Talkin' Jive

by Erik Carter

  The landscaping was brand-new. Bushes and decorative grasses and young trees held up by guide wires, all set in thick mounds of mulch which made the air smell strongly of cedar. A small sign with the landscaper’s name and telephone number was displayed next to one of the trees.

  Dale climbed the steps to the massive front porch, which was home to a half-dozen oversized rocking chairs, crafted in such a way as to look rustic but not letting you forget they cost a hundred dollars apiece. He took a look to either side and saw that farther away on the edge of the mountain were other similar cabins, all of which were still under construction. Dale determined this must be a new resort area similar to those in Gatlinburg but slightly farther away. Probably less expensive and definitely less crowded.

  Dale approached a set of huge, glossy doors, each of which had an opaque window with copper trim. He rang the doorbell and heard the muffled sound of a melodic chime from within the cabin. He waited. A few moments passed. He tried the doorbell a second time and rapped his knuckle on the door. Waited. Again there was no answer.

  He stepped a few feet to the left toward a large set of windows. The drapes were drawn, but there was a gap between them. He cupped his hands over his eyes and looked in. Through the crack in the drapes, he could see an expansive living room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Rows of folding chairs filled the space. They faced the back of the room where there was a large dais. Three-foot, black speakers flanked the dais on either side, and in the center was a podium. Behind everything was a massive curtain—maybe fifteen feet tall—that stretched toward the high ceiling.

  After everything he had learned so far, Dale had assumed that Asa Hendrix’s meetings would be a lot quainter than this. Hell, he assumed they’d be rustic. He pictured a shack in the middle of nowhere. A wood-burning oven in the corner. Some old-timer wearing nothing but a pair of denim coveralls whistling out tales through his four remaining teeth and passing around a ceramic jug with XXX written on the side.

  Perhaps Dale had been stereotyping a tad. Because this setup was anything but rustic.

  And, since no one was around, Dale was going to take a closer look.

  He walked to the end of the porch and vaulted over the railing. The earth was steep on the side of the building, and he walked carefully to avoid sliding down the hill and into the surrounding woods. He rounded the corner. At the back side of the building, there was a bit of yard—steeply sloped, as it was on the side of the hill—and a corrugated metal barn in the back. Beside the barn was an old Dodge truck.

  Maybe someone was there after all. Dale put his hands over his mouth and yelled out toward the barn. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  No reply. The barn’s door didn’t open.

  Dale continued walking around the building. There was an elaborate back patio area with a stone-lined, built-in fire pit. Large, sliding-glass doors led directly from the cabin to this area. These doors weren’t covered by drapes like the front windows had been, but they were obscured by the glare of sunlight. If Dale could look through these doors, he could see what was on the back side of the curtain that divided the living room. He could literally take a look behind the scenes, get a glimpse of what happened on the other side of Hendrix’s podium. He stepped onto the brickwork, moved past some very elaborate outdoor furniture…

  … and felt something cold against the back of his neck.

  Metal.

  He immediately recognized what it was, solely by feel.

  It was a gun barrel.

  “This here’s private property. Who the hell are you?”

  A man’s voice. With a Southern accent as thick as Ursula’s back at the library.

  Dale’s mind slipped into stereotyping once more. He remembered the movie Deliverance. And poor Ned Beatty. Several unpleasant possibilities flashed through Dale’s thoughts. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

  He put his hands up. “Just a friend.”

  The gun barrel jabbed into Dale’s neck. He grunted. His head bent forward instinctually.

  “All right then, ‘friend.’ Let’s talk.”

  An arm reached around Dale’s neck.

  Ned Beatty’s fate flew through Dale’s mind again.

  Dale’s natural impulses set in, propelled him into instant retaliation.

  He threw his leg out and reached back to flip the man over it. But the man planted a foot in the ground, avoided the throw, punched Dale in the ribs.

