Chapter 5

Friday, June 16, 1892

At eight-ten the next morning, Castillo and Yeats walked into Malik’s office from the hall. Malik and Peng were at his desk, where she was taking dictation of a memorandum to the division superintendents regarding tolerance of union organizing.

“Missus Watts says she has heard several reports of union representatives in San Angelo and Del Rio, yesterday afternoon and evening, who were seeking Kanzona employees who will sign authorization cards. From what she can tell, they haven’t been very successful.”

Malik nodded, saying, “Since their membership rules are so restrictive, they’re going to have to sign up nearly every white man on the division, if they hope to get a majority of employees, what with the number of women and non-white men on the payroll. I don’t think that’s at all likely.”

He followed that with a question. “Was there any more vandalism last night?”

“None that had been discovered, so far this morning.”

Castillo and Yeats had not sat down and Malik said, “Why are you standing there? Sit down, please.”

Castillo said, “No, thank you. We have a meeting with Pete Pottinger about that bridge he mentioned yesterday. I just wanted you to hear the latest from Texas.”

“Fine, then,” Malik said, then, “Oh, I had a thought, last night, about who we might have discourage notions like strikes and unreasonable demands, if a union does get a foothold.”

Then Malik just sat there, with a smug grin on his face...

“Who?” Castillo finally asked.

“Guess.”

Castillo said, “Come on Dixie, before Pete comes looking for us.” He turned to leave.

Malik said, “Okay, okay, spoilsport. It’s Gerald MacNish.”

Yeats exclaimed “MacNish?” but Castillo, who had turned back toward Malik, said nothing.

Malik explained, “Anything that draws money away from investing, he’s against. That would mean he won’t like it if employees start paying union dues. Strikes may even cause employees to pull their money out of the investment pot. In any case, a strike would reduce employees’ paychecks.”

“True,” Castillo observed, “but he would likely favor wage increases, which is what the union is promising.”

“The only wage I’ll approve, under a union contract, is union standard, and that’s roughly four percent lower than our employees get now, without having to pay union dues. Plus they have access to our medical clinics and all the substitute jobs and subsistence goods and services that they can fall back on when we have to lay people off.”

Now Castillo sat down. “But what if there was a general strike?”

“During a depression? What would it accomplish? We own the railroad and we don’t owe anybody any money. The land, and the tracks, and the rolling stock aren’t going anywhere, so we could restart whenever we wanted, after a strike.

“All of the senior partners and administrators have discontinued their own pay; we, personally, do not depend on the railroad to survive. There are only a few other stockholders, and the employee investors club is the next largest.”

Malik shrugged and moved his hands apart, in a what-else gesture. “The only people hurt in a strike would be our employees and our customers. I suppose it’s possible the customers or the employees may want to buy the railroad from us and run it themselves, but that’s not really feasible. They’d not likely be able to meet our price, because we’d have no reason to sell.

“I really think we hold all the cards, except one: our employees. But they’re too good a group to abandon. We don’t want them hurt. That regard is our weak spot. These union organizers could create bad blood between us and them.”

Malik looked away for a moment, then looked back at Castillo and said, “Maybe I should go down there.”

Castillo said, “Maybe, but not yet. Emma seems to have a handle on it, and the employees like her. Maybe go ahead with MacNish. Point out everything you just talked about, except for that ‘weak spot’ part.

Wichita’s Downtown Firehouse Club was an exclusive private membership organization for well-to-do businessmen, owners, and investors. The Club occupied a mansion built by the late General Carter North Templeton, one of Grenville Dodge’s western division commanders during the Civil War and who had been commandant of the Union army’s Department of Kansas.

After the war, Templeton had elected to remain in Kansas, and he became a banker in Wichita, the largest city in the state. The home he built was situated on the edge of Wichita’s commercial district and Templeton, a civic-minded individual, had built a shed on the back corner of the property, to house a fire brigade pumper. That public service became a sobriquet applied to the mansion, itself.

