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

by Stan Hayes

  “You can ask me that, after servin’ a ten-year sentence yourself? It’s Bisque, that’s all. A little town fulla little people. I’ll never forget what you said that day when we were driving back from Rick’s house the day they kicked him off the team. ‘Most of these fuckin’ people are so full of fear that they’ve forgotten what they’re afraid of.’ Understanding that was really the beginning of my growing up. Oh. Pap died last year.”

  “I’m sorry. It must’ve been unexpected.”

  “Yep. Heart attack. He’d just turned eighty. Guess I thought he’d go on forever.”

  “He was as good a man as I ever knew. And I know I said that about th’ Bisquites, but lookin’ back on the few places I’ve been, it’s pretty much the same anywhere you go. Most people live in fear. And thanks to the God industry, they’re not just afraid to die; they’re afraid of what’s going to happen to them after they die. Let’s just, as they say, ‘rejoice’ that we’re not on that particular ship of fools.”

  “Speakin’ of fools,” Jack said, John Lindall’s in th’ ground.”

  Moses’ eyes narrowed. “How about that. Somebody shoot ’im?”

  “Nope. Guess you could say he did it to himself. Remember how hot people got when the Civil Rights Act got passed?”

  “Whooee. I can still see alla those little Georgia flags that th’ Slut Brigade brought to that last party.”

  “Well, the city council was split 3 to 3 on closin’ the swimming pool out at th’ park to the keep the blacks out. They wrangled around tryin’ to get your ol’ pal the chairman to break the tie, and it got into the paper in one way or another every day. Well, ol’ Johnny was maybe three, four weeks outa prison; drivin’ a ready-mix truck for Jernigan.”

  “Umm-hm.”

  “Well, he decided to take the job outa the council’s hands. He took a full load of concrete out there after dark, backed up to the fence, knocked it down and went to the back of th’ truck to drop the chute,” Jack grinned. “He just forgot one thing.”

  “What was that?”

  “To set the brake. Goddamn truck crunched his ass on its way into th’ pool.”

  “Bet that got th’ Klan hoppin’.”

  “Got th’ council hoppin’, too. Th’ damn pool was slap-full a’concrete by the end of the week. And there’s more good news.”

  “Don’t know if I can handle any more,” Mose chuckled.

  “Yes you can. Wahoo’s now the ex-Sheriff of Hamm County; lost the election last year.”

  “Good God!” How’d that happen?”

  “What you might expect; too horny for too long. Accordin’ to th’ grapevine, Dr. Clinton opened the door to this supply room at th’ hospital, and there was ol’ Wahoo, takin’ a ride on a Licensed Practical Nurse of the Negro persuasion.”

  “Holy shit! Even he should know there’s a limit. Or at least to lock the door.”

  Jack grinned. “Nobody’s perfect, least of all Wahoo. I doubt he thought anybody’d dare to mention it. After all, he’us th’ law. If it’d been an intern or somebody that found ’em, he’dve probably pulled it off. But Dr. Clinton called the cops and signed a complaint.”

  “Overconfidence’ll do it every time. So who’s sheriff?”

  “Guy named Malone. Used to be on the police force. Coulda been a police dog an’ve beaten Wahoo.”

  “Sic transit gloria hard-on. What’s he doing now?”

  “Working for th’ company.”

  It was Peter’s turn to grin. “Doin’ what?”

  “One of the things that he does real well. Drivin’ around.”

  “Beer delivery?”

  “Yep. Seems to be enjoying it. Except for Ralph bein’ his boss. But you can’t have everything; he’s got a wife to support.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “Evvie Summers.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. The ever-pregnant Mrs. McDaniel. She, excuse the expression, fingered him.”

  Peter was still grinning. “You’ve become an evil person, my boy.”

  “Not at all. I just tried my best to think like you. To see the potential in an unusual situation. Not that I’m not taking a little perverse pleasure in the process.”

  “So you like the beer business?”

  “Not all that much, but Bev and Ralph pretty much run it. I’ve only been on the scene full time since last June. And I’ve put out feelers for a buyer.”

  Peter’s grin faded slightly. “Really. Why would you want to sell a cash cow like that?”

