LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (4 page)

The hall looked like it was designed to hold about a hundred people, and I'd guess there was nearly twice that number in there. The smell was of old cigarette smoke, stale beer, sweat, and anger. Those who weren't standing were sitting on folding chairs, and up on the other side of the room was a raised stage, only a couple of feet high, with another row of chairs and a lectern. An American flag and a New Hampshire state flag flanked the speaker, who was leaning so far over the lectern, punching the air with a closed fist, that it made him look like a drunk attacking shadows.

“… and another thing,” he bellowed, “those who are out there keep on yapping to us about green jobs this, and green jobs that, and you know and I know that all this talk about green jobs is so much horseshit. Windmills are okay, unless you're rich and don't want them spoiling your view. Hydro is fine, unless they might harm some small snail nobody's ever heard of. And solar, yeah, solar is great, except nobody wants them in their backyard or in some endangered desert.”

That got a burst of laughter and some cheers, and the man, his face almost as red as the gatekeeper's outside, nodded with satisfaction as the cheers went on for a bit. He was short and solid, with wide shoulders that would have suited a hockey goalkeeper, and his dark brown hair was slicked back. He had on a blue windbreaker with the logo of some union organization over his chest.

Paula raised herself up on her toes and talked into my ear. “Joe Manzi, champion of the working class, head of the New England Trade Union Council, and owner of a nice condo in Aruba.”

“Looks like a real man of the people,” I said as I started scribbling in my own notebook.

That earned me a dirty look from a couple of the nearest guys, so I kept my mouth shut as Joe went on. “Believe it or not, we know what are green jobs. Green jobs are the ones that give us good jobs at good wages, that allow you and you and you”—and with each “you,” he pointed to someone in the audience—“to own a house, to get a car, save some money for your kids to go to college. And what's wrong with that? Not a goddamn thing!”

More cheers, more applause, and Joe stepped back from the lectern, nodding, and then applauding as well, and when the noise died down he went back to the lectern and said, “Those kind of green jobs worked for my dad, and his dad before him, and by God, they'll work for you! And right now, the best green job for all of us is across that marsh, at Falconer Unit Two. Ironworkers, pipefitters, painters, electricians, carpenters—we can all have a part of that project and part of something that's gonna provide power for this region and our country, and we're gonna see that it gets built!”

Now the audience was on its feet, cheering and applauding, and I looked around at them all, sensing the desperation in their cheers and applause. They had bought into what was once the American dream, and now they were scared and angry and they were listening to someone who was promising to make it all better. I understood them, and with what had been going on with
Shoreline
magazine and me, I also felt that chill of having the unknown out there threaten your livelihood.

Another raise of the hand from Joe, and they quieted down. “Look,” he said, again draping himself over the lectern. “Let's be real, all right? The protesters, the tree huggers, the Volvo drivers, they're upset about a power plant in Russia that couldn't even be designed over here, it's so freakin' dangerous. So just because the Russians don't know how to do something well, does that mean we have to pay the price for it? No, it doesn't. Let me tell you, when push comes to shove, when it comes to choosing between some sixties leftovers and good jobs for all of you, I know what's going to be done. We're not going let some tree huggers stand between us and good jobs. Whatever it takes, my friends, whatever it takes. My brothers and sisters, we cannot—”

Near the front of the row of seats, two young men and an older woman suddenly stepped up, and from underneath one young man's jacket, they quickly unfurled a banner that read
NO NUKES NO FALCONER 2,
and they started chanting the same words painted on the piece of cloth.

The reaction was immediate. The television cameras swiveled as one to take in the breaking news, and Paula raised her camera, snapped off a couple of shots, and then the booing and yelling started, some men got up and tore down the banner, chairs were overturned, more yelling, and two uniformed Falconer cops waded into the fracas, and there were more shouts and screams, and I grabbed Paula's arm and said, “Let's get out of here.”

