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

by Stan Hayes

  As they returned to the parking lot, a pale green ’50 Chevrolet two-door turned into the lot from the opposite end. Preston, Jack thought. As the distance closed between them, the car moved quickly to its left toward the bike. Jack saw it in time to swerve, jumping the curb as the car flashed by. The quick movement and Diana’s flailing legs put the bike into side-to-side oscillations that almost dropped them onto the schoolyard grass before he got it stopped. They sat there in mild shock for a moment before realizing that the car had stopped and backed up to a point just behind them. They turned to see the driver’s door open and Preston Rogers’ argyle-socked, Weejun-shod feet slide out. “Gee, I’m awfully sorry,” he said, smirking. “Hope you’re not shook up or anything.” As he spoke, Kenny Brown’s head and large shoulders appeared above the roof on the other side of the coupe.

  “Fuck you,” Jack croaked. “Hop off, Di.” As she did, he swung his leg over the bike, closed the gas tap under the tank and dropped it on its side. He walked toward Preston, not knowing exactly what he was going to do. This guy was no athlete, unless you counted golf, but he was a couple years older than him, and Kenny the Ape, who’d managed to hang on to a second-string tackle position on the Bisque Bears, appeared to be backing him up. All he could do was take Mose’s advice about handling trouble. Meet it head-on, keep your options open, and watch the other guy’s eyes.

  Preston hadn’t expected the situation to develop into anything. It had just been a target of opportunity; he and Kenny had seen people on one of those shitty little motorbikes like Terrell’s. Once he realized that it wasn’t Terrell, he thought, he should’ve just forgotten it. But it was his asshole buddy, Mason, and he just couldn’t let it go without doing something. “What’d you say?”

  Jack, now two feet away, responded off the top of his head. “I said ‘fuck you,’ Rogers. What the hell you think you’re doin’? Can’t you drive that shitcan?”

  “You’re the po-tential accident,” said Preston, checking Kenny’s position with a quick glance over his shoulder. “Pissin’ around outa control with a passenger on that goddam stomach pump; hell, you don’t even have a driver’s license. You’re lucky you’re both not in an ambulance right now. You still could be, if you don’t get on that piecea crap and get outa here.” He reached a hand out to Jack’s chest to push him. As a dim memory of a mail-order judo book illustration jumped into clarity, Jack clapped both of his hands on top of Preston’s, anchoring it to his chest, and quickly bent forward at the waist. His hand bent back to the limit of its travel, and Preston went to his knees, yelping in pain and surprise.

  Jack, just as surprised, stepped back, saying nothing as Preston scrambled to his feet, gripping his wrist with his other hand as he fought back tears of embarrassment. “Kenny! What the hell’s going on? Get that bastard!” Kenny’s synapses labored through his mental molasses, processing the non-fight; eyes narrow, lips drawn back over green teeth, he’d picked up considerable momentum as he rounded the corner of the car, his objective a collision with Jack at destruct velocity. He collided instead with Diana’s outstretched foot, sending his two-fifty-plus crashing nose-first to the concrete, lungs exhausting in a whooshy grunt. Stepping between his splayed legs, she eliminated any remaining interest in carnage with a smart kick in the balls. And she wasn’t done.

  Stepping over Kenny’s fetally-contracted body, Diana moved past Jack and confronted Preston, looking straight into his distended eyes with a fury that neither boy could have ever imagined. She screeched “Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!” Her face distorted by an anger that seemed to have no place to stop short of murder, she grabbed the boy’s sore wrist and smashed it against the car’s fender. As he screamed, she reached down and gripped both his ankles, pulling his feet out from under him. Preston sat down hard on his coccyx, crying uncontrollably. Diana turned back to Kenny and kicked him in the side of the head, continuing the “Asshole!” chant.

  In the forty seconds since “bastard” had left Preston’s lips, Jack had been a dumbstruck spectator. Seeing that Diana had no intention of stopping her assault, he tackled her as she jumped up and down on Kenny’s midsection, taking her into the grass and rolling on top of her. “Di! Stop! They’re hurt. They’re hurt bad!”

