him away. Then he said to Barbara, "Just right on down as close to the Embarcadero as we can get." They passed 3rd Street. In her rearview mirror, Barbara could see the police re-forming their line and holding back the increasing crowd of spectators. "We're in," she said to herself, "but how do we get out?"
"Turn left here," Dominick said, "and pull over to the curb."
Longshoremen and seamen were filling the street. Barbara eased the car through them up to the curb, and then she kept her hands on the wheel for fear that if she lifted them they'd shake violently. Dominick reached over and cut the ignition. "Good kid," he said. "You got lots of stuff."
Now she saw the crowd open up to let Harry Bridges through. His hair was slicked back, his blue eyes alive and darting from face to face. Two other men, heavyset, moved on either side of and behind him. He came over to the car and said,
"Hello, Nicky. Got some boodle?"
"Coffee, sandwiches, and medical stuff."
"Good. Who's the kid?" he asked, nodding at Barbara.
"It's her car. She's a good kid."
"Yeah." He stared at Barbara thoughtfully for a moment, then he said, "What's your name, miss?"
"Bobby Winter."
He called over his shoulder, "Hey, Fargo!" Fargo pushed through the crowds, a big, slope-shouldered, heavy-bellied man in his forties. "Fargo was a medic during the war. Fargo, that's Bobby behind the wheel. Bobby, you show him where the stuff is, and maybe if you want to, lend a hand."
Suddenly, their attention was diverted by a roar of men shouting and swearing, a gush of anger and profanity such as Barbara had never heard before. An apparently endless line of red trucks was moving down Harrison Street. The men swarmed toward the trucks, and at the same time a group of a dozen mounted police, backed by a hundred more on foot, moved in to bar their way. Barbara glanced at the little fox-faced man. He didn't stir. The longshoremen rushed the trucks, climbing onto the motors and trying to get into the cabs, and the foot patrolmen rushed the strikers, swinging their long nightsticks wildly and viciously. The mounted police spurred their horses into the strikers, lashing from side to side with their clubs, and now police reenforcements came running from across Harrison Street, darting between the slow-moving trucks. More seamen and longshoremen poured into 2nd Street, running toward the trucks, but by now the police were able to form a solid line across the street while others dragged the strikers from the trucks and clubbed those caught between the police line and the trucks.
"Lousy, bloody bastards," the fox-faced man said, and he walked toward the mass of strikers who were falling back before the police. The cops were shooting over the heads of the strikers now and flinging tear gas bombs, and for the first time Barbara experienced the acrid taste of tear gas. Dominick jumped out of the car to follow Bridges, leaving Barbara sitting behind the wheel, too paralyzed with fear and horror even to attempt what her common sense told her was the thing to do, to start the motor and get out of there before it was too late. Instead, she remained at the wheel, staring at the battle raging only a hundred feet from her—the surging mass of longshoremen and seamen, the line of police, the gunfire, and the windblown cloud of tear gas.
It ended. The last truck passed down Harrison Street, and the line of police gave back toward Harrison Street, leaving a neutral space between them and the strikers. Now Barbara could hear gunfire and shouting from the direction of the Embarcadero. It was all a dream, an insane, impossible dream.
"Lady, for Christ's sake, where the hell are those bandages?" It was Fargo, prodding her arm, shaking her back to reality, and she realized that the bloodied, hurt men being helped toward the car were part of no dream.
She forced herself into action, clenching her shaking hands, climbing out of the car and fumbling with the tailgate. "Let me do that," Fargo said. Then she
"Turn left here," Dominick said, "and pull over to the curb."
Longshoremen and seamen were filling the street. Barbara eased the car through them up to the curb, and then she kept her hands on the wheel for fear that if she lifted them they'd shake violently. Dominick reached over and cut the ignition. "Good kid," he said. "You got lots of stuff."
Now she saw the crowd open up to let Harry Bridges through. His hair was slicked back, his blue eyes alive and darting from face to face. Two other men, heavyset, moved on either side of and behind him. He came over to the car and said,
"Hello, Nicky. Got some boodle?"
"Coffee, sandwiches, and medical stuff."
"Good. Who's the kid?" he asked, nodding at Barbara.
"It's her car. She's a good kid."
"Yeah." He stared at Barbara thoughtfully for a moment, then he said, "What's your name, miss?"
"Bobby Winter."
He called over his shoulder, "Hey, Fargo!" Fargo pushed through the crowds, a big, slope-shouldered, heavy-bellied man in his forties. "Fargo was a medic during the war. Fargo, that's Bobby behind the wheel. Bobby, you show him where the stuff is, and maybe if you want to, lend a hand."
Suddenly, their attention was diverted by a roar of men shouting and swearing, a gush of anger and profanity such as Barbara had never heard before. An apparently endless line of red trucks was moving down Harrison Street. The men swarmed toward the trucks, and at the same time a group of a dozen mounted police, backed by a hundred more on foot, moved in to bar their way. Barbara glanced at the little fox-faced man. He didn't stir. The longshoremen rushed the trucks, climbing onto the motors and trying to get into the cabs, and the foot patrolmen rushed the strikers, swinging their long nightsticks wildly and viciously. The mounted police spurred their horses into the strikers, lashing from side to side with their clubs, and now police reenforcements came running from across Harrison Street, darting between the slow-moving trucks. More seamen and longshoremen poured into 2nd Street, running toward the trucks, but by now the police were able to form a solid line across the street while others dragged the strikers from the trucks and clubbed those caught between the police line and the trucks.
"Lousy, bloody bastards," the fox-faced man said, and he walked toward the mass of strikers who were falling back before the police. The cops were shooting over the heads of the strikers now and flinging tear gas bombs, and for the first time Barbara experienced the acrid taste of tear gas. Dominick jumped out of the car to follow Bridges, leaving Barbara sitting behind the wheel, too paralyzed with fear and horror even to attempt what her common sense told her was the thing to do, to start the motor and get out of there before it was too late. Instead, she remained at the wheel, staring at the battle raging only a hundred feet from her—the surging mass of longshoremen and seamen, the line of police, the gunfire, and the windblown cloud of tear gas.
It ended. The last truck passed down Harrison Street, and the line of police gave back toward Harrison Street, leaving a neutral space between them and the strikers. Now Barbara could hear gunfire and shouting from the direction of the Embarcadero. It was all a dream, an insane, impossible dream.
"Lady, for Christ's sake, where the hell are those bandages?" It was Fargo, prodding her arm, shaking her back to reality, and she realized that the bloodied, hurt men being helped toward the car were part of no dream.
She forced herself into action, clenching her shaking hands, climbing out of the car and fumbling with the tailgate. "Let me do that," Fargo said. Then she
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