The reports and memoranda were in file folders in front of each man. The conference in Trevayne’s room had begun with Alan Martin’s description of Ernest Manolo, president of the Lathe Operators Brotherhood of the District of Southern California and the all-powerful negotiator of the AFL-CIO. According to Martin, Ernest Manolo looked like a twelve-year-old bullfighter. “He travels with his own picadors; two big fellows, they’re always flanking him.” “Are they guards?” asked Trevayne. “And if so, why?” “They are, and he needs them. Fast Ernie—that’s what he’s called, Fast Ernie—has a goodly share of resentful brothers in his brotherhood.” “Good Lord, why?” Andrew was sitting next to Sam Vicarson on the couch. “He got them a hell of a settlement.” Vicarson started to interrupt as Martin answered quickly. “Sam knows. It was in his bio material. Incidentally, buddy,” said Martin to the young attorney, “that was a good job.” “Thanks,” answered a subdued Vicarson.
