Last of the Dixie Heroes Read Free

failed to find the ammonium nitrate between Shanghai and Chongqing; went down to the cafeteria, came back with a burrito and a Coke—Coke ran free in the cafeteria, one of the perks—ate at his desk. He heard Gordo ripping the tinfoil off his fried chicken from home— didn’t have to look, he could smell it—and was thinking of saying something about that flag stuck to the wall of Gordo’s cubicle, when his phone rang. He thought: Cesar in Miami. But it wasn’t.
    “Mr. Hill?” A woman; Roy didn’t recognize her voice. Ten years ago he would have said she was from up north, hadn’t been raised down here, but now, at least in the city, it was getting harder to tell.
    “Yes,” said Roy.
    “This is—” Ms. Somebody. Roy didn’t catch the name—a long one, maybe Jewish; which was odd because he was used to catching all kinds of strange foreign names. “I’m the assistant principal at Buckhead Middle School,” the woman said.
    Roy caught everything after that. He said stupid things like “But I thought my wi— I thought Marcia—” and “What do you mean, incident?”, but he caught it.
    He checked the time: 1:37. You didn’t leave work at Chemerica—Globax—at 1:37. Not on a Monday, not when things were this busy, not for personal reasons. It wasn’t part of the corporate culture. Roy called Marcia’s work, was told she wasn’t in today, tried the cell and home numbers, got voice mail each time, said nothing. Who else to call? There was no one. Roy rose.
    Gordo glanced up at him over the padded wall. “What’s up?”
    “Something with Rhett.”
    “Like what?”
    “Got to go get him.”
    “Now? What’s wrong?”
    Roy left his cubicle, crossed the floor, went up the steps to Curtis’s glassed-in office. Curtis had someone in there: a silver-haired guy, the kind who worked on the seventeenth floor. Roy hesitated outside. Curtis waved him in.
    “Speak of the devil,” Curtis said.
    Roy didn’t know what to make of that.
    “Just talking about you, Roy, Bill and I. Know Bill Pegram?”
    Roy didn’t know Bill Pegram. They shook hands.
    “Mr. Pegram’s VP tech personnel.” Tech personnel included shipping.
    “Curtis’s been saying some nice things about you, Roy,” said Bill Pegram. “Real nice things.”
    Roy wasn’t taking this in very well. He had to get out of there.
    “You’re doing a fine job for us, Roy,” said Pegram. “How you likin’ it?”
    “Liking it?”
    “Working for the company.”
    “It’s a good job, Mr. Pegram.”
    Pegram nodded. “I know you’ve been passed over a few times when it comes to promotions, Roy. Doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate your good work. The competition is tough. Didn’t make you bitter, did it, Roy?”
    “Not at all.” Where the hell was this going? He fought the urge to check his watch.
    “Glad to hear it,” said Pegram. “Bitterness is like the snake that bites his own damn tail.” He paused, waiting for a response.
    Roy nodded, maybe a little too impatiently. The snake idea came from a motivational speaker they’d had last year, or the year before that.
    “That’s the boy,” said Pegram. “If you can keep this under your hat, there may be a few things opening up soon. Nice things, Roy.”
    Roy got it: he was being considered for promotion at last. He should probably say he was grateful or they wouldn’t be disappointed or something like that. He said: “Curtis, can I talk to you a moment?”
    Pegram looked puzzled, the way some people do, half lowering one eyelid. Curtis was doing the same thing. “About this?” he said.
    “Something’s come up,” Roy said, moving toward the door, almost taking Curtis by the hand; he didn’t know how else to get him alone.
    Curtis followed him out. They stood on the other side of the glassed-in office, Pegram watching from within.
    “Just don’t tell me it’s a big bang somewhere,” Curtis said. The big bang—an explosion caused by some shipping error—was their worst