  “Because I wanta be gone from Bisque. And thanks to you, I’ll clear enough from the sale to do exactly what you did; found the Republic of Me.”

  “No doubt of that,” said Peter, grinning broadly as he refillled their drinks. “What’d you do last year?”

  “A little under three and a half.”

  “Well, don’t take less than ten. And no payout; if you’re gonna leave town, hold them to a cash deal.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jack. “And Bruce thinks I can get closer to twelve.”

  “Bruce Goode?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, it’s your deal, buddy. I’d feel better if Pap was there to give you a hand. Of course you know I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “I know that very well, Mose. Jesus. Peter. How’s long’s it gonna take for you to start bein’ Peter to me? Thanks.”

  “Is your mom still there?”

  In Bisque? No. She’s been back in New York for awhile now.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, it’s been almost two years.”

  “Does she like it as well as she thought she would?”

  “Seems to. Her stuff’s selling pretty well, and she thinks she’s getting a commission from somebody- Philip Morris, I think- to do a big piece for them. Big fee, although that doesn’t mean as much to her as the recognition, particularly since Pap died.”

  “That’s the way to live in New York,” said Linda. “An independent income.”

  Jack looked at her, trying and failing to stop reliving at lightspeed their every moment together. “Not a bad way to live anywhere,” he said.

  “How’s Ricky doin’?” asked Peter.

  “Pretty damn well,” said Jack. “He was drafted by the Colts, so the next time I’ll see him may be on television. Goes by Rick now, by the way. And still buying the Jesus bit. I’ll probably be pesterin’ his ass for tickets to a Giants game before long.”

  “Rick was Jack’s best friend, growin’ up in Bisque,” Peter said to Linda. “They were my welcomin’ committee to town, back in ’46.”

  “Yeah, we were,” said Jack. “I can still see th’ steam blowin’ outa that big old white Buick.”

  “Speakin’ of that,” said Peter, “What about the Bishop twins?”

  Jack’s grin widened as he looked at Linda. “I doubt that he’s told you about the Bishop twins.”

  “Not a thing,” said Linda, her eyebrows arching slightly as she returned the grin.

  “They were the town psychics.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, really. They could see things that would happen in the future, and back into the past, too. They were sump’m. When this girl accused Rick of knockin’ her up, they told him that the baby was her old boyfriend’s, who she was still seeing while she and Rick were together. They told him, and his folks, exactly when and where it happened, all the details down to what they both were wearing. Rick’s dad got the three families together and confronted Trisha and Preston- the old boyfriend- with the details. They folded up on the spot, and Rick was off the hook.”

  “They were sump’m, all right,” said Peter with a wry shake of his head. “They got hold of my old car and started followin’ me around town in th’ damn thing. They got to where they’d just walk up to me and start telling me stuff about myself that nobody could’ve known. Called me ‘Petey.’ They made a believer out of me in nothin’ flat. Scared the shit out of me, with all those FBI and AEC peepers all ov
er th’ place.”

  “I’ll tell you sump’m else,” said Jack. “They wanted to screw you, in the worst way.”

  Peter glanced at Linda. “I don’t suppose I should ask how you happen to know that.”

  “They told us- Rick and me. We got to be pretty good friends after they cleared up th’ Trisha business.”

  “Well,” said Peter, “by the time Dieter- Paul, at the time- showed up, their screwin’ around had gotten me about ready to bail outa Bisque anyway. It was only a matter of time before one or another Fed tapped into the Bisque grapevine. And not long after that they woulda been askin’ me questions that I didn’t have the right answers for.”

  “The twins’ problem,” Jack explained to Linda, “was sump’m that nobody in Bisque’d ever heard of. Tourette’s syndrome, but with a twist. They were okay as long as they were togther- you know, close by each other- but if they got separated, they’d go kinda crazy.”

  “Tourette’s. That the one where people suddenly start talkin’ nasty in public?” asked Linda.

