running hard. One man screamed in horror.
Tony had no idea what was happening. Neither did anyone else. Cops, finks, and workers looked around, uncertain of what to do.
The policeman raised his bullhorn. “You strikers are still under an order to disperse!” But no one moved.
The first men to emerge from the plant passed through the main gate. They ran wide-eyed and staring, intent on putting as much space between themselves and the plant as possible.
The bullhorn spoke again. “Pinkerton men, see to the disturbance inside the plant! Officers, disperse these strikers!” The finks turned and ran toward the steel mill; the cops moved forward, raising their weapons. Several men in the crowd of workers raised bricks over their heads, prepared to throw them.
“No!” Tony cried, raising his hands, and a wave of cold seemed to burst from him, rings of stillness spreading like ripples in a pond.
He faced the crowd of workers—his friends, his co-workers, their wives and children—and said “Go home!” As one they backed away from him. He turned to the policemen, and to them he did not even speak—he only stared at them, and they shrank back.
Without a word, the workers turned and walked away, back toward the park. They moved as though in a dream. The cops stood where they were, equally entranced.
Only Gino seemed to remember himself. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “Tony, what’s happened to you?”
“I’m not Tony,” came the words from his mouth, and he strode purposefully toward the plant. Gino followed him.
When they reached the plant, the last few first-shift workers were just emerging from the doors, and most of the finks were already inside. The sounds of the working steel mill had never paused, but now they were joined by screams and gunshots.
“What the hell is going on in there?” asked Gino, but Tony just kept walking.
Soon they passed through the door of the plant. “By the Blessed Virgin,” said Gino.
The steel mill was running at full capacity—ladles pouring molten steel, huge stamping mills pounding ingots into plates, rolling mills pressing out continuous sheets. But the men running the mill...
Some of them were gray and transparent, like half-developed photographs of themselves. Others were horribly burned, leaving flakes of charred flesh behind them as they moved. One man had a steel pry-bar thrust through his chest, oozing blood from both sides. Everywhere were torn and mangled limbs, flayed skin, cracked skulls.
Those whose faces were still intact seemed to be having a wonderful time. Tony even recognized one of them—it was Marco Costanza, who’d bled to death after his arm was crushed by a falling girder. He was moving fine, hauling heavy bundles of steel rebar one-handed, though the other arm dangled uselessly at his side.
The dead men paid no attention to Tony and Gino, or to the strikebreakers. One of the finks stood stock-still, petrified by fear, and was crushed by a forklift driven by a headless machinist. Another fink fired his pistol at the gray shadow of a crane operator; the bullet ricocheted off the crane cab and grazed his skull, knocking him over.
“What the blue blazes is going on here?”
Tony turned to the sound of the voice, to see Kensington and Ailes emerging from the office. Kensington was puffing like a locomotive, his pink face glowing like a blast furnace.
The dead steelworkers all turned to the voice as well. All action in the plant stopped. They began to move toward Kensington.
Kensington was clearly terrified, but to his credit he pressed on regardless. “You men will stop this... Halloween prank, or whatever it is, and get back to work this instant!” But the dead men closed steadily in around him. “Get back to work!” he gasped again, with no effect. “Get... back...”
A ring of burnt, shredded, and broken flesh closed around Kensington, and from the center of it came a strangled scream and a sound like broomsticks breaking.
Tony turned his attention to Ailes, who was pressed against the office wall, arms and legs trembling. He was even paler than before.
“Mister Ailes,” Tony said. “Nice to see you again. You have records. Files. Reports.”
“Y-yes...”
“Take me to them.”
Ailes turned and half-ran, half-stumbled through the office. Tony followed at a steady pace. Gino came behind him.
They entered Ailes’s private office. “Here they are,” he said, and pointed to a file cabinet.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
Tony pointed at the file cabinet, and all four drawers flew open. The papers within burst into the air like a thousand fat snowflakes. Tony waved his hands and the flying papers aged, browning and curling, two hundred years in a moment. Then they all crumbled to dust, leaving nothing but a smell like dead leaves.
Tears ran down Ailes’s cheeks. Gino muttered one prayer after another.
“Now I can go,” Tony said, and the world went black.
-o0o-
When he came to, he was outside the plant and Gino was leaning over him. “Are you awake?”
“I think so...”
“Do you remember what happened in there?”
“There were dead men. I saw Marco. Lots of others.”
“Yeah. Hundreds. I think it was every man who’s ever died in a Pennsylvania steel mill.”
“Kensington.”
Gino snorted. “Yeah, but he doesn’t count.”
“Are they still in there?”
“No. I think they all vanished when you passed out. There’s nobody in there right now but a half-dozen dead finks.”
“Ailes?”
“He’s talking with Mike Kelley. I think they’re coming to an agreement.”
“That’s good.” He closed his eyes.
-o0o-
Gus Collina was born on an autumn day, when the cool light streamed in through the windows of the new house his mother shared with his Uncle Tony and Aunt Sofia. The first face he saw in this life was Tony’s.
He met Tony’s eye and winked. And then he had a good long cry.