The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) Page 7

  “So you’re saying that if your mama’s refusal to marry Mose left him free to repay a debt of honor to someone who’d saved his life, her sadness over his death was her just deserts.”

  “A little dose of motorcycle mania, and you’re reading me like a book. Mind you, I wasn’t taking any pleasure in it, but the fact that I’d sworn to keep his survival to myself didn’t keep me up nights, either.”

  “So if we were to compare your loyalty to your mother and your loyalty to Pete, he wins.”

  “Hands down, sweetie; hands down.”

  5 GORY DETAIL

  Making do with half a bagel, and reminding himself to replenish the dwindling inventory on their trip to Atlanta, Jack promised himself an early lunch and eased the Vincent out onto the highway, banking left and heading for town. Might as well take advantage of this weather, which surely won’t last much longer, he thought, not in February. Should’ve checked the TV forecast this morning; I could be getting wet on the ride back. Wonder if Buster had any weather problems in Daytona; I’d better give ’em a call at the dealership and see how he made out. Be great if he finished up front in that lonesome Plymouth…

  He smiled, cheeks pushing against the cloth lining of the helmet’s leather skirt, at Buster’s modest success as both a seller and racer of Chrysler products. He’d gotten away from the Hudsons just in time, their moment in the sun as competitive race cars ended by the Big Three’s development of horsepower-heavy V-8’s. Jack wished that Pap had lived to see his baby boy do well, assuming that he’d define what Buster’s doing as doing well. As far as Jack was concerned, Buster had never done better; no longer in Pap’s shadow, or Gene Debs’s or Mom’s for that matter, he’d combined the modest fraction of Pap’s talent, and capital, that he’d inherited to build some genuine respect around town. A Big Three auto dealer always has a certain commercial cachet in towns like Bisque, and as a NASCAR driver Buster was the envy of every blue-collar Bisquite whose car sported dual exhausts, or who’d just priced them in Honest Charley’s catalog. Now if he doesn’t kill himself and Cordelia’ll behave, one of these days he may even consider himself worthy of comparison to his personal shibboleth, the mighty Gene Debs. But that day’s still to come.

  Shutting his engine down in the Hamm County Beverage Company’s parking lot , Jack sat in the saddle for a moment, pulling off his gloves and contemplating the property that would not much longer be his. Not that it hasn’t been interesting, he thought, but I’ll be glad when I’ve seen this place for the last time. The house that Mose built, and I’m still trying to figure out how he went about it. Stuffing the gloves inside his jacket, he walked across the lot and up the steps, steeling himself, as he had since the first day that he’d elected himself president, for the process of slipping into Mose’s three-sizes-too-big shoes. Opening the door, he walked across the lobby and, putting his hands on either side of Beverly Tyler’s doorjamb, stuck his head into her office.

  “Hi, Bev.”

  “Well, good morning, Mr. Mason,” she said with mock formality. “And how was Miami?”

  “Hot, buggy and full of Spics, thank you,” he said with a grin. I see the place didn’t collapse while I was gone.”

  She’d gone to lunch late on Friday, so this was the first time he’d seen her since he got back. “Not so’s you’d notice it,” she said, standing up and extending her hand. Getting close to fifty, she’s still a handsome woman, thought Jack as he shook it. She’s run this place since I was in grammar school, and we still call her ‘the bookkeeper’. “See you stopped in over the weekend.”

  “Yeah. Brought my friend by to show her the place; no tour of Bisque would be complete without a look at the halls of HCBC.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll bring her back when we’re here. You know what Mose used to say; ‘it’s not the plant, it’s the people.’ She from Miami?”

  “Yeah; she was kind enough to give me a ride back up here on her boat.”

  “Ralph mentioned that. Said it was quite a boat, too.”

  “Forty-six feet; guess you could cruise the world on it if you knew what you were doin’, and from what I’ve seen she definitely does.”

  “Must’ve been quite an experience for you. How long did it take y’all to get here?

  “Just a day over two weeks; left there the morning of the fifth.”

  “So you were on the high seas on Valentine’s Day. Pretty romantic way to spend it, I’d say.”