  “No, they’re not,” grated Diana. “But they’re gonna be. Lemme up.” As she struggled to get up of Jack’s grip, the Bishops’ car rolled to a stop beside them, two Whizzers on its tail.

  “Diana!” screamed Dolores. “What’d you do?”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Ricky, running to the pair, looking over them at Preston and Kenny. “What the hell happened, Jack? Get offa her!” Seeing her sister, Diana stopped struggling and sat up, crying softly.

  Everyone jumped out of the white car; Dolores pushed the boys out of the way and sat on the grass next to her sister, holding her, stroking her hair and talking to her in hushed, soothing tones. Ricky gave Jack a hand up and, under Evvie’s watchful gaze, pulled him aside. “What the fuck did you do to those guys, and how?”

  “I didn’t do a damn thing,” Jack replied, looking fixedly at Preston and Kenny, who were still on the pavement. “It was Di.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No. But I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’tve seen it myself. She went nuts. It was like she was a different person.”

  “What happened?”

  After hearing Jack’s recap of the events of the past few minutes, a fast-growing smile lit Ricky’s face. “Holy shit,” he said, “She must be friggin’ fast. Come on.” He walked over to a spot between Preston and Kenny. “Hey Preston, how’s it feel to have a girl kick your ass and the help’s? If I was you, I’d be keepin’ my distance from these girls. Just think what both of ’em could do to ya.” Preston’s wet face looked up at Ricky and Jack with high-test hatred, saying nothing and saying everything. Kenny, who had rolled to a sitting position against a back wheel of the green coupe, made a move to get up that his body quickly vetoed. “I wouldn’t do that, Ken,” said Ricky in a stage whisper. “She’s still here.”

  “Accidents will happen, boys,” said Jack. “Get well soon.” He walked over to the girls. “Everything OK?”

  “It is now, at least as far as Diana’s concerned,” said Dolores. “Will those boys be OK?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jack said, standing the Whizzer up on its wheels. “We’ll wait on you girls to get outa here. Y’all ready?” The boys fired up their bikes, turned and waited for the Buick to back up and pull out of the lot.

  Dolores headed the car toward town on Julep, away from the Dog House and back to Evvie’s. “Y’all gotta be straight wi’ me now,” said Evvie, who had gotten into the front seat with the twins, “P’ticly if I’m gonna hep you make cheerleader next year. I heard Jack say that you ’us th’ one laid them two big boys out, Diana. I never saw nuthin’ like that in my life. Y’all must be ju-jitzers ‘r sump’m. What’s goin’ on?

  “It’s nothin’,” said Dolores, “Just that we’re better off stickin’ together. If we get too far away from each other, sometimes we get excited and do stuff that we ought not to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that situation back there. We just sort of over-react to things we don’t like. But as long as we stay together, we’re just like anybody else.”

  “No, honey. I just saw that ‘sitchashun’ back there, and I know y’all ’re sump’m special, ain’t no gettin’ around it. How long’ve ya’ll been livin’ with this stickin’ together bidness?”

  “Since we could walk,” said Diana, fully restored to her Dog House bounciness. When we were two, Granny took Dolores to the doctor one time, and she popped ’im. Gave ’im a black eye. It didn’t take too long for our folks to figure out we did better by stayin’ together.”

  “Guess not. Is hittin’ people mainly what y’all do when you get separated?”

  “No. Sometimes we cuss. Real bad,” said Dolores.

  “But, you know what,” Diana interjected, “We do some really special things- inte
resting things- when we’re together.”

  “That’s right,” said Dolores. Like seeing ahead.”

  “Seein’ ahead?” said Evvie. “Ya mean liike ’at ’ere fortune teller- whassername, Madam Sophia- out north a’town?”

  “She’s a fake,” sniffed Diana. “We do it.”

  “Izzat riit? Tell me somethin’ that’s gonna happen.”

  “It’s not like that. Stuff comes when it comes. We don’t have a crystal ball or anything.”

  “Sump’m else that comes sometimes,” said Dolores, “is stuff that happened before. Guess we got ourselves some kinda cranky-ass time machine. It won’t work unless it wants to.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d sure liike to know anythang that comes inta ya’ll about me; you know, just anythang. You can tell people when sump’m- uh- comes to ya about ’em, caincha?”

