The Shadow of the Shadow Read Online Free PDF Page B

went in after the
workers had left. Theirs was the world of the offices, the opposite
of the Chinaman and Cipriano, who roamed the entire factory,
looking for projects here and there, picking up odd jobs. Whenever
they could, they stopped to chat with the other workers who, tied
down to their machines, received the two labor organizers with
enthusiasm, like homing pigeons carrying good news. Cipriano
had been named union general secretary in the last elections and
the Chinaman was elected labor secretary.
    Tomas Wong crossed to the end of the warehouse looking for
the clerk. When he finally found him, lost among the giant rolls
of cloth, the man gave him a dozen vague excuses about why the
wood he needed hadn't come in yet. "Somebody's scamming here,"
thought the Chinaman. That was the kind of game the nonunion
workers played. If it had been a union man, it would have been
different. The union had its code of honor. The workers fought
head-on with the bosses. If someone needed extra money, he could
earn it organizing for the union. The code had been born with the
union and passed down from veterans to newcomers. No one had
ever bothered to write it down but everyone knew what it said:
Never talk to the foremen unless your work requires it; always
work out production problems among the workers; cover for sick
or tired comrades; support and nourish the apprentice.

    Now as Tomas headed back toward the yard loaded down with
wood for the shipping crates, the "All-seeing" suddenly stepped in
front of him.
    "You lousy Chinese bum," he growled.
    The Chinaman dropped the wood onto the floor. He spoke
slowly:
    "Look, in the last thlee months two folemen have got themselves killed in the mills hele alound San Angel and Contlelas.
You know why that is, Maganda? Because they couldn't lealn to
stay out of the way, to not get mixed up with the stlike between
the wolkels and the factoly. I don't talk much. You do youl job, I'll
do mine, and that's as fal as it needs to go."
    "You think you're pretty hot stuff don't you, Chiney? You think
you can scare me?"
    Tomas only hit him once, with his already swollen hand.
Maganda fell backward, a cut over his right eye. He looked up
uneasily from the floor, but the Chinaman's cold stare cut him
short.
    The Chinaman picked up the wood and walked away. When
he reached his comrades, who had watched the whole thing from
a distance, he put down the lumber and massaged his hand. The
swelling was getting worse.

     

"...A SORT OF BLUE-GRAY GABARDINE, and a blue
velvet ribbon around her neck. White lace cuffs, and a bonnet,"
explained the journalist.
    "Who ever would've thought you had such an eye for feminine attire?"The poet laughed as he mixed the bones.
    "It's amazing when you consider the fact I only saw her for a
second. When I got down to the street, I ran right past the body
and went into the building to look for her, but she wasn't there. I
swear I looked everywhere."
    "Do you think she killed him?" asked Verdugo the lawyer,
pouring himself a generous glassful of Havana brandy and stretching
his legs out under the table. He wore an elegant pair of new boots
purchased with the proceeds from his latest successful case.
    "Who can say?" Manterola scratched his rising hairline and
pictured the woman's fear-filled face seconds after the man broke
through the window and fell three floors to the street.
    "You'd think this was some rinkydink little town, the way
things are going around here-first the trombonist and now
this. And they say this town's getting so big you never run into
anybody you know anymore..."
    "You want to go filst of you want me to?" the Chinaman asked
Manterola.
    "That hand of yours is never going to get any better if you
keep on busting heads," answered Manterola, giving his partner
the go-ahead with a wave of his hand.

    The Chinaman played the double-threes, and the poet and
the lawyer pulled their chairs up to the table. The ritual