  “I’ve certainly had worse ones,” Jack said, augmenting his grin with the briefest of winks. “Guess it’s stretching a point to call the Intracoastal Waterway the high seas, though. It would’ve been a much different trip if we hadn’t been able to tie up some place every night. And the last three or four nights were pretty damn chilly, after we ran out of Florida weather.”

  “Well, count me in on your bon voyage party for the return trip. That’s gotta be a sight to see, that much boat and a lady in command. You are going back with her, aren’t you?”

  Jack hesitated for a moment. “Sure; far as I know now, that is.”

  Bev smiled at him, the older woman ratifying youthful passion. What the hell else will you have to do, she thought. “Well, it’s good to have you back, sailor boy. You’re going to be here for awhile, aren’t you? I need some decisions on a few things.”

  “I’m all yours, boss. Your office or mine?”

  “Yours, for sure. My desk won’t hold any more.”

  They’d gone at it, nonstop, for an hour and a half when Ralph Williams stuck his head in the door. “‘Scuse me, y’all. Miz Beverly, can you talk to Charlie Martin? He’s already called a couple of times, and he says he needs an answer- sump’m about last year’s inventory- ’fo noon.”

  She stood, blowing out her cheeks as she did. “Ol’ Charlie’s dottin’ his I’s and crossin’ his T’s for what’s probably the hundredth time today. I better talk to him. After all, it’s his money; well, theirs. No point gettin’ crosswise with him when we’re so close to making the deal. I think we’ve done enough to keep us out of jail ’til the end of the month, Jack. I’ll come back and get all this paper soon as I get Charlie squared away.”

  Ralph smiled as he turned to go. “She keeps more shit in ’er head then I can in a filin’ cab’net. Sorry to interrupt y’all.”

  “Hell, I appreciate it,” said Jack as he returned the smile. “I can only look at so many worksheets before I gotta holler uncle. By the way, you talk to Ziggy lately?”

  “Oh yeah. One day between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “He still likin’ the big city?”

  “Mm-hmm, I reckon so. Stays busy, anyway. He and his manager- can you believe it- he got a manager now! Anyway, they was s’posed to go up to Memphis sometime around now to talk to a record producer about doin’ an album. Him and the band he’s been singin’ with. Guess I woulda heard from him when he got back, though. He probably habm’t gone yet.”

  “I thought I might take Linda over to Atlanta sometime before we head back south, and I’d like to drop in on him while we’re there. Mind letting me have his number? I’ll give him a call before we leave. If you happen to talk to him, tell him I’ll be calling. I can’t wait to hear ol’ Ziggy belt out a few tunes.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’d be tickled to death to see y’all. I got a few of his cards in the back; I’ll gitcha one.”

  Looking up from behind the counter, Reba smiled as she saw the Vincent pull up out front, exhaust rattling the café’s plate glass as Jack parked it on the sidewalk near the door between the hotel and the café’s niche in the southeast corner. An image of Mose flashed through her mind, recalling the many times that he’d parked it there. She felt the ripple of a fresh premonition of loss, a wave still forming offshore awaiting its appointed time to crash onto her soul’s beleaguered beach; first Mose, then Mr. Redding, then Ríni, and soon he’ll be gone, too. This little town’s losin’ the little bit of class it has faster than it can replace it. “Mornin’, Jackie,” she said a
s he slid onto a stool near the door.

  “Hi, Reba; how’s it going?”

  She took a deep breath, making the red REBA sitting high on her right breast rise, then fall a fraction of an inch. “Pretty good for Monday, honey. Ain’t you freezin’ on that thang?”

  “Nah. Feels good. And speaking of that, what’s good today?”

  “You know durn right well we don’t have nothin’ but good around here, boy, but you look like you could do with summa Nelson’s roast chicken.”

  Jack grinned as he completed the order; “Collards, field peas and mashed potatoes.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Large Coke.”

  Looking toward the front of the cafe, he saw Lynne Browne and a couple of Browne & Browne salesladies at the table nearest the register. She returned his wave with a raised index finger, a promise- or a threat- of conversation when she and the ladies finished their lunch. Acknowledging the finger with a nod, he turned toward the flapping of the kitchen’s swinging doors, through which came Nelson Lord, preceded by half a roast chicken.