She shook off my grasp. “In a second. I want to get another shot.” She climbed up on the wooden platform where the television cameras were placed and brought the camera up to her face. My skin tingled. I didn't want to be here, not at all, and on the opposite side of the room, Felix Tinios walked over, took Joe Manzi by the elbow, and then Joe left, joined by the others. A chair was thrown, and then Paula got off and came to me, grinning. “Got a great shot, somebody getting punched out.”

“That's sweet,” I said. “Looks like Joe has left the building. Can we leave now?”

Outside there were sirens, and inside, more shouts and a scrum of bodies up where the protesters had stood up to make their stand, and Paula said, “All right, we can leave now.”

When we stepped out, the air was cold and sharp, and Paula said, “One of these days, Lewis, you'll get the bones of a journalist. Wanting to leave just when the story got interesting.”

I said, “Only bones I'm interested in are mine and yours, and keeping them in one piece. Let's go see what the other side's press conference has to offer,” and Paula laughed and slipped her arm into mine as we walked over to my Ford Explorer.

That was one of the last times I was to see the Paula Quinn I knew and had once loved.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Fifteen minutes later, parking was a problem yet again, and I had to abandon my Ford on a dirt road that led into a camping area on the north end of Falconer. A dark brown wooden sign with white paint read
SEASIDE CAMPGROUND
, and there was a little cottage along the way that served as the campground's office, but it was closed and the lights were off. There were cars and trucks and a couple of news vans pulled to the side of the dirt road, and there was room only for walkers. Brush and pine trees were on both sides, rising up into the cold sky.

Paula joined me as we heard singing in the distance. The people walking with us were mostly young, laughing and talking to each other. The dress code here was more casual than at the fishermen's co-op: lots of jeans, flannel shirts, long skirts, hair done up in braids, body piercings, and tattoos, plus the usual antinuclear signs and banners were carried along as well.

Paula said, “Well, that certainly was exciting back there.”

“Exciting?” I said. “Seeing people beat the crap out of each other doesn't seem that exciting.”

She smiled. “Still, it makes for great photos and great copy, doesn't it.”

“Maybe you're right,” I said softly. “Maybe I don't have the bones for your line of work.”

She said, “Oh, don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, you hang around with that North End character, Felix Tinios.”

“What do you know about Felix?”

“From Boston originally. Connected to the mob, but supposedly freelance.” She then laughed. “Hard to believe he was working at the union rally, providing security.”

“Believe it,” I said. “One April, a few years back, he showed me his tax return. It said his occupation was security consultant.”

Another laugh. “I still don't believe it.”

“If it's good enough for the federal government, who am I to say otherwise?”

Paula muttered something about the federal government's competency, and as we made distance along the narrow pathway, more and more people joined us. Paula said, “Seems like a much happier group.”

“Of course,” I said. “They're unmarried, with no car payments, no mortgages, no kids looking to them to keep them clothed and fed and healthy, no sick parents or college bills. They can afford to be happy.”

“Cynic, aren't you.”

“Happens when you get older.”

“Then don't get old.”

“I've tried,” I said. “Odds are stacked against me.”

The road ended in a large open area of grassland surrounded by trees, with picnic tables and chairs scattered underneath like large wooden toys. Music boomed out from loudspeakers, and tents were set up, and there were fires burning merrily along, and some of the more enthusiastic participants were dancing in circles, laughing. A wooden stage was set up with a banner flapping beneath it, the words reading
A NUCLEAR-FREE FALCONER
. On the stage was a huddle of people, and one man stood to the side, arms folded, nodding as an intense woman talked to him. He had on blue jeans and a dungaree jacket and wore big black-rimmed glasses. His beard was thick and gray, making up, it looked like, for the sparse cover on his head.

The intense woman seemed about twenty years younger and wore a long skirt and a thick sweater. Her black hair was in a ponytail, and she had a clipboard in hand. Paula said, “There they are. The couple of the day … or week.”

“I didn't realize Bronson Toles was married,” I said. “I know he runs the Stone Chapel, but wasn't he a widower?”

