The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1) Read online

  The Rough English Equivalent

  Stan Hayes

  All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2002, 2012

  Stanley J. Hayes

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Highside Press

  For information, please contact:

  Highside Press

  1055 Riverbend Club Dr.

  Atlanta, GA 30339

  ISBN: 978-0-9826518-1-0

  For both Guys, Jackie, Dee,

  Dougald & Toby

  “From whence come wars and fightings among you? Come they not hence, Even of your lusts that war

  in your members?”

  -James 4: 1-3

  CONTENTS

  Chapter I. Spring Break

  Chapter II. Steamed Pissaint

  Chapter III. Hotel BIS-kew

  Chapter IV. A Ruptured Duck

  Chapter V. The Town

  Chapter VI. The Ritz

  Chapter VII. Radio Waves

  Chapter VIII. Crawl in the Saddle

  Chapter IX. Inside Moves

  Chapter X. Blackwater Blues

  Chapter XI. Take a Tater & Wait

  Chapter XII. A License to Steal

  Chapter XIII. It’s Made to Sell

  Chapter XIV. Precious Lord

  Chapter XV. Jus’ Rub On It

  Chapter XVI. The Rough English Equivalent

  Chapter XVII. Little Old New York

  Chapter XVIII. Hoochie Coochie Man

  Chapter XIX. Roll Out the Barrel

  Chapter XX. Standing as We Sing

  Chapter XXI. Kamerad

  Chapter XXII. Hip-Deep in Sheep-Dip

  Chapter XXIII. Go Down, Moses

  Chapter XXIV. Cuba Libre

  Chapter XXV. Tradecraft

  Chapter XXVI. Next Stop Baltimore

  Chapter XXVII. Money, Honey

  Chapter XXVIII. Friggin’ in the Riggin’

  Chapter XXIX. Go Fish

  Chapter XXX. Case Discount

  Appendix- Bisquespeak

  Chapter I. Spring Break

  “Motor cooled down, heat went down, thass when I heard dat highway sound. Chuck Berry, with the highway sound of Maybelline, y’all; makes alla you hardtails wanta get out there and chase that little filly in the Coupe deVille, don’t it? Well dream on, boys; Chuck didn’t catch ’er, but maybe you will. Unless what happened to that V8 Ford catches up with your personal honey hauler. Don’t wait for a steamin’ reminder that you neglected the heart of your hot rod; run it on by Smokey’s Radiator Shop and make sure you stay cool. Now le’s take a break and check the news in and around little ole Bisque. R&B Lee’ll be back takin’ more of your requests, so hang around- and Robbie, I’ll see you ’bout 7, sweet thang…”

  R&B Lee, the world’s oldest teen-ager, thought Jack, squelching the radio and easing off the gas in token observation of the City of Bisque’s speed limit. Looking up, he was broadsided by an incisor-rich smile, shot from the billboard behind Ray Thomas’ Quality Used Cars by a white-haired, too-tan guy in a bright-blue suit.

  REVIVAL.

  WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY???

  Good Friday begins ten life-changing days in Bisque.

  “Here we go again, with a shit-eatin’ grin,” he grated.

  “What?”

  He answered in a simpering mock: “ ‘Ten life-changing days in Bisque.’ Crankin’ up falterin’ faith like it was a friggin’ model plane’s rubber band. Lost/saved/lost/saved souls, year after year, dead-stickin’ into th’ tabernacle for a guilt dump. When the hell is Good Friday, anyway?”

  “It’s the Friday before Easter, idn’t it? Next Friday,” said Terry, running both hands through long, dark-blonde hair as she stretched, arching her back. A dainty sperm-flavored belch escaped soundlessly between her teeth. Eeeww, she thought, I need a Coke.

  Mindful of the broken tailpipe strap that he’d spliced with coathanger wire on the way out of Athens, Jack resisted the temptation to gun the big V8 and hit town showing air under the front wheels as they crossed Main Street’s humpbacked railroad bridge. A little class, please, he said to himself. Bisque, Georgia has high expectations of its college men. I’ll wait to get frisky ’til Terrell and I’ve killed a six-pack or two. And Terry can have a nigger baby about it if she wants to.

  “I need to swing by Mose’s on the way in; beer tastes a whole lot better when it’s free.”

  “Well, don’t stay in there forever. I need to get on home.”

