“Some of his friends are. They wanted him to run for treasurer or something once, but my pop’s the quiet type. He sticks to himself.”

“What’s he think of you working for me?”

Leo shrugged. “It’s fine with him.”

Floyd lay on his side and propped his head on his elbow. “What Chick’s asking you is what are your old man’s feelings about reds? Seeing we’re at war with them and all.”

“Ease off, Floyd,” Tom said.

“Just a statement of fact, TB. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

Leo glanced at Chick to see if that was it, but Chick was smiling and shaking his head at Floyd. “Floyd was a marine before all the fun started, Leo. He tells Tommy and me he’s going to re-enlist so he can ship out to kick some ass but I notice he’s here every morning ready to work. It’s my commie generosity, isn’t that it, Floyd?”

“Go tell it to the Viet Cong, boss.” Floyd was sitting back up smoking another cigarette. “Look out, Tommy, he’s getting that look.” Floyd let the smoke out his nose and glanced at Leo. “Somebody should’ve warned you: now and again we here at Donovan’s Renovators get an hour lunch instead of thirty minutes. The second half is pure propaganda but we get paid to sit on our rump. Want a cig?”

Leo said no thank you, he didn’t smoke.

“I prefer to call it the truth, Floyd.” Chick stood, wiped his palms on his pant legs, and began to pace back and forth. Tom rolled up his lunch bag and walked over to sit next to Leo. Tom smiled at him and nodded at Chick like Chick was about to tell a good joke.

“Story time,” Floyd whispered. “Fire and brimstone.”

“Ever hear of the Ludlow Massacre?” Chick said.

Leo shook his head. Tom too.

“You’ve heard of the Rockefellers though.”

“They took the pennant in ’63.”

Chick stopped to give Floyd his full attention. Floyd smiled down at the grass.

Chick walked three feet to the east. “Okay. It’s September of 1913. The Rockefeller clan owns the Colorado Fuel and Iron Corporation, which happens to employ about 11,000 workers in the southern part of that state. Foreign-born Americans mainly-Greeks and Italians, a few Serbs-and their whole families worked in the mines right down to the five-year-olds.” Chick held his hand down around his knee. “They worked long-ass days for nine-tenths of a paycheck they never saw. You’ve heard of this devilish old company arrangement, I’m sure.” Chick glanced at Leo. Leo nodded, though he didn’t know what kind of arrangement Chick could be talking about. “The miners understandably go on strike and the corporation evicts them from their shacks, so in steps the United Mine Workers Union. They go and set up tents in the local hills, they organize food banks, they get blankets and help cut wood, they give all-around moral support so the miners can carry on their picketing for some kind of a life. ’Course the Rockefellers can’t have this–profit margins might lose a little weight-so they hire a gang of thugs from a detective agency to go raid the tents with Gatling guns and long rifles. You’re all ears now, aren’t you Floyd?”