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

by Stan Hayes

  “Apparently that’s what he was in the habit of telling people around here. And that he was in the SRP security force. He was discharged in January, 1946. And he’s never had anything, whatever, to do with the Project. Until recently, he lived with his brother in Spartanburg.”

  “Until recently?” Moses said.

  “He was admitted to the Veterans Administration hospital in Augusta last month. He died a few days ago.”

  “On May 27th,” said Franklin.

  “My God,” said Moses. “What did he die of?”

  “Leukemia,” said Long. “Myelogenous leukemia.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess the funeral’s already taken place.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “Well, then.” Said Moses.

  “Uh, yes,” said Long. “Well, we’re charged with following up on all cases like Sergeant Porter’s. As you might imagine, everything about the Los Alamos facility is classified. When information concerning the facility is imparted to unauthorized persons such as yourself, it’s necessary to secure an oath of secrecy from those persons covering the subject information. Have you any objection to executing such a document?”

  “Not in theory,” said Moses. “Naturally, I’d like to look it over. I assume you have it with you.”

  “Yes sir,” said Long, bending to unlatch his briefcase.

  “This thing really holds the road,” said Jack, smiling down the hood at the Roadmaster Estate Wagon’s hood ornament. I can’t ever look at that thing without rememberin’ that one that Mom snuck onto his old wagon, he thought. And that Ricky and I snuck off. Couldn’t stand people callin’ ’im “Budick” when word got around about what it was. Nobody called ’im that to his face, though.

  “Yeah, it does OK,” said Moses. “It’ll haul a ton of stuff, too. I’ll admit I was tempted to trade with Buster for a new Twin-H Power Hornet, but it just doesn’t have the class of this ole four-hole Buick. And I like sitting up off the road like this. Just shows you that what makes a good racer doesn’t necessarily make an ideal road car.”

  “It always gets a second look from people, driving through these little towns. I doubt that they ever saw this much wood on a car before.”

  “Probably not. Buick really scaled up in size with the ’52 models. That grille looks about eight feet wide; seems like it wants to take a bite out of you. “You getting tired?”

  “Not at all. I can take it right on into Baltimore; we’re not even two hours out now.”

  “OK, but don’t try to hang on if you start getting sleepy. Maybe I can get a Baltimore station on the radio. WBAL’s pretty strong.”

  “You know your way around Baltimore, Mose?” asked Jack.

  “Yeah; remember, I lived there for awhile during the war. It’s a pretty nice town,” said Moses, as Clyde McPhatter’s tremulous tenor belted Money Honey from the dashboard speaker. “Damn. They’re playing that stuff up here, too.”

  “You don’t like it?” said Jack, bouncing lightly up and down on the wagon’s upholstery to the music’s beat. “The Drifters are really what’s happenin’. Lee plays ’em all the time now.”

  “Hell, Webster. He’s nuts anyway. I don’t know when he sleeps, bein’ R&B Lee on top of Sundown Serenade and the news. Who’d you say this is?”

  “The Drifters. That’s Clyde McPhatter, their lead singer.”

  “Clyde? Sounds more like a girl. Well, they’ve got some beat, anyway. Seems like all of these bop groups are Negroes.”

  “Yeah. But it’s rhythm and blues,” said Jack, still bouncing. “R&B. Bop’s something else. Old stuff.”

  “Well, as the man says, ‘Thass what makes horse racin’.’ Every generation’s got to have its own music. And I guess this must be music. Must be why the Winston’s R&B Lee’s sole sponsor.”

  The next afternoon, they rode majestically up the New Jersey Turnpike, the wagon’s big straight-eight still loafing as Jack let his speed creep up toward seventy-five. Glad to have Baltimore behind them, Moses had lapsed into reverie, not noticing Jack’s ignoring their “keep it under sixty” agreement. They’d be in New York soon. He’d made new arrangements on the phone last night with Larry Mason. He seemed a decent enough sort, as least as far as could be determined from a single phone call. He was looking forward to their meeting, he said, but he was on his way out the door to catch a cab to LaGuardia. He’d left a message for them with the doorman.