  “Oh, yeah, we can; but it’s not always such a good idea. There’s good stuff and bad stuff, and sometimes it’s just a feelin’ that could be either good or bad. So we really haven’t told anybody much- yet. We’ve seen a lot of stuff happen the way we understood it would, though. If you’re sure you wanta know, though, you can make the chances better for us to have sump’m of yours.”

  “Liike what?”

  “Just give us sump’m of yours that we can keep around. Seems liike people’s stuff attracts stuff about them sometimes.”

  “OK. What?”

  “Anything that’s yours. If you’ve had it for awhile.”

  “Well, miit as well take care uv it riit now. Lemme see, what can-”

  “Evvie,” said Diana. “How ’bout your little football player?”

  Evvie looked down at the gold figurine. “Sure. Guess that’d be better than my panties, wouldn’t it? There’s not much else I got ta take off, an’ the boy I got it from’s long gone. Here; undo th’ chain an’ just hold onto th’ whole thang.” She turned her back to Diana, who undid the clasp. “Hey; why donchall just take turns wearin’ it? Might shake sump’m loose a little quicker, bein’ so close.”

  “There’s no tellin’ when something’ll come, or if it will at all,” said Dolores, but we’ll pass on whatever we get, if you’re sure you want it.”

  “Sure I do, Hon. Nothin’ like a little warnin’, don’t matter if th’ news’s good’r bad.”

  “That’s true, I guess, about the future,” said Dolores as they stopped in front of Evvie’s house. “But not about the past. Then it’s not a warning. Just reminds you about things. Things you might not want to remember.”

  “I’ll take m’chances, Hon,” said Evvie, leaning on the white car’s window sill, grinning. “Ya’ll jus’ rub on ’at little ballplayer fah me now an ’en.”

  Nelson Lord, mouth agape and breathing hard, cut through the hotel lobby, marbly black eyes looking back in terror over his shoulder as he pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen, a half-hour late. He’d parked two blocks away and run along the network of back alleys that crisscrossed Bisque’s business district. Sweeping lank black hair out of his eyes with a shake of his head, he grabbed his apron off its hook and stuck his head through the neck loop. Johnnie Mae, who’d been looking at him since the doors had hit the wall with a boom, shook her head resignedly and stirred the large skillet of streak-of-lean that was destined for the day’s collard greens.

  “When’re these here meat loafs due out, Johnnie Mae?” he asked as he closed the oven door.

  “Ten-thutty,” she said, still studying the bubbling sowbelly. “Stew meat’s ready riit now.”

  “OK. “I’ll git th’ carrots.” He took three bunches out of the refrigerator, chopped the tops and tails off with a large chef’s knife, and took them to the sink to scrub. That crazy bastard won’t come in here, he thought, his hands steadying as they sliced the carrots. Layin’ for me outside my place, talkin’ about retterbewshun, that shotgun propped up where I could see it, an actin’ like he wanted ta whup my ass. Next time I see that bastard I’ll have my own iron. I’ll use this here knife on his fuckin’ neck. Wouldn’t be much more to it’n loppin’ th’ head off a turkey.

  Moses saw the black ’48 Ford as he pulled up to the hotel, its driver’s door agape, a thread of blue-white smoke drifting up from its tailpipe, abandoned in the street. Maxine had called him at the office, unable to keep the hysteria out of her voice. “Mose? I just hung up with Sadie; she ’us just a’squallin’. Johnny beat her up when he saw them black an’ blue tits, and she told ’im she’d been out with Nels. She tried to call ’im at th’ caf-e, but th’ line ’us busy, so she called me. He left th’ house carryin’ ’is shotgun.” Shouting at Ralph Williams to call the police as he ran out the door, Moses was outside the café minutes later. Leaving his car in the street, he ran inside just as a shotgun’s thunder shook the building. Crashing through the kitchen doors, he almost collided with Reba, who stood over a writhing, screaming John Lindall. She held his 12-gauge Remington pump and looked down at him as though he’d dropped onto the floor from the moon.

  “Reba,” Moses said in a gentle voice as he held out his hand to take the gun. She gave it up without looking at him; he pumped the shells out of it and stood it in the corner. He put his arm around Reba, who hadn’t moved.

