by Stan Hayes
“I feel old enough without your gentle reminder, thanks. And whacha mean, ‘some trick’? It may not be the Waldorf, but I’m learning a lot running this hotel. I couldn’t’ve bought the education I’ve gotten here, at Columbia or anywhere else. I’m enjoying being part of this town for awhile, instead of just being Pap Redding’s pore old divorced daughter, running home to Papa. I do, however, have precious little time to screw around.”
Holding her pose, Cordelia moved just her eyes to look directly into Serena’s. “You look real good for thirty-three. When I first came to Miss Rhonda’s, I was eight, so you were thirteen. You already had a great body, and you still do. I just think that we ought not to get old living here; wouldn’t it be great to strut our stuff in New York? Paris? Maybe the Riviera?”
“The Riviera?” hooted Serena. “Who the hell have you been talking to?”
Looking into middle nowhere from her perch, Cordelia let a quick pout cross her face. “Listen. People from Atlanta go to the Riviera all the time. Just read the paper; it’s right there in the society pages.”
“That’s uppercrust Atlanta, and it’s a helluva long way from here to there, to say nothing of the Riviera.”
“Well, it’s for sure that your fine friend the sheriff won’t be taking you there any time soon. What do you see in him, anyway?”
“Wahoo? Not much, if you mean romantically. We’re friends, and he likes Jack a lot, so we go to dinner now and then. With Jack. Did you think he was fuckin’ me?”
“Not really. But you know he’d like to. He’s a pretty damn fine-lookin’ man; I’d do him in a heartbeat. Guess you’d still have to duck out of town to shack up, though.”
Serena looked at her with a sudden, steely gaze. “You’d do well to forget what you just said, Missy,” she grated, her voice just above a whisper. “What I do away from here is my business, and only my business. I don’t want any part of my sex life bounced around this town, and if that happens I’ll know just who to blame. I’m sorry I ever told you.”
“Ah, Honey!” she drawled. “You know I’d never ever do that. I know your privacy’s precious to you, and you have to be extra careful because of Jack.” She stood up, walked over to Serena, put a finger under her chin, tipped it up slightly, tenderly kissing her lips. “I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me?”
Serena took Cordelia’s hands in hers, smiling as she broke their gaze with a shake of her head. “Ah hell, sweetie, I know you’d never do me dirt on purpose. But you like to talk, and since I won’t be marrying any of ’em, I don’t want people in this town speculatin’ about me in any sexual way at all. I owe that to my Dad, who took a real chance on me here, but most of all I owe it to Jack.”
“How ’bout this- you keep my secrets, and I’ll keep yours. You know I love Jackie, too. Let me ask you something, though; are you gonna live here with him from now on? Shouldn’t he be growin’ up in a house, like his friends?”
“Come on, let’s get back to work,” said Serena, standing up. “I want to get a little further along before your butt gives out. “Don’t you worry about Jack; he loves the hotel, and I’m betting that he’ll see very little of Bisque after high school. He was born a New Yorker, and he’ll probably be living in a big city somewhere when he gets out of college. So he gets a little bit of a head start on city life by growing up here. If I didn’t believe that, we’d be out there on Cherokee Drive with the rest of the goddam striving middle class. But I do believe it; Bisque’s not my destiny, or his.”
“No, darlin’,” Cordelia said. “You’re definitely a city girl. And my dearest love.” Serena laughed as she scraped clay away from the bust’s jaw line. “Thank you, honey; now get back on that stool and hold still. Your nipples are all puckered.”
Ray’s Barber Shop was one flight down, in the basement of the “ready-to-wear” store that faced the hotel across Lee Street. The cool, sweet-scented air surprised Moses as he entered. He stopped just inside the door to get his bearings; bright light from the bulbs above the mirrored back wall put the barbers’ chairs into stark contrast with the rest of the large, square room. Two of the three chairs were busy, the barbers intent on their occupants. A couple of other men sat along the left wall in relative darkness.
“Come in, sir!” the leftmost barber exclaimed, not raising his eyes from his work, bald pate glistening in the bright yellow-green light streaming from over his head. “Have a seat; it won’t be long. The other barber’ll be back from lunch in just a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” said Moses. He turned to find a vacant chair, his eyes still adapting to the change in light. He took the chair nearest to the barber who had spoken.