  He said that he’d been called, on a day’s notice, to testify before a congressional subcommittee. He’d be in Washington for at least three days; the university’s legal counsel had advised him to pack for a week. Both Jack and Moses were invited to make themselves at home in his apartment. His housekeeper would see that they’d be comfortable. There’s plenty of room, he said, and they’d have time to visit when he returned. He hoped that would be all right. Moses said he thought that would be fine, since Jack would be at home, in a way, and Moses could attend his meetings and not be worried about him. Besides, this was a fait accompli. And he and Jack might do a little sightseeing together.

  He hadn’t yet told Jack about Linda. She was twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven now. And hands down the best part, he thought, of the war years he’d sweated out in Baltimore. Like thousands of other young artists, she’d come to New York looking for God knows what, but she was there, and he meant to see her. It had been almost seven years since he’d talked to Sarah, her mother, and their conversation last week hadn’t been particularly pleasant. She had, true to the cliché, remembered nothing and forgotten nothing. As alcoholics often are, she was by turns mean, sad and noncommittal, but she knew that Linda would never have gotten to Johns Hopkins, let alone finished her degree, without his help. So she’d given him Linda’s number in New York, without asking for his in return. The conversation ended lamely, and he thought that it was probably their last.

  First things first, though; they’d get settled at Mason’s apartment, which was on Manhattan’s upper west side, near Columbia. He thought that he’d keep his room reservation at the Hilton, where the Feingold meetings would be. He’d run down tomorrow, the day before it began, look things over and check the event schedule. Then he’d give her a call. Sarah had said that she was working with photographers, and that she was “…in and out at all hours.”

  “Mose. Hey, Mose.”

  Jack’s voice brought him back inside the Buick. “Yeah. What?”

  “We only have a couple of more exits before the tunnel. You want to take over soon?”

  “Yeah. Look for a Howard Johnson’s sign. There should be one soon. I could use a cuppa coffee before we hit New York traffic.”

  “Them towels suit you, Mistah Kabeesky?” asked Marella, Larry Mason’s housekeeper. She was, he guessed, last forties and five-two, her squat frame packed inside a black and white maid’s uniform, its shortness accentuated by the battered house slippers that encased her broad feet.

  “They’re just fine, Marella, thanks. I think we’re all set here. Hope we haven’t kept you too long.”

  “Shoot. I’m used to it. Dr. Mason have two-three parties a month. He pay me well to get home late now and then. Anyway, I ain’t hurryin’ off when Mistah Jack’s here.”

  “You’ve been with Dr. Mason for awhile, then?”

  “Since he come back to Columbia after de waw. Fall terma ’45. And little Jack, he come up for Christmas dat first year. We had a lotta fun; still do, evy time he come. He might as well be one a’ mine.”

  “Yes, he’s a wonderful kid.”

  “And he have a wonderful daddy, too. He done tole me about you.”

  Moses stiffened, just a little. “He did? What did he tell you?”

  “He say you useta live here, but you went South and got rich.”

  Smiling, Moses said, “That’s a little strong, Marella. I’ve had some good luck in Bisque, but I’m a long way from rich.”

  She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Guess dat depen’s on whatcha call rich. All Dr. Mason know is what
he hear from Miz Mason. And what he don’ hear. Well, I wawna go visit with Mistah Jack some now while you freshen up. If I be gone ’fo you finish, dinner’s in de oven. Hope you likes po’k roast; dat an’ mash taters be his favorite.”

  “It sounds mighty fine to me, too. Thanks for everything; see you tomorrow.”

  He was on the street at nine-thirty the next morning, leaving Jack asleep and Marella on duty. Moses pulled out of the Park Avenue parking space that they’d been lucky enough to find the day before, drove downtown to 86th Street, turning right and driving across Manhattan to Seventh Avenue. Turning downtown again, he drove down the avenue to 54th Street and turned left. He saw the sign for the Hilton’s parking garage halfway up the block, drove to the entrance and pulled in. Getting a claim check for the car, he rode the elevator up to the lobby and checked in. “Can I get a long-term parking rate for my car?” he asked the desk clerk.