  “Yeah, among other things,” said Jack. “I guess it’s a lot better known now than it was back in the forties. My introduction to it was during grammar school; one of them got stuck recitin’ a poem and out of the blue shouted “fuuuck!” as loud as she could. From then on, there wasn’t any question that the Bishop twins- later known as the Boobsie Twins, for their post-puberty development- were people to be reckoned with.”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” said Peter, “but do you know what became of them?”

  “Oh, yeah. According to Lee Webster, who got it from their aunt the beautician, they’re livin’ in New York. You’ll love this; they’re commodity traders.”

  “Commodity traders?”

  “Believe it or not. Appears as how they’d been helpin’ their daddy do sump’m they call hedgin’, sellin’ cattle an’ buyin’ grain, since they were thirteen, fourteen. One of the packin’ company guys got wind of it an’ started keepin’ up with their ‘uncanny’ success, hired ’em both right outa Georgia, and they jumped from there to th’ New York office of one ’a th’ big brokerage houses. By th’ way; I bought your car from ’em pretty soon after you left.”

  “What?” Peter barked, unable to hide the momentary look of distress that crossed his face.

  “I said I bought it. The engine blew up while they were travelin’ with the Tabernacle, and their daddy had it towed to the Buick place. I gave Foster two bills for it, and got Skeeter and Roy to straighten it out. Drove it down here from Bisque without the first burp. Roy says it’s gotta be makin’ around 400 horsepower now.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “You won’t believe it. Roy ported the head and found some big Pontiac valves that’d fit. Put in a Crane cam, Jahns 10-to-1 pistons, Edelbrock headers, two Holley 500 cfm carbs, an aluminum flywheel, oil cooler and steel main bearing caps. He took a set of new stock rods and got ’em heat treated, shot-peened and magnafluxed. I remember you sayin’ it’d do eighty in second gear; it’ll do ninety-five now.”

  “I thought I’d seen the last of that white elephant.” said Peter.

  “You have,” said Jack. “It’s blue now. Authentic 1941 Buick Musketeer Blue. And they repainted the engine block red, the stock color for just that one year. But here’s the best part.”

  “What?”

  “It’s cool. Air-conditioned, that is. Wait’ll you see the size of that compressor. Six vents blowin’ cold air all over that ole bus.”

  “And a stock hood ornament?” Peter asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Plain old bombsight,” Jack laughed. “But I still have the ‘custom’ one, if you want it.”

  “Sounds like a drugstore cowboy’s dream, just like it is.”

  “Well, ride ’em, cowboy. It’s yours again.”

  “Wait a minute…”

  “Just think of it as th’ smallest of paybacks. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will. Thanks, bud. Maybe they’ll bury me in it. I can’t help thinkin’ how big it’d have gone over in Havana.”

  “Yeah, with that Gilbert Roland profile, you’da slayed ’em.”

  They stood abreast on the beach, Linda’s arms around their waists, watching the Atlantic’s blue-gray color deepen in the setting sun. “Well, sport,” said Peter, “it might take a day or two to figure out, but I’ll ask the question anyway; whaddya wanta do now?”

  “I dunno exactly,” Jack said, feeling Linda’s hand creeping south for a momentary squeeze of his right cheek. “We’ll think of sump’m.”

  “Yeh-baw-ey,” said Peter.

  “We better get going,” said Linda. “Our reservation’s for seven.”

  “Reservation?” Jack said. “For what?”

  “Dinner,” said Peter. “A thank-you for touting us onto this place. One of Linda’s canasta partners at the Capri referred us to a guy that lives here.”

  “Bernie. A guy I’d seen at the blackjack table often enough that we developed an acquaintance,” she said. “I liked the Capri; it was close to our place, and small. And George Raft was its front man, but he was only around at night. Bernie was some kind of government inspector, and I guess he liked gambling on the job in a more secluded location than the big hotels. Spoke American English. I mentioned one day that I might be shopping for a place in Miami Beach, and he told me about Howard. Said he had a place here in Coconut Grove, and suggested I call him.”

  “Let’s take old Musketeer Blue and arrive in style, buddy,” said Peter.

  They slid into the Buick’s front seat, Jack driving at Peter’s suggestion. “You’re used to this new version,” he’d said. I’d rather get used to 400 horsepower in broad daylight, cold sober.” Reacting to sound of the engine’s exhaust, which approximated that of a well-muffled Peterbilt, with a quick glance at each other, they settled back for the short ride out Coconut Grove’s Main Highway. “Heard anything about Ziggy?”