  “How ‘bout it, lager-boy?” said Lord, setting the plate on the counter, the latest in a long line of masterpieces on which the Bisque Café’s not-inconsiderable reputation was founded.

  Bringing his face close to the crinkly-brown skin of his entree, Jack inhaled deeply. “Perfect, Nels; only perfect. We gotta get the state to put up one of those landmark signs about you out front.”

  “Shit,” snorted Lord. Still the image of Steve Cochran, b-movie charmer, Jack thought; thickened up a bit from years of eating his own cooking, but the black-Irish intensity hadn’t cooled down a single degree. “You better get my ass promoted to General first. Generals and politicians the only ones that get put on them roadside monstrosities, and I ain’t no goddamn politician.”

  No, Jack thought, you certainly aren’t that. Genius, cradle-robber, cuckolder, incremental suicide- some, probably all, of those, but no politician. Good thing for Reba that you aren’t. Seeing that Lord wasn’t about to move until he’d tasted the bird, Jack plunged his knife into the breast and sliced off a chunk of moist fragrance. “Jesus, man,” he said, chewing. “Don’t you let some pissed-off husband shoot yo’ ass. This is th’ best yardbird on th’ planet.”

  “Done been tried, boy,” he said, moving aside as Reba approached, laden with vegetables. “No sale. Guess I’m just too much in demand.” Turning as he reached the kitchen door, he said, “Why’ncha bring that lady by for supper? Kielbasa, kraut’n rosti.” And another chance for me to charm her ass, he thought. She hasn’t had much of a chance to think about how good a little bitta ol’ Nels’d feel.

  “I’ll see if I can twist her arm. She’s still talkin’ about that breakfast you put out the other day.”

  “She ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Lord assured him with a particularly Cochranesque grin.

  “Git on wit yo’sef!” Reba admonished the flapping aluminum-skinned doors. “I swear, it’s a good thang he’gn cook. Little sawed-off Romeo. Everthang OK, honey?”

  “Better’n that, Reba; way better.”

  “Good. Don’t you pay no attention to that Nelson. Pore ol’ Mose gave ‘im an inch, just to be friendly, and of course he took a mile. Almost got ‘im shot, riitchere in the place. You remember.”

  “Yes I do. But I’m sure Mose’s forgiven him, aren’t you?”

  “I certainly am,” she said, her eyes rolling heavenward. “Mose had a mighty big heart. I reckon you do too, honey; that’s why I’m telling you. Enjoy ’is food, but don’t be takin’ ’im up on no after-hours socializin’. Most p’ticly, not with that lady friend of yours. Why hey, Miss Lynne.”

  “Hey, Reba; you too, stranger.”

  “Hey, Lynne. How you doin’?”

  “I’m fine, and I’m curious,” she said, planting her ample posterior on the stool next to his. “Heard you were in here for breakfast the other day with some fine-lookin’ woman who’s got a big ol’ boat tied up over in Augusta. Who, pray tell, is she, anyway?”

  “Rich bitch from Miami,” Jack said with a grin. “Thinkin’ about buyin’ my house.”

  “Really!” Her eyes widened to their physical maximum. “Why would somebody like that ever want to live here?”

  “Said sump’m about openin’ up a high-fashion dress shop and lookin’ around for a rich man to marry,” Jack said, poker-faced. “Said she didn’t think she’d have much competition.”

  Lynne Browne’s mouth dropped open as her eyes glazed over. To her credit, she recovered quickly. “Jack Mason, you lying son of a bitch. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.”

  Jack pushed collard greens onto his fork with a piece of cornbread. “I swear it’s the truth, Lynne. She said she felt like it was her duty to help the women of Bisque get out of the backwaters of fashion, while she looks around for some local boob with a lot of dough. Preferably unmarried, she said, but that part could be secondary, and she wasn’t worried about getting any man in Bisque to leave his wife for her.”

  “You’ve been this way since grade school,” she said, getting to her feet. Everything’s a fucking joke to you. You just listen for a change; Terry saw y’all out at Don’s, and she said she didn’t think that girl was anything special; said she was thirty-five if she was a day.”