Paula took a picture of the stage and people. “Yep. Until a number of years ago. Gotta keep up with the news, Lewis. That's Laura Glynn Toles—or as some would say, the Mary Magdalene to the antinuker's Jesus of Nazareth.”

I turned to her. “Who's being cynical now?”

Another smile. “The Stone Chapel has always been a quiet little folk music place, a good place for those up-and-comers to earn their chops before they go on to bigger and better things. Story I heard once is that Laura likes the extra publicity her hubby's activities bring to the Stone Chapel. Before they got married, the place was always about a week or two away from having its power cut off. Now they make enough money so they can hire a cook to sling hash, instead of making Laura and her son do double or triple duty. Even do some catering work for the devoted ones who are getting married or who throw a party to raise money for the latest cause.”

A plump older woman with lots of bracelets on her wrists stepped up to a microphone, and there was a burst of feedback that almost made me grab at my ears. She looked chastened and said, “Sorry … sorry, folks … I know we're running late, but we'll start as soon as we can. I know all of us want to hear our own Bronson Toles tell us about our challenges and what faces all of us here, not only tonight, but for the years to come.”

Some applause and a few cheers, but most of the people there seemed interested in the music, although there were lines of people still streaming in from the woods. From beyond the stage, the flat marshland stretched out all the way to the utility's fence line and the lights of the Falconer nuclear power plant.

“Enemy in sight,” I said, pointing out the view. Paula laughed, and there was a sharp voice: “What's so funny?”

There was a tall, skinny guy behind us, wearing cargo pants, a multicolored T-shirt, and some sort of woven wool hat that had the colors of the Jamaican flag. He had a stringy beard that went down midchest, and both eyebrows were pierced.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

“I said, What's so funny?” he demanded, stepping closer. “That plant over there is spewing death on a daily basis, is a ticking time bomb ready to kill us all, and you think that's funny?”

Paula began to speak, but I interrupted her. “What I think or she thinks really isn't your business, is it.”

He stepped closer, flipped a finger on my press pass. “Hah. Member of the press. Paid corporate shill. Not reporting the real news. Covering up for your corporate masters.”

Another flip of my press pass by his dirty hand, and I said, “Touch it again, friend, and you and I will be making some news, right here.”

Paula touched my arm, and then another woman spoke up. “Henry, go away and leave them alone. They don't get paid to listen to your lectures.”

I recognized our new friend: the young woman from earlier in the day, the one passing out the leaflets on Route 1. Henry snorted and walked away, and Paula said, “Thanks. Do you know him?”

“Sure,” she said. “We both go to UNH. We hooked up for a bit, until I realized he thought hooking up meant sitting in his dorm room and listening to the latest conspiracies.”

Paula smiled, offered her hand. “Paula Quinn. And this is Lewis Cole.”

The woman returned the smile. “Haleigh Miller. From UNH Students for Safe Energy. Glad you could make it.”

I was going to say something, but there was another squeal of feedback as the same woman started speaking again at the microphone. By now the area around the stage and the campgrounds were crowded with people, mostly demonstrators and a few other members of the news media. In my mind's eye, I was already working through what the article would eventually look like for my new boss at
Shoreline
. Something about this whole demonstration having its roots in the history of protest in an area that's always had revolutionary fervor, and that this was another attempt by the informed and enraged citizenry to make their points in a public and peaceful way, and wasn't that a nice thing in this increasingly computerized and Internet-connected age.

Ick,
I thought. I'd have to come up with something better.

As has been said by so many people, be careful for what you wish for.

*   *   *

The squeal came back again, and then the sound boomed out. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to the place where a change is a-going to come,” the plump woman said. “I know you haven't come to hear me speak—so I shan't waste any more of your time. Fellow lovers of our Mother Earth, I'm so proud to present our own Bronson Toles of Tyler, Bronson Toles of the Stone Chapel, and Bronson Toles, our guide in making Falconer and the rest of the world a nuclear-free zone.”