  A quick sharp pain. Dale stumbled forward, and since the other man’s arm was still hooked around his neck, he dragged the other man with him. The man’s weight felt like nothing at all on Dale’s back. A small man.

  Dale jabbed a leg out again, this time farther back, and blindly reached behind him. He got a hold of the other man, hooking him under his armpits. He threw his weight to one side, got a hand on the barrel of the gun, and flipped the man over his hip.

  The man landed hard on the bricks.

  Dale’s estimation had been correct—he was indeed a small man. And young. Early to mid twenties. The man grimaced and twisted on the brickwork. He had a slight frame and soft features—smooth skin, long eyelashes, pink lips. His jaw, though, was quite square, which counterbalanced everything else. A very unique combination. And one he probably grew into. Dale pictured the guy getting bullied a lot as a kid.

  In the flurry of activity, Dale had wrangled the weapon from the other man. He now found a Remington 870 12-gauge in his hands. He aimed it at the man for a moment before thinking better of it. Now was time for diplomacy not aggression. Dale had trespassed, after all. He raised his hands again, the gun pointing into the sky, finger far away from the trigger.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” the man said. There was anger in his tone. But it was trying desperately to hide his embarrassment.

  “Listen, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Dale said. “I heard this is where I can find Asa Hendrix. I came by to see about coming to the meeting tonight. Just trying to be proactive. My apologies.”

  The man took in a breath, nostrils flaring. “Fine.”

  Dale reached out a hand to help the man up.

  He looked at Dale’s hand for a moment, seething, still embarrassed. He finally grabbed Dale’s hand. Dale pulled him to his feet.

  “And sorry for dropping you. Natural reaction,” Dale said. He reached the shotgun carefully toward the man. A trusting look on his face. A peace offering.

  The man scowled as he snatched the gun from Dale’s hands. “Tonight. 8 PM. Here at this cabin. Don’t come back here till then.”

  Chapter Seven

  The sky had turned pinkish-purple and was starting to go dark as Roy Becker walked into his home, which was on the west side of Knoxville. The Farragut area. He lived in a well-to-do neighborhood, and his house was turn-of-the-century, thoroughly renovated with modern amenities.

  The house was dark. There was muffled noise in the distance. From the spare bedroom. A television.

  He put his keys on the hook, his briefcase on the kitchen countertop, and draped his coat over one of the chairs at the table. He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it over his arm as he walked through the house toward the television sound.

  A pale, bluish light pulsated in the hall from the crack around the door of the spare bedroom in the back. Faint laughter. A sitcom laugh track.

  He steepled his fingers on the door and slowly pushed it open. The old black-and-white TV was on. The program had gone to commercial break—a local car dealership, some guy making a fool out of himself screaming about low, low prices. On the loveseat facing the TV was a blanketed mound. Nothing of her was visible. The blanket completely covered her. She often did that.

  On the small table by the loveseat were two bottles—rum and medication. The rum bottle was half empty. She’d bought it yesterday. The pill bottle was open.

  He walked over, re-capped the pills, and looked at the lump on his loveseat. He watched for movement. And saw some—the blanket slowly rising and lowering. She w
as breathing. He always checked. This was a daily occurrence. But still he always checked.

  He put his hand on the blanket, felt her warmth, her slow breaths.

  “I just stopped by to say hi,” he said. “Working late tonight.”

  The blanket continue to slowly rise and lower. A slight whistle from her nose.

  “I met someone today,” he continued. “Someone I think you’d really like. His name is Dale Conley.”

  No reply. Of course.

  He rubbed his hand over the peak of the blanket-mound. Her hip. He watched her for a moment. Then he turned off the TV and left.

  Chapter Eight

  Asa looked into the mirror, the same kind used backstage at theaters and movie sets—bright, round lightbulbs lining the sides.

  “The silent, slippery shoreman sheathed his shears,” he said, watching his eyes and lips in the reflection. He cleared his throat. Hummed. Then spoke again. “Raspy, rugged raspberries regularly receive resistance.”

