Frank called for the vote.
"Stokes, do you want to vote like we have been?"
"Yes."
"Fitznagel?"
"No."
"Big Jim?"
"No."
"Muscoti?"
"Pass for now."
"Wilson?"
"Yes."
Tie vote, two to two.
"Gilmore?"
"No."
The key votes next.
"Baker?"
"What Muscoti said, 'Pass for now.'"
"Rodriguez?"
"Same.
Pass"
An impasse.
Frank banged his hammer on the table.
"Ten minute recess."
Several chunks fell from the ceiling, but not the big section.
Everybody looked up at it.
"Sky is falling," Fitznagel said.
Frank cornered Muscoti.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gilmore go for Baker.
"You've got to go with me on this one, Muscoti."
"I am, but you owe me.
Now go for Baker or Rodriguez."
Rodriguez came up to him.
"What promise can you make about Spanish-speaking, Villa?
Ain't you Mex, anyway?"
"We should have Spanish here, but no gangs."
"So, what's your promise, Villa?"
"No promise.
I agree with you and I'll represent your view point, but it ain't up to me."
"Fuck you, Villa."
Rodriguez left and approached Gilmore who had finished talking to Baker.
Frank grabbed Baker.
"What did Gilmore promise you?"
"I'm going to be the work coordinator.
No more work."
"Hey, Baker, figure it out.
Gilmore has his ape out beating people to show up for work and he's gonna let you off?
You know and I know it's work or starve here."
"I take what I can get."
Baker walked away.
If he wanted Rodriguez's vote, he'd have to promise that half of East LA would be on the next flight.
And the Bureau of Prisons was not about to do that.
If they passed this resolution, they were going to send bad asses to Adak, never mind if they were white asses or black asses or Spanish asses.
Frank gaveled the meeting back to order.
"We were voting on how to vote, like we have been or alphabetical.
Muscoti?"
"Vote like we have been."
Frank felt a momentary surge of adrenaline.
It was tie, three to three.
"Baker?"
"Fuck it.
Alphabetical."
Now for the key vote.
Frank fingered the hammer.
Had he done everything he could?
A sense of dread filled him.
"Rodriguez?"
"Alphabetical."
"Motion passes."
Frank slammed the hammer down to the table.
The large chunk of plaster fell to the table and shattered.
Everyone jumped back. He had set the symbol up and now it had happened.
"Holy shit," Baker said.
"Even God thinks this meeting should be over."
The motion to request three hundred more convicts passed quickly.
Frustration and anger filled Frank.
He had lost.
How could he hold his head up among these men?
Gilmore had bested him.
And if the Feds sent convicts from Florence, Stokes was right - they were animals. He could hear Doc already.
"The council voted today to commit suicide."
It was time to do the one last thing he could do.
To make democracy so much a part of the island that it could never be eliminated.
He gaveled attention - gently this time
-
and looked around the table at what Doc called 'his half-ass council.'
He had set this up, established democracy here as truly as the Continental Congress had for America.
But it was time to put it all on the line, to put his job on the line.
"I have a final announcement.
There's a crisis in leadership on this island.
There are two opposing forces developing."
Frank looked directly at Gilmore, then continued.
"The way we handle that in a democracy is to call an election.
I'm calling a general election for early November, the primary to be held in mid-October.."
He watched Gilmore's face: surprise, shock, then downright interest.
He had him.
Big Jim was the first to speak.
"I'd like to throw my hat into the ring.
People like football players."
"I'm running," Frank said quietly, his hand still on the carpenter's hammer.
The room grew silent. Every eye was on Gilmore.
There was a long pause.
"I am a candidate," Boss Gilmore said.
"Meeting's adjourned," Frank
said
He
had lost a big vote, but he had defined the nature of the duel that lay ahead.
Late that night in his office, four folders lay on Gilmore's desk, the fattest labeled
Campaign
, another
Fish
, another
Cars
and the last
Firewood
.
He opened this last one.
Who would have thought it?
There were no trees on Adak, yet the wet, cold climate made people desperate for heat.
Only a little driftwood made it to the wind-swept shores. To corner the supply, he'd ….
The satellite phone in his locked closet rang.
The Government had cut off all long distance connection to and from Adak, except for Frank's fax line.
But this phone had been an essential part of Gilmore's drop of guns and booze.
It was Congressman Murphy returning his call.
"Congressman, I wanted you to know that the prisoner council passed a resolution requesting more inmates just like we talked."
"Terrific.
Good work, Gilmore."
"It wasn't easy.
Villa tried to stop it."
"I'll tell Alexander Duban.
He's gotten a good report on the first week of work in his factory and he's got a big plan to produce running shoes up there.
He's just been waiting for the word from you or from the Bureau."
"I delivered my part of the bargain."
"Duban may want to come up to Adak when the man from the Bureau of Prisons comes up.
What's his name?"
"Graham.
He's the one you were going to speak to for me."
"Great work, Gilmore."
"Are you going to talk to Graham for me or not?"