  “Oh shit, Ziggy. I sure have. He was at Morehouse College for four years, you remember, after getting out of the Marines in ’54.”

  “Yeah, I kept up with ’im, after a fashion, through Ralph while he was in school. He only came home a coupla times that I know about, durin’ the time I was still there.”

  “Guess he was too busy with the band.”

  “Band?”

  “Yeah, he started singin’ with a band pretty soon after he got there. Just some students who’d put a group together. Ziggy was probably the only guy old enough to hit the low notes of the old R&B standards they were copycattin’. But it turned out he was better than even he expected. He got hooked up with a voice teacher, and the band started getting some fairly decent bookings. They were on that local TV show in Atlanta, Café TV, a coupla times. Remember? They’d do an hour on Saturday afternoons, the first half gospel and the second R&B.”

  “Don’t guess I ever caught it,” said Peter. “What’s their name?”

  “The Chimes. Ziggy and the band didn’t get on until after you’d gone, anyway. But here’s the best part; they’ve cut two or three records on the OKEH label that’ve gotten pretty fair radio play.”

  “Damn! I bet Ralph’s chest is stuck out a mile.”

  “It is, but it’d be stickin’ out a little farther if Ziggy wadn’t quite so political.”

  “Political? Whaddya mean?”

  “He’s been involved with this SCLC, Southern Christian Leadership Council, or Conference, not sure what the C’s for, but it’s a negro civil rights group that this preacher, Martin Luther King, started in Atlanta after the black woman got locked up over in Montgomery. King’d been at Morehouse, too, so he had a pretty good-sized booster group built into the campus. Ziggy’d recruited for the Marines there, so he was pretty well-known even before he started school. And a decorated Marine made him great window-dressing for King’s bunch. He became known in the movement, and publicly for awhile, for a speech that he made right after the Russians invaded Hungary in ’56. The line the newcasts picked up was
“Wars fuck people up. That’s why they have ’em.”

  “Sure, I remember Ralph talkin’ about that. Had all Bisque talkin’ for about a month. And aside from why he said it, I can’t say he’s wrong,” said Peter. Sobering, he added, “I wish I could see ’im. And Ralph. And Webster and all the rest.”

  “And you know they’d feel the same way,” said Jack. “Just to know you’re alive…”

  “Here we are,” Linda broke in. As a well-tipped parking attendant positioned the Buick out front, the trio walked jauntily up the broad steps and into the foyer of Norman’s Restaurant. It was 7:05; a voice behind and to the right of them said “Ah... The Wessel party?” Turning, they saw a balding man of about forty-five, medium height, in wraparound sunglasses and a powder-blue silk polo shirt, his hand extended. Jack was closest to him and took it. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Howard Hunt.”

  We were eating Norman’s excellent flan when it became evident that Hunt wanted to extend the dinner conversation beyond dinner, and to restrict that conversation to Peter Wessel and himself. The erudite, slickpated Hunt turned up the charm in making his request, explaining that he was just starting to do research for a book on Castro's takeover of Cuba. To his obvious relief, neither Linda nor I objected; I couldn’t believe this opportunity, much sooner than I could’ve dreamed, to see if things between us were the same as before, as was indicated by our taking every more-or-less discreet opportunity to touch each other. Hunt assured us that he'd drop Peter off after they had dissected his take on three or four decades of Cuban history. The old Buick's new power got us back to the house in a hurry, and we were in bed five minutes later.

  The time that had passed since our last time in the Petrel’s after cabin evaporated. Linda’s delight that I had “grown up” made the reunion sweeter than I’d have dared imagine. We spent a vigorous half-hour making up, or beginning to make up, for the years that we'd been apart. “We'd better get dressed,” I said. “He’ll probably be back before long.”

  “Don't worry about that, sweetie,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “Mose- shit, see, I do it too- Peter- he knows all about us. I told him, in Havana. And I told him that I intended to get you into bed as soon as I possibly could.”