  Vocal warmup. Something he’d done all his professional life—these last two years as a prophet foreseeing the future of Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and for many years before that in his previous careers.

  A silver tongue wasn’t all in the language, after all. There was the tone, the resonance. The sheer sound of it. And all of this needed to be maintained, practiced.

  A knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, and Cody Ellis entered. He wore a deadly serious expression, as he always did in Asa’s presence. It made Asa want to laugh out loud. Absolutely hilarious. Such sincerity. Such conviction. On that little girly face of his. And all of his stalwart dedication was related to the absolute nonsense that Asa had been spewing these last two years. To all the idiots. The idiots who were so willing to listen. So ready for answers.

  So ready to open their wallets.

  Freaking hilarious.

  “She’s here,” Cody said.

  They left the room that Asa had turned into his prep room—his “green room,” he liked to call it—and walked out to the large curtain separating the backside of the living room from the seating area.

  “Front row,” Cody said.

  Asa leaned forward to inconspicuously look through the gap in the curtain. He couldn’t be seen by the crowd yet, after all. His presence needed to come upon the people like a revelation. Something awe-inspiring. Spiritual, even. Nearly religious. A messiah, he must be.

  Asa saw her. She sat among the growing crowd, right up by the dais, directly in front of the podium. A smile on her face. A smile of anticipation. Like a teeny-bopper waiting for her favorite pretty boy musician to take the stage. She was Cody’s age, early twenties or so. Strawberry blonde hair. Light brown eyes. Decent enough face though not terribly cute. Great body, however. Everything all tight. Long legs. Tits were nice and big.

  Asa pulled away from the curtain. “Nice little piece of ass, isn’t she?”

  Cody didn’t respond straight away. And he didn’t look at Asa, just kept his gaze facing forward. His expression went rigid. And when he finally responded, he avoided Asa’s question. Asa had expected as much. That’s why he’d asked the question—he wanted to see how Cody would react.

  “She’s fully ready to go,” Cody said. “She’s been attending the meetings for three months now, and we’ve had several long conversations.”

  Come to think of it, Asa did recognize those legs of hers. He’d spotted them in the crowd as he’d given his speeches. But three months of attendance wasn’t nearly as much as Asa wanted for his inner circle. Yet he trusted Cody. And he trusted Cody’s special connection to this new prospect.

  A very special connection indeed.

  “Excellent,” Asa said. “That’s why I’m gathering you select few. I’m making the announcement tonight.”

  Cody turned to him. He stood up taller, putting his dedication on full display.

  “Tonight I’ll plant the seed in everyone’s mind.” Asa paused. “And tomorrow the real work begins. You’re my top soldier, Cody. I hope you’re ready for the battle.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dale and Becker rode in Arancia through the darkened hills on the outskirts of Oak Ridge. The temperature was chillier than it had been the previous night. Dale had the heater going.

  Becker was unfamiliar with De Tomaso Panteras, and Dale was happily filling him in on the details. He had one hand on the steering wheel and gestured passionately with the other.

  “…from a 351 Cleveland V8,” Dale was saying. “American muscle in an Italian sports car with all that power tied to a German ZF transaxle and surrounded by a monocoque frame, which was a major change from its predecessor, the Mangusta, which had a steel backbone chassis. A couple years after it was introduced, the Pantera—”

  “All right, all right. I get it, Conley,” Becker said. “It’s an awesome car.”

  “Darn tootin’.”

  Dale was disappointed in getting cut-off mid-speech. He could talk about Panteras all day long.

  Becker looked at him, and when Dale glanced over, he caught a glimpse of that strange yet subtle expression in Becker’s eyes again. It was the same look that he’d given him at Y-12 that morning. Almost a skeptical curiosity. There was something about it that bothered Dale.

  “I thought you flew in,” Becker said.

  “I did. I had my agency charter Arancia here overnight. I insist on having her for my assignments.”

