The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 55

“I thought you were from Indiana.”

Early glanced over his shoulder. “Well, he doesn’t know that.” He nodded ahead at Gurley. “How’s she doing?”

“Morose,” said Rye, adding it to his list of words to look up.

“Taft would make anyone morose. But I warned her. Going to Taft and not expecting trouble? It’s like jumping in a lake and hoping to stay dry.”

“They almost killed us, Early.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t.”

“Because she talked them out of it.”

“She can talk.”

Rye felt defensive of her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she can talk. That’s all.”

“Why do you think Bolin set us up like that?”

Early didn’t hesitate. “Money.”

“He’d get us killed for a little bit of money?”

Early shrugged. “Everyone does everything for a little bit of money.”

“You don’t believe that,” Rye said.

“Sure I do. Money and sex. That’s why we do everything. The desire for sex can be quenched at least for a few hours by having sex. But give someone money? They just want more.”

Rye shook his head. “Not everyone is like that. I’m not like that.”

“Come on!” Early laughed. “You and your brother got yourselves arrested over what? A dollar!”

“It was not over a dollar!”

“Sure, it was. Same dollar that got Jules killed.”

Rye’s hands balled into fists. “No! It was about free speech!”

Early seemed amused by Rye’s defensiveness. “Yeah, and what were you free-speeching on? The dollar you didn’t want to pay a job shark.”

“It was the principle!”

“Yeah. And the principle was a dollar.”

Rye wished he had Gig here to debate Early. “It’s not the same! Arguing for basic pay versus a guy taking money to sell out the people he’s helping.” As soon as he said it, Rye flushed with guilt, thinking about Del Dalveaux questioning him in Seattle, and Lem Brand’s twenty-dollar note, still rolled up in his sock.

“Is it? I mean, that girl up there, she is a whirlwind onstage, don’t get me wrong, but in the end, what’s she really jawing about? Getting you bums a few more dollars. That’s all.”

Rye shook his head again. “You didn’t hear her in Taft, Early. She was amazing. No, it’s about a lot more than that.”

“Sure it is.” He held his hand up in surrender. “Hey, don’t listen to old Early. I got nothing against that girl and her little union. It’s as good as any other thing.” He offered the flask to Rye, closed one eye and considered him. “But ask yourself this, little brother. Why is this conversation making you so upset? Two possibilities, I see, and they are not exclusive to one another. One, because you’re getting sweet on her. And two, because you’ve had these thoughts yourself—I see it on your face.” Early leaned in closer. “This thing she’s out here doing? It’s nothing but a show. I suspect you know there’s a more direct way to accomplish things.”

It was quiet, just the sound of the rails beneath them. Rye took the flask and had a pull to keep himself from saying anything.

“Look,” Early said, “in case the first possibility is true, let’s not talk about her at all. Let’s say,” he stuck out his bottom lip, “there’s a castle. And a king in the castle. And he’s an ass, because, well, kings are asses. Takes too much in tribute. The other knights and noblemen hate him. They say, This fella is getting rich off our fields and the tribute we get from the peasants. They scheme and plot and one day they slit his throat. Replace him with a new king. But pretty soon the noblemen say, Well, goddamn, the new king is as shitty as the last greedy son of a bitch. So they whack his head off, too, and they put in a new greedy king. Kings killing kings. You know what that’s called?”

Rye shook his head.

“Shakespeare,” Early said. “Now let’s say you’re on the other side of the moat, and you got these peasants watching one rich king bump off another rich king, thinking, Wait, this ain’t changing anything.” He gestured at Gurley. “They gather behind some charming rebel who leads the peasants in revolt, and they behead all the shitty knights and princes and noblemen.”

Rye just shrugged.

“Here is my point—the peasants own the castle now, and they become the greedy sons of bitches. It’s all the same. What I’m saying is maybe the king ain’t the problem. Maybe what it is”—Early took another pull from the flask—“is time to blow up the whole goddamn castle.”