MacRae served the bourbon himself, out of the bottle, and set a crystal pitcher of well water on the sideboard for any man who needed a mixer. It was best to leave the servants out of this. His wife, Rena, and little Dorothy, going on seven, were asleep upstairs. He was doing this for them.

“So Rountree isn’t coming at all? Doesn’t George want to be in on this?” The question came from J. Allan Taylor. The others were owners of stores and livery stables, lumber companies and banks, wholesale firms and real-estate consortiums.

MacRae trimmed his second cigar of the evening. Vices were all right, among gentlemen. “Won’t join us officially. Prefers to stay in the shadows. Feels he can be more useful that way.”

L. B. Sasser, the druggist, said, “George will keep his mouth shut. That’s his business. He’s working the Raleigh end.”

MacRae nodded. They’d spent the evening going over logistics. Using the thirty-two plat-maps completed by Sanborn-Perris in April for insurance bonding, they’d divided the city into sections, each with a captain to be named in the coming weeks. Each section was further broken down into blocks. On each block was designated a “stronghouse”—a physically invulnerable structure with a telephone.

The plats were color-coded according to structure: the stronghouses were all red—brick.

When the trouble started, the fire bells of the four white companies would ring simultaneously. Each block warden would set up headquarters in his stronghouse and wait by the telephone for orders from his section captain. Meanwhile, his men would gather all the women and children in the neighborhood and march them under protective guard to the stronghouse. Squads of militia would then evacuate them from each stronghouse and escort them to First Baptist Church at Fifth and Market, next door to the Wilmington Light Infantry Armory. Both buildings could hold out against any attack not supported by artillery.

J. Allan Taylor, MacRae’s section-captain liaison, would transmit the orders of the Secret Nine to the captains. That way, if things went awry, they would not know the identities of the other eight men in this room. Taylor was pleased. Now, instead of just poring over endless balance sheets in a dreary office, he would be out in the open air maneuvering among other men of action. He couldn’t wait for it to begin.

But they all knew it must wait until the election.

“Solly Fishblate wants in,” L. B. Sasser said. “He’s been asking around, knows something’s up.”

MacRae said, “He’s part of the reason we’re in this mess. If he’d shown more backbone as mayor … Anyhow, we don’t need any Jews. This is Anglo-Saxon business.”

“He’s got some pull with the Dry Ponders. And the Red Shirts.”

“We’ll see. Maybe later. But not yet.”

“What about Waddell?” J. Allan Taylor said. “Rountree mentioned him.”