“Don’t believe you’ve been in before,” the barber said, looking at him briefly over the top of his glasses. “New to town, or just passing through?”
“Brand new,” Moses replied. “I’m just across the street at the hotel.”
“Well, welcome,” said the barber. “I’m Ray Taylor.” He was a fattish man, nearly bald, a little below medium height. A barber’s brush had plenty of room in the left hip pocket of his seersucker pants, which hung low around surprisingly meager hindquarters. “This here’s my shop.”
“Hello, Ray. I’m Moses Kubielski.”
“How do you do, sir. That feller on your left’s Mr. Lewis, and beyond him’s Mr. Robison. This here’s-” he indicated the other barber with a wave of his hand- “Charlie Baker, and Mr. Warren, here in the chair.”
Moses shook Mr. Lewis’ proffered hand, and raised his other hand in a brief wave. “Glad to know you all,” he said. “This must be the coolest place in town.”
Taylor chuckle-snorted lightly. “I hope it is. We’re in the business of makin’ people look good and feel good. Glad you noticed. Say, you’re the man with the big white Buick, aincha?”
“Yes. Yes I am. Unless there’s another white 1941 limo in Bisque. The news gets around this town pretty fast.”
“It does. It surely does. But then it’s a small town. Between here and the pool room, you can hear just about everthang that goes on in Bisque.”
“Well, newspapers never print it all, so I guess that’s a pretty good arrangement. Heard any news about my car? I haven’t talked to Smokey today.”
“Ain’t nobody come in from down thataway yet. If you come back around closin time, I imagine we’llve heard somethin.”
“Oh, I’ll know something before then. Just thought I’d stop over for a trim first. By the way, here’s a little news for you. I might be selling that car, if anyone’s interested.”
“Izzat right? You think it’s hurt bad?”
“Don’t know yet; hope I will today. All that’ll affect is the price, though. I’m looking for something a little smaller. Haven’t had this one all that long; really didn’t want it in the first place.”
“That’s some car to be drivin if you didn’t want it. How’d you happen to buy it in the first place?”
“Didn’t.”
“Didn’t buy it?”
“Nope. Won it. Poker.”
“Goddamiteydayum! Musta been some game.”
“Yes, it was.”
“You can have a seat right here,” he said, over his shoulder from the cash register. These gents are both Charlie’s customers.” Moses made himself comfortable in chair, still warm from the last customer, as Taylor whisked a drape over him, tucking it and a barber’s tissue inside his collar. “Care for a shampoo, or just a haircut?”
“Just a haircut, thanks.”
“Hey, Buster,” Taylor said to the backlit figure just entering the shop. “How you doin’?”
“Tol’able, Ray boy, jus’ tol’able,” said the figure as it moved toward the the pool of light, revealing a stocky, red-haired man in his early thirties. He looked just enough like Serena for Moses to place him. She had mentioned a younger brother the other night; there couldn’t be that many Busters in a town this size, not even Bisque. “Howdy,” he said, aiming a boyish, gap-toothed grin at Moses.
“Hi,” said Moses, returning the grin.
“Do you know Mr.-” Taylor began.
“Kubielski,” said Moses, extending his hand from beneath the barber’s drape. “Moses Kubielski.”
Quickly grasping the hand, he said, “Yessir. Mr. Kabeelsky. Pleased to meet you. My sister was telling me about you just yes’dy. Sorry to hear about your car. Said you might be stayin’ in Bisque awhile yet.”
“Well, for a few days, anyway.”
“That’s fine. Hope you’re enjoyin’ yourself. Say, would you mind if I went by Smokey’s and had a look at that car of yours?”
“Help yourself. As I was saying just before you came in, it may be for sale if I find something around here that I like better.”
“That’s why I wanta look at it. I think I’ve got somethin’ you’ll like- a lot better.”
“What’s that?” Moses asked as Ray pulled off the drape and he got out of the chair.
“A brand-new ‘47 Hudson Commodore Eight. Did my sister mention that I just bought the dealership? I’ll beat any deal you’ll find in this town, and with the best-streamlined car in the world.”