The former home had been purchased from Templeton’s estate and now functioned as a gentleman’s club, with reading and game rooms, temporary sleeping accommodations, a bar, and a large dining room. Malik had joined in 1890, at Castillo’s urging. Castillo, himself, was barred from membership on racial grounds, though he was a member of the slightly more egalitarian High Iron Club, as was Malik.

But it was to the Firehouse Club dining room that Malik brought Gerald MacNish, that Friday evening.

After they were seated, MacNish, his ever-churlish self, said, “You’ve either got some fat lie you want me to swallow or an outsized favor you’ll be wanting me to perform.”

A waiter came for their drinks order before Malik could respond. MacNish ordered a mint julep, Malik a Kosciusko’s Polonaise bourbon, neat.

“A favor we can do one another, Gerald.”

“So, now it’s ‘Gerald,’ is it?”

“I thought we’d established that months ago. I think you just prefer sneering ‘Malik’ rather than addressing me familiar. But, consider this, Gerald: we are entering what promises to be some very trying times, trying times for everyone, and for several years duration. What do you think will stand us in better stead in weathering these times, antagonism or collaboration?”

“You must really want something big, Malik, to soft soap me like this. So, what are you after?”

“Mister MacNish -- Gerald,” Malik sighed. “You have approached me with the same antagonism ever since I was appointed to my present position. Tell me, please, has that attitude ever been effective in accomplishing your goals?”

“What? Of course, all the time.”

“In what fashion? What do you think you have accomplished?”

“Up until this economic slowdown, I’ve kept you from lowering wages and laying off employees willy-nilly.”

Malik, nonplussed, simply stared at MacNish in disbelief.

“What, Malik? Nothing to say to that? Can’t face the truth of your own incompetence?”

Malik looked down at the table, shaking his head. Then he looked up at MacNish, again, for several long seconds. Finally, he said. “I suppose you’re right. Frankly, if it weren’t for you, I don’t think the Kanzona would have survived the transition, after Chen Ming-teh was killed.”

“You’re absolutely right, Malik. It’s taken you long enough to see how close we came to losing the entire railroad after Chen died. It would have been a much better arrangement if the Board had appointed me as chairman.”

“It was your guidance that saw us through.”

“Quite right.”

“I need your help, once more.” MacNish cast a suspicious eye at Malik, who then said, “I need your advice. Can you help me out, by suggesting what I might do?”

MacNish relaxed, again. “I suppose. What is it about?”

“Are you familiar with the union organizing that’s going on, down on the San Angelo Division?”

“Uh, yes, I’ve herd some rumors.”

“The rumors are true. The organizers represent the Railroad and Industrial Laborers Brotherhood, which they abbreviate R-A-I-L, the RAIL Brotherhood.”

“Clever.”

“Yes, I suppose. Be that as it may, we can’t find anywhere else where this union has been active. It seems they formed just to organize the Kanzona.”

“You had to have known that was coming sooner or later, Malik. The employees need protection. I can’t do it all myself.”

Malik looked at him for a moment, then said, “Oh. That’s not what I expected you to say. But I reckon I should have. You have always held the welfare of the employees as your highest regard.”

The waiter came and took their meal orders.

Malik asked MacNish, “So, you don’t think we need to worry about it, the union organizing, I mean?”

“Why worry about a group that’s trying to help the employees, Malik? You always profess to care about their well-being, though you generally have very strange ways of showing it.”

“Okay, then. That’s a relief.” Malik chuckled, then said, “You won’t believe what Frank thought -- you know, Frank Tremaine, the former Wichita city copper?” He chuckled, again. “He thought that the RAIL Brotherhood might have formed just for the purpose of fleecing the employees of their union dues. The guy’s got quite an imagination.”

“Tremaine, eh? Typical copper attitude. They think everyone is either a criminal or a victim.”

Malik nodded, “That describes him to a T. He worked with frauds when he was with the Wichita Police and it’s gone to his head.”

They waited while a salad was served.

MacNish groused, “Damn slow service for a private club. I’m glad I never joined.”

“Oh. It’s good to know you feel that way. I had considered sponsoring you, so you’ve spared me that embarrassment. And you’re right about the service. I mentioned to our waiter that we had some business to discuss before we ate, and he must have taken the opportunity to go home and paint his house or something. Thanks for pointing out his deficits. For the dues we pay, we should expect something better. I’ll have to speak to the manager.”