  “We do have a weekly rate, sir; I see your reservation’s just for five days, though.”

  “Can you extend the reservation through next weekend?”

  “Let’s see. Would you want to check out Monday, the fifteenth?”

  “Yes. That’ll be fine.”

  “All right, sir. You’re all set, Mr. Kubielski. Enjoy your stay in New York.”

  He had the elevator to himself on the ride up to his room on the twenty-eighth floor. It had been years since he’d been here, but the drive downtown had him feeling very much at home again with the city’s noise and frenetic, purposeful confusion. His thoughts drifted to a cold, gray day in December of 1928, thirty-odd blocks downtown, sitting with his mother in their Gramercy Park apartment’s kitchen, the morning after he’d joined the navy. He’d wanted to tell his mother first, after his father had left. Even though New York University wasn’t in session, Herr Doktor still went to his office almost every day.

  Her reaction to his news had been, as he’d imagined, a combination of curiosity and concern. He knew that his father’s would be much different. Her soft brown eyes, set in the heart-shaped face that, at forty-six, was still as smooth as a girl’s, looked steadily across the table at him. “The Navy.” she’d said, her Irish accent deepening, adding a couple of extra a’s to the word. She might as well have said “the circus.” “Of all things, son. Why?”

  “Well, Mama, NYU’s through with me, and I can’t live here with you and Papa forever. If I stay here, all I’ll want to do is go on fighting, and that’ll just make you and him unhappier with me than you are already.”

  “But joining the Navy! Just like that, and without a word to your father and me! Where did you get such an idea in the first place?”

  I met some Navy guys the other day on the ferry. One of ’em was a fighter. He told me about boxing in the navy. They have a championship elimination round every year. So I can go on fightin’ while I’m in, workin’ on my skills, and by the time I get out I’ll probably have fought enough to know if I’m good enough to make it as a pro. Maybe I’ll come out a fleet champion.”

  “Peter, all I know about boxing is that winning means hurting your opponent more than he hurts you. But even I know that there are many good fighters, but very few who can make a living out of it. What will you do if you turn out to be just another good one?”

  “I don’t know, Mama. But I do know that I hafta find out one way or the other. At least I can do a four-year navy hitch, learn some stuff I don’t know, go some places I’ve never been and maybe save some money. Then, if fightin’s not in the cards for me, I’ll move on to something else. But I can’t just stay here.”

  She shook her head slowly, standing up and moving to his side of the table, leaning over to put her arm around him, her mother-smell comforting him in a way words never could. “You are all we have, son, your father and I. We’ve lived for the day that you’d get your degree and go on to graduate school. We came to America in time for you to be born here, so that you might start your life as something that we both had to work hard to become; an American citizen. Do you remember going out to the Statue of Liberty when you were three? On your birthday?”

  “Yeah, a little. Or maybe I just remember talking about it when we went the other times. I still love boatridin’ around Manhattan.”

  “You were so small then. Like a little Viking, with your blond hair. Papa held you up on the railing at the front of the boat, and you wouldn’t let him put you down. I was so afraid that you’d catch cold. It was a bright sunny morning, and warm for November, and you kept pulling the hood of your jacket off your head, and Papa couldn’t put it back on because he was holding you tight with both hands. I remember the sun shining through your fine yellow hair, and the wind blowing through it, and you pointing at the statue as we came closer and closer. Do you remember what you called her?”

  “Sure. And I still think it’s the best name for her. “Da Green Queen.”

  She laughed, hugging him tighter. “That’s right. “Da Green Queen.” The weather turned her copper skin green. And time’s turned your hair brown. I should’ve guessed that you loved the sea even then. Well, I suppose there are worse things you could do than serve this great country while you decide what to make of your life. That’s what we’ll tell your father.”

  “I wish I could’ve been what you and Papa wanted me to be. I can’t understand why school drives me crazy.”