“No, it didn’t come up,” said Moses, handing Ray a dollar. “And I don’t know a thing about Hudsons. But check my car out and tell me what you can do. Good to meet you, Buster; everyone. See you later.”
“What was that guy’s name again?” asked Charlie Baker, after Moses had gone.
“Kabeesky,” said Taylor.”
“Are you sure?” said the man in Baker’s chair. I think it’s Kub-lesky. “That’s what Reba said when she was tellin’ me about the car.”
“Well, maybe so. Whatever it is, with that head I know what his first name oughta be.”
“What?”
“Cueball. That’s the roundest fuckin head I ever saw.”
Moses brushed a fly away from the bar before it could get to the foam that ran down the side of his glass and onto the bar. At half past seven on a Wednesday night, he and Lee Webster had the Bisque Lunch Room momentarily to themselves. “I’ll read you some commercial copy tomorrow,” Lee said as he pushed a WQUE quotation sheet across to him. If you can live with those rates, that is.”
Moses scanned the figures, then held his hand out. “I can,” he said. “Lemme have your pen. This oughta put you in good with the boss.” Taking the pen from Lee, he signed the sheet and slid it back to him.
“You kidding? I do deals like this every day. In my dreams. Well, if you like what you see tomorrow, they’ll start running on Friday.”
“You just be sure that I do like it,” said Moses, “because those spots will be running on Friday. I’ve got empty seats to fill.”
“And filled they shall be. With your gimmicks, and my deathless prose, these people’ll be tearing yer doors off the hinges.”
“I guess we’ll know pretty soon. These Bisquites need some serious wakin’ up, that’s for sure.”
A slow shake of his head let Moses see both corners of Webster’s wry grin. “It’s a sleepy fuckin town, no doubt about it. But you give ‘em something to get as excited about as football and savin’ their immortal souls, they’ll kiss your ass at midday, and give you half an hour to draw a crowd.”
“Well, the radio, plus the grapevine, oughta be enough to get the word out. Maybe I’ll drop back by the barber shop and Buck’s and get some kind of a rumor started. Any idea what might get some play?”
“Ray Taylor’s shop over there?. When were you exposed to that no-account bag of wind?”
“Day before yesterday. Looks like a strong scuttlebutt trail between there and the pool room.”
“Taylor’d like you to believe that, but there’s more than one barber shop in Bisque. His is just the only one run by a lunatic.”
“Lunatic? He seemed pretty sane to me.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure that Jack the Ripper had his moments. Just believe me. The farther away you stay from Ray Taylor and his cronies, the better.”
“Well, he gave me a decent haircut. Tell me how he’s crazy.”
“He shoots people.”
“Shoots people? When? Who’d he shoot?
“The first one was his partner. Herschel Long. One shot, from the same nickel-plated .38 he carries today, straight through the ticker. Back in ‘39. Long was dead before he hit the floor, so said the paper.”
“Why’d he do it?”
“Said Long was messing with his wife.”
“Did he do time for it?”
“Hell, no. Wasn’t even indicted.”
“Why not?”
“Taylor claimed self-defense. The coroner backed him up, and Franklin, the DA, wouldn’t charge him.”
“Who else did he shoot?”
Lee shifted in his seat and took a long pull at his beer. “No proof of anyone else. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t shot people. And shot at others.”
“Who, for instance?”
“Me, for instance.”
“You? When?”
“In ’45. About a month after I moved back here.”
“How’d it happen?”
“I’d just been back in town a couple of weeks. I was living at the hotel, and Taylor had just opened his shop across the street. I went in for a haircut, and as soon as I was in the chair, we got into politics. When the subject of niggers came up, he got progressively crazier in what he had to say. The situation went completely to hell after I’d questioned two or three of his stupidest remarks, and I ended up getting out of the chair with half a haircut. I threw a buck at him, and as I was on my way out the door he said ‘You better get the hell outta this town before you get shot!’ “
“And then he shot at you?”
“He’s not that crazy. It was a couple of nights later. I was getting into my car in the station’s parking lot, after getting off work, about ten-thirty at night. Three shots, one right after the other, from a .30 caliber rifle.”
“Did you see Taylor?”
