AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I better not catch you crossing that bridge!"
"I wouldn't!" Jake answered, wriggling out of Giuliano's grasp. "Scab! Scab!" he yelled as he moved away from the angry man ... and right into the legs of a giant horse. The policeman astride it reached down and whacked him on the shoulder with a club. Jake cried out in surprise and then cursed the officer in the one language he was sure to understand.
"Why, you foul-mouthed little devil!" The policeman pulled his horse back and used its great flank to push Jake toward the canal.
Hell's bells! He means to drive me right into the water! The canal water was so filthy that if you didn't freeze to death, the poison would kill you for sure. Jake dodged away, edging toward a man with a huge American flag, who was yelling at the crowd to follow him up Union Street. People were coming from picket lines farther east on Canal and joining the crowd. Somebody started to sing. Not having gone to many meetings, Jake didn't know any of the songs, but he liked the sound of them and it calmed his anger a little to listen.
The whole mood of the strikers seemed to lighten on the walk up the hill. It felt more like the crowd that had greeted Big Bill and Mrs. Gurley Flynn. Maybe she'd come back after all. Hadn't she promised she would, bringing money and help for the strikers? His own heart warmed as he remembered her, standing in front of the foreign women as if she wasn't any better than they were—as though they were sisters or something. The marchers were just passing the Everett Mill when, above the singing, he heard a shot. Everyone heard it, for the music stopped abruptly and the crowd froze.
Some looked toward the mill to see where the shot might have come from; others looked toward the police and militia lining the route. Jake didn't bother to investigate. If there was shooting, he just wanted to get away. As he began to wriggle his way through the stunned marchers, he could hear the murmurs passing from mouth to mouth.
"They killed her!"
"She's dead."
"Annie Lopizzo ... You know the girl. She work at the Everett."
"No, no, she work at Pacific."
But what did it matter where she had worked if she was dead?
He made his way to the Polish bakery—the place where the clerk had given him coffee and a bun after that terrible night when Pa had beat him bloody. He didn't care if they remember
ed him or not. He wanted to be safe and warm and to have something in his stomach. Then maybe he could decide what to do next.
The door was open, and a bell rang. The girl he had seen before came into the shop from the bakery in the back. "Can I help you?" she asked. She didn't seem to recognize him.
"They shot someone," he said.
"Who, who shot—?"
"The police. We was just marching peaceful-like up Union, and just before we got to Garden...."
"Did you see it?" Her eyes were wide; she was clearly frightened.
"Oh, yeah. She didn't do nothing, and they just shot her dead."
"They shot a woman?" The girl sat down on a stool, stunned.
He nodded, having no idea how old the person had been.
"And I was thinking things would be better now."
"Better?"
"You didn't hear? They found out who hid the dynamite. And it wasn't any worker."
He was more interested in the tray of buns behind the glass, but he knew better than to seem so. "Then who done it?"
"Breen. You know—the Irish undertaker. His pa was mayor once."
"Why would he do such a fool thing?"
"Because he's a fool. He wrapped the sticks in a copy of his own undertakers' journal before he hid them. He was even the one tipped off the police where to look for them." She shook her head in disbelief. "Whoever paid him ought to get a refund." She sighed and got up. "But you come in for something more than the news."
He bit his lip.
"It's okay. Nobody's got money. Would you like a raisin bun, boy?"