  Becker shook his head. “Tax dollars hard at work.”

  “My boss doesn’t mind.”

  “Seriously? Taft seemed like a pretty no-nonsense guy on the phone.”

  “No, not seriously. Taft wants to kill me every time I request my car.”

  “Is he any relation to President Taft?”

  Dale’s encyclopedic brain pulled out a file. William Howard Taft. Twenty-seventh president of the United States who held two unique and very disparate distinctions—he was the only president to also serve as the chief justice of the United States, and, at 340 pounds, he also held the record as the fattest president.

  Dale’s lovably grumpy Taft, though, was from an entirely different bloodline.

  “No relation,” Dale said. “He does have a big belly like the president, though he never got stuck in the presidential bathtub like legend says William Howard did. My boss’s gut is more of the stress-and-hamburgers variety. It jiggles quite freely. I give it a good slap every now and then. He just looooves when I do that.”

  Becker stared at him for a moment.

  “You’re a weird guy, aren’t you, Conley?”

  “Yes.”

  Dale glanced at the odometer. He sighed. He’d been adding quite a few miles to Arancia’s total already on this assignment. For a city of its size, Oak Ridge had a huge footprint—ninety square miles. They were well outside the original bounds of the wartime facility, and Dale knew this because among the 1940s relics sitting around town were the original gates, which now flanked some of the city’s roads, empty and forgotten. Many of the street names, too, seemed to be holdovers from World War II, streets like Administration Road, Laboratory Road, and Bus Terminal Road.

  A pickup truck rolled down the highway in front of Dale and Becker, lit up by Arancia’s headlights. A large, orange T—a decal—was prominently featured in the truck’s rear window. It was the symbol for the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. Dale knew that SEC football was a way of life in the South, but the proportion of vehicles with the orange T stickers to those without was staggering. Dale had seen local sports fanaticism before, but he’d never seen anything like this.

  He pointed at the truck. “Do they give you one of those stickers when you buy a car around here?”

  “Everyone loves their Vols football in these parts.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Mob mentality. Like the little meeting we’re about to attend.”

  “Oh, come on, Conley. My wife, Joan, follows the Vols. It’s good, clean fun. You don’t like sports?”

&n
bsp; Knowing now that Becker’s wife was a fan, Dale needed to tread carefully with his response. He didn’t want to offend Becker, especially since they’d just met. And you don’t disparage a man’s wife.

  “I like sports just fine,” Dale said. “I enjoy playing them. Occasionally I’ll watch them. But I’ll just as soon watch a game of pickup basketball or club softball than watch college or the pros.”

  “You’re not averse to watching or playing sports. So what’s your problem?”

  “I don’t like things that turn people into a nonsensical mob. The ancient Greeks used to cheer on representatives of their city-states when they’d pit them against each other in sporting competition. Bragging rights. Friendly, non-violent rivalry sure is better than war. But we’re not the ancient Greeks. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar isn’t a representative of Los Angeles. He’s from New York City. Went to college in L.A. then went pro in Milwaukee before returning to L.A. for the Lakers. Tell me, how the hell does he represent the city of Los Angeles?”

  “Ancient Greeks? You really are a historian. You’re overthinking this.”

  “Maybe so. I just know that I personally don’t give a crap as to which team of rich, insanely talented guys move an oblong ball farther down a field or put a round ball through a hole more times.” Dale pointed at the truck again. “And I certainly don’t care which group of eighteen to twenty-two-year-old kids can do it better. People invest their lives in the outcomes of games played by other people. Get emotional about it, lose sleep over it. Creeps me out.”

  “It’s escapism, Conley. Something to take people’s minds off the other, darker parts of the world for a while. Come on, history guy. Hasn’t storytelling always served the same purpose? All throughout human history, from the very beginning—cave paintings, hieroglyphics—we’ve had larger-than-life characters serving as allegories with which to model our lives. Sound about right? Stories, games—seem pretty similar to me.”