  Turning right on Seventh street, he tapped the horn as he pulled into Bo Singleton Sinclair, stopping clear of the gas pumps near the door. Bo, standing inside by the cash register, raised a long, bony arm at the ’50 Olds 88 coupe, then pantomimed applause. He eased out onto the driveway as Jack got out. “Get me a Coke, Jackie,” the girl shouted.

  “Jack B. Nimble,” Singleton said through a gap-toothed grin. “Welcome home.”

  “Bad Mister Bo. How you been?”

  “Notsa bad. How’s ’at ole 88 doin’?”

  “OK, but I need a left-side tailpipe hanger. Sonofabitch gave up th’ ghost on me this mornin’.”

  “OK, bud. What else?”

  “Coupla Cokes. Want me to drop it off tomorrow?’

  “Yeah, but gimme ’til about noon. An’ bring them bottles back!”

  “OK, hoss,” Jack said, as he slid back into the car. “Thanks. See y’all tomorrow.”

  Singleton grinned, quickglancing the girl. “Stay outa trouble, bud!”

  Jack glanced approvingly at the car’s glistening black reflection in the station’s windows as he pulled back onto the street, twin Glaspaks’ lazy burble rattling the panes. “Bo’s tickled shitless that I got this,” he said. “One less hot rod headache for him to handle. Naah, the kid I sold the ’33 to’s probably still takin’ it in there. Wonder how many distributor caps that goddam flathead’s gone through by now. I’d like to buy it back some day and put one of those new little Chevy V8’s in it... a full-fendered three-window Ford’s just way too pretty to be even a little bit down on power.”

  “All that damn car did was keep you broke,” Terry observed.

  A gust of Dogwood-scented air scudded Jack’s crispy crumpled handkerchief off the seat between them onto the floor and under the girl’s feet. She picked it up, throwing it matter-of-factly onto the back seat. No wonder my tail’s so bushy, Jack thought; it’s spring for sure. Savoring Dogwood, evacuated balls and his exhaust’s muted rumble bouncing off the brick-paved street, he drove the three blocks to the Hamm County Beverage Company in silent satisfaction.

  Opening the building’s front door, he shouted, “Mose!”

  The familiar high-pitched, raspy, New York voice bounced back to him from inside the office. “Hey! Jack? Zatchoo?”

  “Yeah, you ole suds peddler,” Jack replied, rounding the corner from the hallway into the office. “What’s-”

  He didn’t finish the question, bumping into Moses as he came out to meet him. “Hey, shitbird.” Hugging and backslapping complete, he stepped back, smiling; Moses had become, Jack realized, half a head shorter than him. Still one hell of a man, he thought, looking into the grin-crinkled face. Aldo Ray with a tad more mileage; still looks like he could bench-press the building. The athlete’s physique pushed at the inside of the green LaCoste shirt, tucked trimly into khaki chinos. “You gotta be six-two by now. How the hell you been?”

  “Jus’ right,�
� Jack said. “How ’bout you?”

  “Not bad, for a gent of my age and experience. Yer mom called lookin’ for ya. You’re late for lunch, bud.”

  “Yeah. I was early ’til my goddam tailpipe decided to fall in the road. She told you I was comin’, huh?”

  “Yeah. You better get on over there.”

  “Yeah. Just stopped off to check in with you. How ’bout this fuckin’ revival? How we gonna duck th’ fallout?”

  “Whaddya guess Epicurus’d do?” asked Moses with a sly smile.

  Holding his nose, Jack mimicked a loudspeaker: “Ataraxia Express, loadin’ on track nine.”

  Moses bark of levity echoed down the hall. “Don’t need any beer, do ya?”

  “Oh, hell no.”

  “Run on back and grab a case; I’ll swing by th’ hotel an’ visit with y’all for a little bit.”

  “Soon’s I take a quick pee. Thanks, bud; see ya later.”

  Shit, he thought, smiling tolerantly at Terry’s frosty face as he packed the case of Carling Black Label to the trunk, that old motherfucker- not many people get to call somebody that, and mean it- pushin’ fifty, but he looks just about like he did the first time I saw ’im, bailin’ out of that big old white Buick...

  Chapter II. Steamed Pissaint

  We were hangin’ around Smokey’s, watchin’ ’em work and gettin’ pointers on profanity, when the door slammed BOOM, shaking the shop’s big glass windows. He was a big guy, not that tall but stocky, short dark hair stuck to his round head. Big Popeye forearms hanging out of his shirt sleeves. Smokey was pokin’ in a parts bin behind the counter, and jumped straight up at the noise. “Well, come right the fuck on in then!,” he squawked.