“Uh, yes,” MacNish said, sounding less certain.

“Speaking of dues, though, reminds me that we’d been concerned about the RAIL Brotherhood’s dues being a scam. I admit that I was one of the worriers, especially because I knew the employees’ wages had been reduced and would likely be subject to further reductions. If they are to pay union dues, that would only reduce their available cash even more. I’ve been meaning to ask, how has that affected contributions to the investment club?”

“You mean the Mutual Investment Association?”

“Uh, yeah, the Investment Association. Are contributions down?”

“A little, not enough to speak of.”

“Good, good. So the union dues shouldn’t be a concern then, you know, as competing with the Investment Association contributions.”

“Well...”

“Because I was thinking about sending someone down there to caution the employees. But I guess there’s really no need.”

MacNish wore a deeper frown than usual. “On the other hand, caution isn’t a bad idea,” he said. “Who were you going to send?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean who was I going to send down there. Uh, well, ... Frank Tremaine. Yes, Frank. I figured Frank could put the fear of god into them, get them to watch their money better, hold onto it tighter. He’d have them seeing fraud when their wives asked for a dollar for groceries.” Malik chuckled darkly.

“Maybe I can help you out, Malik. Perhaps I’ll go down there, talk to a few folks.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

The soup course arrived. After a single taste, MacNish complained, “This tomato soup is frigid. I can’t believe this.”

Malik said, “So is mine. Let me get the waiter.” Malik saw the man, folding napkins near the door to the kitchen. Malik snapped his fingers and called, “Henry.”

Henry was a middle aged man, short, rotund, clean shaven, in white dress shirt and black bow tie and vest, with a clean white half apron protecting his black trousers. He hurried to the table. Unseen by MacNish, Malik winked broadly to the waiter. “Henry, what’s the meaning of this? This soup tastes like it came from the ice box. How did the chef ever allow it out of the kitchen?”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mister Malik. I suppose the description on the menu is not clear. This soup is gazpacho, a Spanish soup served in the summer. It is always presented chilled. Would you care for something else?”

Malik looked at MacNish. “Mister MacNish?”

MacNish pushed the bowl away. “What an odd thing to serve: a cold soup. Please take it and warm it up.”

“Right away, sir. And you, Mister Malik?”

“No. I suppose if the chef says it should be served chilled, then I’ll have it that way.”

Henry said to MacNish, “I’ll have this back in just a few minutes, sir.”

“Oh, forget it. Just take it away, I don’s want it.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry it wasn’t to your liking, sir.”

After the waiter left, as Malik returned to eating the soup, MacNish said, “That’s the trouble with you, Malik: no backbone. You let yourself get pushed around by a waiter and a cook, for heaven’s sake.”

“I suppose you’re right, Mister MacNish.”

“Ah, call me Gerald, Emil.”

(Friday, June 16, 1892)

Saturday, June 17, 1893

Mid-morning, Malik stopped by Castillo’s office. Malik was returning from a conversation with copywriter Ethel Roberts, in the advertising office on the second floor.

Castillo said, “Come in, sit down. Tell me about your dinner with Gerald MacNish. Did you convince him to go down to San Angelo?”

“After a manner of speaking, yes,” Malik said, as he lowered himself into a chair. “He was his usual charming self, to begin with, and I challenged him about his attitude. I suggested cooperation might be more effective than confrontation. He thought I was soft-soaping him in an attempt to dupe him. He’s quite convinced that his constant disparagement has saved the road from collapse. He won’t even entertain an alternate notion.”

“Then how did you get through to him?”

Malik shrugged. “I decided to agree with him. I told him how important it had been that he was there to guide me since I took on the chairmanship. Then I asked him what to do about the RAIL Brotherhood, and, after I asked his advice and painted a grim picture of how I’d handle it, he decided it might be best if he went down there, himself.”

Castillo, shaking his head, smiling broadly, simply looked at Malik. Eventually, he asked, “You were carrying your pistol?”