  “Well, I guess Terry’s as good a judge of age as there is in Bisque; only thing about it is, the preferred measure of time in this town’s always been dog years. Well, please tell Terry when you see her that we enjoyed meeting Mr. Gump.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Gump. Wasn’t that Andy Gump with her the other night?”

  “Goodbye, Jack,” Lynne Browne said through clenched teeth.

  “So long, Coco. Oh, by the way.”

  “WHAT?”

  “She said that if she buys my place, she might run for chairman of the County Commission.”

  Lynne Browne turned to face him, arms akimbo. “Well, if she does Daddy’ll hand her her ass. And he won’t need any of your damned old beer money to do it.”

  “Uh, Lynne?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Gotcha.”

  A split-second of wide-eyed assimilation preceded the close-to-the-bodice finger that Lynne Browne flashed Jack as she flounced to the cash register. Reba took her money with ill-concealed mirth. Still huffy, she narrowly missed an exit collision with Lee Webster, who graciously backed his bulk out of the door to make way for hers. Raising his eyebrows in ironic greeting, he made his way past the café’s rapidly-filling tables to the stool next to Jack’s. “Greetings, bub; nice tan.”

  “Hey, Lee. How they hangin’?”

  “On Monday, they’re always right around street level, thanks. And yours?”

  “Like Joe Page’s fastball, buddy; high and tight.”

  “If that, and what I hear about your house guest, is even half-true, you oughta be walkin’ around in blue tights with an S on your chest.”

  “And what, exactly, do you hear?” Jack asked him.

  “Oh, just that you been ridin’ around all weekend with this Debra Paget look-alike from out of town. Miami, is it?”

  “Miami, it is. Ran into her at the jai-alai matches.”

  Webster paused while Reba put his lunch down, then continued. “Well I’ll be damned. Is she Cuban, or sump’m?”

  “Or sump’m.”

  “C’mon, Jack, give. Don’t reduce me to rumor-mongering.”

  “OK, newshawk. She’s the only female sportfishing skipper in South Florida. Wanta snag half a ton of blue marlin, she’s your man. Might do a spot of smugglin’ now and then, when business gets slow.”

  “Hmm. Some resume for starlet material,” Webster said as he scooped mashed potatoes. “Ol’ Mose’d be proud of you.”

  Jack winked, oscillating his head a degree or two. “Let’s hope so. And how’s your lovely wife?”

  “Still kickin’ my ass at the least opportunity,” Webster said with a smile. “Why doncha meet us over at the Bobwhite fo
r supper one night? She’d love to see you, and we’d both like to get to know this Marlin-snagger of yours.”

  “Yeah, that’d be fun. Didn’t y’all meet at the Bobwhite?”

  “Yep. Best day of my life. Mose and I went over there one night, mostly to watch Lord in action. Jesus, I miss that fuckin’ Mose,” he said, his face going solemn. Recovering, he said, “Well, because it’s where we met’s one of the reasons I like going there. And Robbie don’t care that much about coming home from work and cooking every night. But by the time I sign off Sundown Serenade and drive over to Augusta, it’s gettin’ on toward eight. Not too late for y’all, I hope.”

  “I ’spect we can hold out ’til then. Linda’s boat’s tied up over there; she may want to drop by the yard and see if they’ve gotten everything done.”

  “OK. Let’s check with the women and see what a good day might be. Wanta call me at the station?”

  “Sure.”

  “Guess you’ll be closing the Zenith deal pretty soon; what’re your plans for after that?”

  “Just to lock the bucks down where they’ll be safe and give myself a little time to think. I’m gonna ride back to Miami with Linda, and that’ll give me a coupla weeks. One possibility’s graduate school.”

  “That’d be sure to make Mose and your mom happy, what with your dad being a Ph.D. Whad’dya think you might study?”

  “Haven’t decided for sure; history’d be the natural choice, I guess, since it was my undergraduate major.”

  “Well, be sure it’s something you enjoy, buddy. It’s not like you’d have to end up teaching anyway; not unless you wanted to.”

  “One of the many things that I need to think about. Hell, I might get drafted; Rick did.”

  Webster hastily swallowed what he was chewing. “TERRELL? Drafted? He was expecting to have a pretty good year with the Colts, wasn’t he?”