"Sure, sure, Gilmore, I'll say hello to him for you.
How's your new phone working?"
"Fine.
Why?"
"Just wondering, you know, making conversation."
Finally Gilmore got it.
The conversation was not secure.
"How's the weather up there?" Murphy asked.
"Shitty," Gilmore replied.
"Well, anyway, Gilmore, good work.
Other inmates can now share in the benefits of this new prison."
The congressman hung up and so did Gilmore. Murphy understood, but he, Gilmore, would have to keep reminding the congressman to contact Graham about a commutation or a sentence reduction.
He had to try everything to get off this dog of a place.
Where was he?
Firewood.
Would three gatherers be enough?
Then Larson could cut and split the wood.
Maybe he'd accidentally cut his prick off and do the world a favor.
Who would head up this project?
Yes, Red Miller, the man with the road-building equipment, that was the man.
As long as he kept his fucking advice to himself.
He'd call him in the morning.
There was a knock at the door. He closed the Firewood folder, got up from his desk and opened the door.
"Latisha!"
Rain dripped off her parka hood and several strands of her wet, black hair were plastered to the side of her face.
Something in her eyes, in her face - a different woman stood in front of him.
Ten years ago in her father's house -
a beautiful, bored, middle-class face waiting for excitement.
A week ago at the Sea Otter -
eyes reflecting the terror of Larson. But now - something had put strength in those eyes, power in the set of her jaw.
Whatever the cause, he had to have her and he had to keep her. She was incredibly beautiful.
"Latisha!" he exclaimed and held out his arms.
She had come home.
She brushed by his open arms, pulled off her parka and sat in one of the regal chairs Gilmore had found in a storage room.
He was in for it, no question.
She was going to run up one side of him and down the other.
If he sat there, if he took it all in, he would win her again.
He started toward his office chair, then thought better of it.
A desk between them would not help.
He took another kingly chair and sat next to her.
She smelled - wet, like everything else on Adak, but her being wet drove a vision into his mind, the two of them in the shower together in Detroit, playing and laughing until the water turned cold.
He put his hand on hers.
"I'm sorry about that party, not introducing you.
I get talking to people and - "
"That wasn't the problem."
"I don't understand."
She paused.
"I thought we were going to be together here, Mister and Missus, you know."
"We are."
"No," she pulled her hand away from his,
"it's Boss Gilmore and his woman."
"I've been under a lot of pressure, getting started in business and all."
She laughed.
"You've been under a lot of pressure?
Do you have any idea what it's like for women to come here?"
He watched a drop of water slide down a strand of hair.
He wanted to lean over and kiss it off her forehead.
She turned to face him directly.
"Why are you running against Frank Villa?"
He looked at her carefully.
Was she attracted to Villa?
She always backed him.
"I can do a better job as leader than him."
"He put you on the council.
This is the thanks you give him?"
The drop of water was still there.
He brushed it off her forehead with his finger, then took her hand.
"Damn it, Latisha."
He released her hand, stood up and thumped the the folders sitting on his desk.
"These are convicts."
Thumping the top folder reminded him about the firewood.
How much should Red charge?
He used to pick up a bundle of firewood, an armful,
at the gas station in Detroit for a couple of bucks.
Ten bucks for a bundle, how would that work?
If it was too high, people would try to undersell him.
If….
He shook firewood out of his head. He had to convince her to stay.
Maybe if she could see his way as the better way.
He took her hand, pleading, holding on tight.
"Take up a survey, Latisha, among the factory people.
Are they there because Frank Villa asked them to be there?
Or are they there because if they weren't, Boss Gilmore's muscle would break their legs?"
She pulled her hand away. "You're hopeless, Gilmore.
You can't stop thinking prison.
You're a free man now."
"What do you mean,
thinking prison
?"
"You think like a guard. You think you're dealing with a group of moral sluggards who can't do anything right."
"Have you ever sat down and talked to Fitznagel or Big Jim?"
"Ain't no talkin' to you, Gilmore."
She stood up, strong, powerful, black.
God, he had to have her.
"Please, fine lady, don't go."
"Get the message, Gilmore.
Respect, that's what these men want.
That's what I want. Respect."
She stepped forward, then back, like someone giving testimony in church.
"Forget your parties and your booze.
Treat these men with respect. They're
proud, free men.
Villa, he's doing that.
Do you hear me, brother?"
He would die without this woman.
Could she see the hard-on in his pants?
"And you treat me with respect."
She raised her voice.
"I'm not a boss' wife.
I'm not a ho.
My name's Latisha."
"God, Latisha, I never treated you that way."
He pulled on her hand.
"I want you to stay."
She turned and headed for the door.
"Then change," she said and slammed the door.
He supported himself on the edge of his desk, waiting for his hard-on to diminish.
God, what a woman.
Right below him on his desk lay the
Firewood
folder.
He opened it.
Yes, ten dollars a bundle would work, but first, before any announcement,
he had to corner the market.
His gatherers would scour every accessible beach for firewood, then…