Malik tapped his suit jacket over the shoulder holster. “As always,” he said.

“And yet you did not shoot him, but chose this bizarre approach? I am dumbfounded.”

Malik was grinning, and he said, “We may hear from him yet. He believes he would have been the better choice for Board Chairman.”

“I am sure,” Castillo said. Then he changed the subject. “When are you heading out, again?”

“Tonight, on the thirty-three. I plan to visit the Lamy Division, the Arizona Southern Division, then Fort Birney, and be home for Independence Day. On the way back, I’ll visit Tucamcari and the Kansas Southern, and be back here July seventeenth or eighteenth.”

Castillo had been making notes on his calendar.

“What about this union business?”

“I was thinking about that, after my supper with MacNish. You know, we go out of our way to hire intelligent people and we train them well. They’re paid better than union average and they work an average forty-four hour week, rather than the unions’ forty-eight. And, as far as I know, we are the only road that provides medical care for on-the-job injuries. We have a safety program with a safety provost on every Division.”

Malik spread his hands in a demonstrative gesture. “I think we need to trust our employees to see the right course to choose. If they don’t, then maybe we aren’t the smart recruiters we think we are.”

Castillo stood up and walked to a window, where he looked down on the Saturday morning shoppers. After a minute, still looking down at the city traffic, he said, “I have never really been comfortable among the employees, even those here in this building. In a way, I think I am somehow afraid of them ... afraid they will ask me what I really know of the work they do, what makes me believe I am competent to direct them. And they would be right. Except for Dixie’s job, I do not think I could do the work of any other person in this entire business. Oh, perhaps I could keep the account books, or clean the floors, but I am not even confident I would be competent of that.”

He turned from the window to look at Malik, “How in the name of all that is holy did I end up as the general superintendent of a railroad? And yet, here I am, in this big office,” he gesturing with his hand to indicate the room, “with the big desk, and with everyone calling me ‘sir’ and ‘Mister Castillo’.” He shook his head and looked out the window, once more. “And now these nineteen hundred and forty-four people are depending on me to help lead them through this financial storm that is engulfing us and threatening to overwhelm us all. I will confess to you, right here, right now, I really have no idea what I am to do next.” He turned back toward Malik, rested his backside on the window sill, and put his hands in his pockets, dejection marking his demeanor.

Malik slumped a bit more in the guest chair, stretched out his legs, and put his own hand -- and hook -- in his trouser pockets. He said, “Remember when I came to you with the idea for the Old Courthouse Inn? You told me you didn’t know a thing about running hotels or restaurants, and I told you that neither did I, but that I knew a couple fellas who did. What I needed from you was to create a business, but just on paper. That paper business would allow me to hide in plain sight while I bought the old courthouse for a decent price from a bunch of elected crooks who hated my guts. And you knew how to put it together so it was legal and able to support my intentions. Then you helped me set up the partnership and the legal framework that, with Joe and Mitchel on board, became the Old Courthouse Inn. But you never did learn how to run a restaurant kitchen or staff a hotel. Even so, the business you created has thrived, save for the incidental arsonist.

“I think it was during those years, when one threat after another kept being thrown at me, that, though I felt overwhelmed by each crisis, I finally realized that I was handling them as they came. Often it wasn’t easy and sometimes it was downright scary, but I kept figuring out what to do next. And I began to get a handle on something about that process.

“Then, you dropped this job in my lap,” Malik concluded. “Talk about feeling adrift.”

Castillo frowned, and Malik said, “Oh, I know it wasn’t you, it was Ming, but all the same, it was a mighty big thing to come on, all of a sudden. And do you know what I told myself, what I’d learned to tell myself when things got difficult, confused, or threatening?”

Castillo gave a quick bob of his chin by way of saying, go ahead. Malik said, “What I told myself was, I’ll figure it out.” He spoke the last in a near solemn tone. Then he repeated it slowly. “‘I’ll figure it out.’ It was no assurance that everything would come up roses, but it was me taking hold of whatever it was and reminding myself to deal with it a piece at a time. There’s no other way to do it, anyhow. It’s always a piece at a time.