when it seemed appropriate but otherwise keeping to himself. His secretary, Peja, trailed behind, talking in hushed tones to some bureaucrat whose name Henry could not remember but whose breath was rancid with garlic. Every once in a while, for reasons that Henry could not glean, the Poles would want to stop and inspect some aspect of the stove assembly. They would murmur among themselves, and Henry would look to the translator without interest, and the translator would shrug as if to indicate that the conversation was not one Henry should worry about.
What Henry did worry about was the strike at Bernal’s plant. He had debated in his mind the wisdom of bringing the Poles over to watch his police break it. He assumed that businessmen would appreciate a government that enforced their interests when necessary. But you could never tell with these goddamn Europeans. They could share your values but not your methods, or your methods but not your values, or both or neither. And who knew how things came across in translation? There was something indefinable about the translator Henry disliked, which was possibly a good sign, because Henry was generally sure about what, exactly, he didn’t like about a person. Still, there was just no way of knowing how good he was. How tactful.
So they were at Block’s. About as far away from Bernal’s as he could get without looking as if he was trying to shield them from the strike. A thought came to him about how to pitch the strike to the press, and he turned to tell Peja, only to find, to his intense annoyance, that Peja was no longer there.
It was remarkable, he thought, how clean the cavernous factory was, yet, how dirty the workers. How could that be? One of the Poles, a squat man with a mustache that hung below his jawline, was looking at Henry expectantly. Henry turned to the translator.
“He wants to know if Block stoves are the best you can get in America.”
Henry smiled through the idiocy of the question and, looking at the Pole, told the translator, “Tell him that the quality of American stoves is such that people debate which is the best. For myself, I prefer Block.”
Henry listened to the translator spew a rush of Polish and, hearing the one word he expected to understand—“Block”—returned to his thoughts.
“Mayor?” It was Peja.
“What? Is the strike broken?”
“The strike? It, uh, it may be. But this is something different. Polly called on the special line.”
Henry felt his stomach clench.
“She left a message. She said another gink came by today, asking about the Prosnickis. Specifically Casper Prosnicki, she said.”
“Jesus Christ. Who the hell was it?”
“She said his name was Poole.”
“Christ, Christ, Christ. Did you get in touch with Feral?” Henry’s volume was rising.
“We’re looking for him.”
“Get me Smith.”
“Smith’s with the Anti-Subversion Unit out at Bernal’s.”
Enunciating each syllable carefully and distinctly, Henry said, “Get me goddamn Smith now.”
Peja scurried away, leaving Henry to face the Poles, who were watching him with interest. He tried to smile benignly, but clearly the Poles weren’t buying it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The wind rarely came out of the northeast, but when it did, it sometimes bore the ash spewed from the plants across the river. On days when the atmospheric conditions were right, the ash would fall on the northeast corner of the City like gray and black snow. As they drove in the squad car to the headquarters of Bernal’s Capitol Industries, Frings noticed the soot, initially falling lightly, but increasing in intensity as they progressed farther into the Hollows. It looked like a photographic negative image of a snowstorm, the snow darker than the ground it fell on. Was this odd because he was high or was it actually as strange as it seemed? The policemen did not seem to take much notice.
They parked at the end of the block, and Frings saw the chaos that the strike had become. The police seemed to be outnumbered nearly two to one by the picketers. In some parts of the block, in open fighting, picketers were swinging sticks that had held their ragged signs as the ASU retaliated with billy clubs. The gray-suited ASU were getting the better of it, and a couple of dozen of the strikers lay or knelt, stunned and bleeding. In other spots, picketers were lined up with their hands against the wall and their backs to the cops, who were systematically cuffing them and making them sit. All the while, ash fell,