  “Dey told me at the gas station dat you could fix dat radiata.” He had a high voice for a big man, sorta scratchy, like shakin’ a coffee can with a bunch of BB shot inside. He jerked a thumb toward the long white car, blowing steam like a sonofabitch out from under the hood.

  Smokey’s eyes quit bugging out and squinted past the stranger out the window. He took a deep breath. “Lessee. Buick. What izzat, a limoozine?”

  “Right; ’41 model. Series 90.”

  “How long’s it been doin’ ’at?”

  “Off and on for a couple hours. Can’t keep water in it.”

  “Hit’s hard to do if they’s a hole in the raddiator.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  Smokey looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Hab’mnt give up on one yet.”

  “Good. Can you stawt on it right away? And gimme me an idea of how much it’ll be?”

  “I kin give you a rough idea in just a little bit, but a actual esti-mate’ll take a little while. If you need a raddiator core, hit’ll probly have to come from Atlanta, on the bus. If they got one. You inna hurry?”

  “Yeah, but I’m hungry, and it looks like I’ll be spendin’ the night here anyway. Is there a hotel anywhere close by?”

  “A little ways back up the road.”

  “Walkin’ distance?”

  “Oh yeah. Back the way you come, to th’ third traffic light. T’other side of the street. You’ll see th’ sign; Bisque Ho-tel. These boys probly wouldn’t mind showin’ you. That ’un there’s m’granboy.”

  “Oh, that’s how ya say it. BIS-kew. Do you wanta deposit?”

  “Naw. Just pay me when it’s done. I’ll call you up at the ho-tel. Or you’gn call me, if y’awnt to. What’s th’ name?”

  “Kubielski. Moses Kubielski.”

  Smokey started to write, stopped, and slid the work order over to the man. “How about wriitin’ it on th’ top of this here work sheet.”

  Quickly scribbling his name down, he said, “OK. See ya later,” and walked out, with us right behind him. “This way, gents?” I nodded yes and he went to the car and took out a leather suitcase, a smaller bag made out of the same kind of leather, and a newspaper. It was the biggest car I’d ever seen. Real dirty, with a Maryland tag, and big round metal cases set down into each front fender, with the spare tires inside. A sheet metal shade, the same color as the rest of the car, stuck out over the windshield. Otha, who helped Smokey back then, had put the hood up; steam still trickled out of the front of the car.

  “Mmm, mm,” said Otha. “Straight eight. Lookit dem two big-ass cob’rators. Damn, dey don’ match up. De front one a Carter, an’ de back one a Stromberg. I speck dis muhfuck natchully fly.”

  As we ran to catch up with the man Smokey was tellin’ Otha, “Hose ’at sonuvabitch down where I kin get close to it.”

  He’d struck out walking, the newspaper stuck under his arm, a bag in each hand. He looked down, grinning at us. “So, men, where do ya recommend that I go for dinner in the great city of Bisque?” He asked with that can-of-BBs voice, his eyes crinklin’ up at the corners.

  “Best place in town is in the hotel,” I told him. “The Bisque Café.”

  “What’s the food like? I’ve had allada greasy froid chicken I can stand.”

  “Everything’s good,” I said. “Including the fried chicken.”

  He smiled again. “Sounds like dey got a magician in the kitchen. An a pitchman onna street.” He looked at Ricky. “Yer granddad? He will remember ta call me, won’t he?”

  “He will,” Ricky said. We belong to th’ Upper Creek Nation, and Creeks got great memories. His great granddaddy ’us a Confederate army scout. He ’us at Vicksburg with General Pemberton. Granddaddy says that it ’us like you was there yourself when he’d talk about it. I got a good memory too, but he says that it ain’t always that good a thing to have. He says you just remember stuff you’d be better off fergettin’. He says there’s way too many pissaints in the world, and they talk too damn much, and aint none of it worth rememberin’, but pissaints an’ lintheads keep ’im in business.”

  “PISS-aints? Whass dat?”

  “Pissaints. Just keep drivin’ their cars till they quit. Don’t keep’m up.”

  “Hm,” he said, smiling. Guess I’m a pissaint then.”