  “He ’us gonna shoot Nels, Mose,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  A small crowd had gathered behind them, holding the swinging doors open. “Somebody call an ambulance,” Moses said over his shoulder. “Did you shoot him, Reba?”

  “No. He’s burnt from the coffee I poured on him. The gun went off when I picked it up.”

  “Run get some ice, willya?” He took a step toward Lindall, whose screaming had turned to groaning. Help’s on the way, Lindall,” he said. “We’ll cool ya down in a minute.”

  Two policemen, one a sergeant, pushed through the crowd. “All right, y’all; move on outa here,” the sergeant said. “Show’s over.” He turned to Moses. “What’s your piecea this, mister?”

  “Got here just aheada you. Looks like this guy had shootin’ th’ cook in mind, and Miz Reba put a stop to it with a pot a’ hot coffee.” Reba had returned with Johnnie Mae, who put Lindall on his back and covered his lap with the café’s miniature ice cubes.

  “That what happened, Miz Reba?” asked the sergeant.

  “Yessir,” she said through chattering teeth. “He come in here totin’ that gun, grabbed me by th’ arm and said, ‘where’s that damn Lord at?’ We started for th’ kitchen, and I grabbed a pot a coffee offa th’ hot plate an’ poured it on ‘im.”

  “Where is Lord at?”

  “He run out th’ back door when he saw this crazy fool,” said Reba, “an’ us with th’ lunch rush ta handle.”

  “Well, call us if he shows up. We’ll need to talk to ’im. Don’t look liike you’ll be covered up with business this here lunchtime, anyway. We need ta take yores an’ Mr…”

  “Kubielski,” said Moses.

  “Oh, yeah, Cue… uh, Kabeesky. Th’ beer dealer, riit? Sergeant Malone. We need yore statement about what happened, too. Does any a’them cars out’air in th’ street belong ta you?”

  “Yeah. The Buick.”

  “You mind if my man parks it while we go in yonder-” he indicated the hotel lobby- “an’ getcher statement? We gotta get this traffic movin’.”

  “That’s fine. Ask ’im to bring the keys back, willya?”

  At the end of Moses’ five-minute police interview, he stood in the lobby in a haze of decompression when Serena’s voice cut suddenly into the back of his neck. “Well, dickhead; whattaya do for an encore?”

  “Huh?” Startled, he turned around to face her stony gaze, the green eyes dark with a rage he’d never seen. “Whatchoo talkin’ about?”

  “Nothing much. Just about you and your goddam pal in there bringing your fucking low-life antics into my hotel in broad daylight, disrupting my business this way. What the hell is this bullshit all about? What’re you doing just happening by when that maniac shows up?”

  “I
got a phone call…”

  “Oh, you did? How nice. His wife, no doubt.”

  “Well, yes, in a way; she told a friend of hers that that asshole was gunnin’ for Nels. What should I’ve done, just let ’im get blown away?”

  “Obviously not. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna let you worthless sonofabitches ruin this hotel. I don’t care how good a cook Nelson is, this is his last day under my roof.”

  “I think you owe it to him,” said Moses, “to hear his side of the story.”

  “Oh, I know the story,” she grated through her teeth. “It’s been making the rounds for a day or two. Maxine runs a beauty parlor, remember? They say she really thinks a lot of you and Nelson. Sorry I can’t say the same.”

  Moses reddened. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t afford the time to watch you cut off your nose to spite your face. Be seein’ you.” He walked out on the street to find his car.

  The Steinerbru clock’s hands pointed to ten after eight when, against his better judgement, he walked through the Bisque Lunch Room’s swinging doors. For the first time in his experience, there was no place to sit. Lee Webster, who must have been there for awhile, waved him over to the left side of the bar. “Hey, buddy; take this stool. I need to stretch my legs.”

  Moses sat, looking behind the bar at Ribeye and a volunteer cracking beers as fast as they could. He caught Webster, who was looking toward the door, by the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “Huh?” said Webster, startled.

  “Why the crowd?”

  “You’re kidding- I heard you were there.”

  “Where?”

  “The café. When Lindall shot at Lord today.”