  She squeezed both his shoulders, walking over to the stove to stir the oatmeal that she’d kept warm for him. “Maybe it’s Papa and I who’ve been a little crazy, pushing you towards an academic life because of what it’s meant to us. It would’ve been different if you’d had brothers or sisters; as it is, you carry our little family’s destiny on your shoulders. What we seem to have lost sight of is the fact that they’re your shoulders.” Had her back not been to him, she would have seen the flicker of shock pass over his face.

  He called the bell stand from his room, confirming that the first Feingold function was a cocktail party at five that afternoon. I’ll hit that for an hour or so, he thought, and then take a cab back up to Mason’s. He had insisted that Marella not cook dinner today, wanting to take Jack out to a restaurant and for a look around the neighborhood. That settled, he picked up the telephone and dialed Linda’s number. It rang just a couple of times before she answered, her husky voice wiping out the years since he’d last heard it.

  “Hello.”

  “Linda. This is Mose.”

  “Mose! Where are you?”

  “Right here in little old New York.”

  “Mother called me yesterday; said you were coming up on business. When can we get together?”

  “As soon as you have time. Are you working today?”

  “Yes, I have a shoot from one to five. Where are you staying?”

  “The Hilton. On Sixth Avenue.”

  “That’s on my way to work. If you’re going to be there, why don’t I drop by on my way? I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Likewise, kid. I’ll be right here. Room 2831.” He placed the receiver back into its cradle, slowly and precisely as if he were testing the fit, as his thoughts eased him back onto the narrow streets of the Baltimore neighborhood that he, she and her mother had shared during the long years of a war that he, though a noncombatant, had taken a hand in winning. His concern, love, for the daughter was far deeper than the gratitude that he felt toward the mother; he’d covered the difference between her Johns Hopkins scholarship and the total of what it had taken to see her through to graduation.

  Moses answered her knock on the door at a little after eleven. He opened the door to a grown woman whom he’d last seen as a girl. “Mose!” she said, smiling, stretching out her arms as she crossed the threshold. They hugged each other like long-lost relatives, laughing and patting each other on the back. “How long will you be in town?” she asked as they held each other at arms’ length.

  As plain as she used to be, he thought, she’s turned out to be damn sexy. And she’s gotta be five-ten. Her dark red hair, at shoulder le
ngth, framed the angular face that her mother said had come ‘straight off her father.’ Her tanned skin was in striking contrast with the light gray of her sleeveless shift.

  “ ’Til the fifteenth. Monday week.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific! We’ll have a chance to really catch up. What brings you to town?”

  “Business, with a personal twist. I’m here for a meetin’, but I drove up with the son of a friend of mine. A boy, sixteen. His dad lives here, and he’s visitin’ him for a few weeks. Since his dad was called out of town unexpectedly for a few days, I’m keepin’ an eye on Jack ’til he gets back.”

  “So your friend’s his mother.”

  “Right.”

  “Sounds familiar. Taking care of your women friends’ kids.”

  “Only the good ones,” Moses laughed. “You’d like him.”

  “Jack, huh? Why don’t you bring him over to my place? I live over on the river. On a boat.”

  “Really! Which river?”

  “Hudson. At the 79th Street Marina.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’d like that. And you’ll like him.”

  “How about dinner one night? You guys come over, we’ll have drinks and go someplace. He’d probably like Mama Leone’s.”

  “OK. What’s a good night for you?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine, if you guys can make it.”

  “Don’t see why not. How’s seven?”

  “Great. The boat’s the Petrel. The cab can bring you most of the way. I’ll put a red flag on the mast truck.”

  “Where?”

  “The mast truck. The top of the mast. Just look up at the top of the boats’ masts for a red flag. Petrel’s painted on the stern. You can’t miss it.”

  “I forgot to ask you; is she yours?”

  “The Petrel? No. I rent it. From a friend.”

  “Do you ever take her out?”

  “Sure. If you guys are up to a little crewing, we could go out on Sunday.”