  “Naw. “You’re a yankee.”

  “OK. Then what’s a- what’d you say? ‘Linthead?’ ”

  “Aw, that’s jus’ somebidy works in th’ cotton mill.”

  We walked on up Main Street, getting hot, not talking any more ’til we were across the street from the hotel. He walked kinda like sailors do in pirate movies, swinging down a little farther on the right side than he did on the left. He kept on past the corner, stopping in the middle of the block. He put the bags down and stretched his arms out in front of him, his fingers stuck one between the other. His knuckles popped at the end of the stretch. “Hotel Bisque,” he said, looking from the lettering on the canopy all the way up, six stories, to the roof. “Looks OK. Is it?

  “You bet it is,” I said. “I live there.”

  Chapter III. Hotel BIS-kew

  Mom was sitting at her desk in the living room. She turned and looked up, smiling at me.

  “Howdy, Bub. Where’ve you been?”

  “Down at Smokey’s. I brought a guest back.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A yankee; Mr. Cuba or sump’m. He’s in the café now.”

  “Is he staying long? and cut out that yankee crap. You know that’s not good business.”

  “Sorry. I don’t think so. Just ’til Smokey fixes his radiator.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Oh, he’s some kinda businessman. Drivin’ a big Buick.”

  “Hm. Well, as soon as I finish here, let’s go down and welcome him.”

  “Aw, Mom. I already did that. “And it’s time for Tom Mix.”

  “You can come right back. After you take me to him.”

  “OK. Whacha doin’?”

  “Just signing some papers for Buster. He’s taking over Simmons’ Hudson dealership.”

  “Oh, no! Hudsons? They’re uglier’n homemade sin.”

  She laughed. “Well, we can at least suggest getting rid of that one with a pickup bed stuck into the back that they l
ike to call a parts truck. Talk about homemade sin. Anyway, Buster’s due for a break and maybe this’ll be it.”

  Moses Kubielski sat alone in the restaurant. It was just past five-thirty. “Please excuse us,” Mom said to him. “I’m Serena Mason, Jack’s mother; I manage the hotel. Jack told me that you’d checked in, and I just wanted to welcome you to Bisque.”

  “Oh. Hello,” he said, standing up. “Moses Kubielski. Please excuse my appearance. Maybe he toldja; my car was boilin’ over, and I’ve been stoppin’ to fill it up with water every few miles since it stawted this aftanoon. I was just too hot and tired ta do much cleanin’ up.”

  “Please don’t be concerned. Just enjoy your dinner and get some rest. This food isn’t all that fancy, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “Thank you. Wouldja join me?”

  “Oh no. Thanks. Please, just relax and let Reba take care of you. It sounds like you’ve had some day.”

  “No, please. I hear ya live here in the hotel. That’s a tradition in Europe, but I never knew of an owner livin’ on the property inna states. Please; join me if ya can spare th’ time.”

  Mom hesitated, looking at him as he stood there. “Well, we can’t have you standing here like this. Not after your ordeal. Please, sit down.”

  He pulled a chair out and, like a movie guy, waved his arm at the seat. “After you.” I pulled out another chair and sat down across the table from him.

  Chapter IV. A Ruptured Duck

  I sat sweating in the restaurant, which was in the southeast corner of the hotel. Its ceiling fans gently stirred the late afternoon heat. I picked the first table inside the door, as far away as possible from the jukebox, from which some rube warbled “…yew win agin.” The song faded away as a tall, fortyish redhead burst out of the kitchen, coffee pot in hand. REBA, embroidered in red inch-high letters, inclined at a forty-five degree angle on the considerable slope of her left breast below a broad face, a painted desert of drugstore cosmetics. “Hay-eey,” she chirped. “Cawfee?” Pouring, she advised me that “th’ spayshul,” smothered pork chops, was ready, and that it would be a very good idea for me to order it. Her smile was one of those that turned down, instead of up, at the corners. “It comes with three vegetables, Hon, an’ the best ones today are pertaters aw gratin, criider peas and sliiced tomaters. An’ maybe you’d liike a l’il chef’s salad to start off with.” Maybe they all talk this way; I thought old Ty Ty Walden down at the garage had a cleft palate or something. Damn strange. I said no thank you to the salad and she left me to look out at passers-by and parked cars, past the sizzling “B” of the foot-high red and green neon BISQUE CAFE that ran the length of both plate glass windows.