“No, I didn’t. I was too busy digging a divot in the pavement.”
“Then how do you know…”
“…that it was him? Who the hell else would it have been? And even if he didn’t pull the trigger, one of his Klan cronies did.”
“Now let me guess. This barber/Klansman had an alibi for the time of the shooting.”
“Of course he did. Home in bed, with the good wife to swear to it. Good thing one of the slugs hit the door of my car, or good ole Wahoo’d probably tried to tell me it never happened at all.”
“Wahoo. The sheriff. So the station’s outside the Bisque police’s jurisdiction?”
“Yeah. Just south of the city limits.”
“Sounds like you don’t think too highly of Sheriff Wahoo, either.”
“Let’s just say I don’t think that a Purple Heart’s much of a qualification for that job.”
“So he was in the service.”
“Yeah. He’d been in the Marines long enough to make corporal, so the story goes, and got hit by shrapnel at Pearl Harbor. Bad enough to get a medical discharge. So he came back as Bisque’s first war hero in ’42, got his health back, and ran unopposed for sheriff in ‘44, at the ripe old age of 30.”
“Well, he puts up a good front, which is a big part of politics. Whether he’s good at it or not, I guess he likes the job well enough to run again- when? In ’48?”
“Yep. No doubt about it. Otherwise he’d hafta go to work. The way he’s been squiring your hostess, Miz Mason, around, I’d guess he’d like to campaign next time as a married man- or at least an engaged one.”
“Yeah, Jack mentioned his takin’ ’em to dinner. So this romance’s been going on for awhile?”
“If you could call it that. As I’ve heard it, she hadn’t been back in town for that long before he came sniffin’ around. Anyway, it was before I came back. But apparently she hasn’t given him the green light; at least not clearly enough for him to stop hosin’ his way through the county.”
Bruce Goode’s
wood-sided Chrysler Town & Country convertible was as large, and accommodating, as Goode himself. You could land a small plane, Moses thought, on that midnight blue front fender. “Hope you don’t mind a top-down ride,” Goode said. “It cooled off so nicely after last night’s rain that I couldn’t resist.”
“Not at all,” Moses had said. “It’d be a shame to miss the opportunity at this time of year. “you can’t have too many like today during the summer.”
“Oh, it’s fine most any evening. Most of my days don’t end ‘til after dark, so I drive home with the top down all the time. Hope you didn’t find any problems with the documents.”
“No, not much at all. We could’ve handled it in five minutes at the office, but I’m pleased to see a little more of Bisque.”
“Good, good,” Goode exulted. “We’ll take care of it after lunch, and just enjoy a little social time. I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting some of the people that’ll be at the club today.”
Driving out McSwain Road, they met a number of large dump trucks headed into town. Greenish-yellow liquid sloshed through the gaps around their tailgates onto the road. “What’s in the trucks?” asked Moses.
“Peppers,” Goode said. “Pimiento peppers. Big crop for Hamm and the other counties around here. The packing plant’s just north, right at the edge of town. Hamm Foods. We’ll drive by there on the way back.”
The Elks Club, a big old two-story brick house, sat on a low rise overlooking the road. Goode parked the Chrysler under an ancient Oak tree that stood at the edge of the parking lot. They walked up the broad brick steps into a high-ceilinged entrance hall, where a smiling middle-aged Negro man in a white coat greeted them. “Good day, Mistah Goode.”
“Hey, Franklin,” Goode replied. “Have you seen Mr. Proper yet?”
“Yessuh; he’s in the bar.”
Goode touched Moses’ elbow and gestured with his other hand toward a double doorway to their left. Walking through it ahead of him, Moses saw several men standing at the bar, all but one standing with their back to him. The bartender, another middle-aged Negro in a waist-length white jacket, deftly poured the contents of a cocktail shaker into three waiting martini glasses. The man facing them lifted a hand in recognition, and moved away from the bar toward them. He was, Moses guessed, in his late forties; tall, well over six feet, and rawboned, with a thick shock of graying brown hair combed straight back on both sides of the part. Extending his hand to Moses with a broad smile, he said, “Mr. Kubielski, I presume. I’m Roger Proper, Bruce’s partner. I’m glad you were able to join us today.”