The Bass Wore Scales (The Liturgical Mysteries)

by Mark Schweizer

“Hi, Wormy,” I said as we walked up, not noticing that he was talking on his cell phone. He was sitting in a folding chair at his card table, papers scattered across the top, a half-full cup of coffee holding them down. He waved at us and motioned for us to pull up the two folding chairs opposite his own.

  “Be right with you folks,” he said, his thumb discreetly over the mouthpiece of his phone. Then he got up and walked a few steps away from the table. Meg and I sat down.

  “How’s your cell service?” Meg asked me. “Mine was okay all winter, but now it’s spotty at best. I may have to switch carriers.”

  “I don’t think you’ll do much better with another carrier,” I said. “The reception in winter’s better up here because there aren’t any leaves on the trees. In summer, we have to do the best we can. They’re putting up towers as quick as shopping malls though, so it won’t be too long before we’re covered coast-to-coast.”

  “How’re y’all doing?” said Wormy, coming back to the table and sticking out his hand. “Woodrow DuPont’s the name. Eternal rest is my game. I’d like to welcome you to the sales office of Woodrow DuPont’s Bellefontaine Cemetery.”

  “We already know you,” said Meg, hesitation clouding her voice. “Remember?”

  “Sure,” said Wormy. “I’se just practicin’. He smiled his best salesman smile. “Y’all need a buryin’ plot?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If the price was right. What do you have in a XXL?”

  “Hmm,” said Wormy, studying a plot of the farm. “I’ve got these two nice plots here in section D.” He spun the paper around and pointed to a couple of numbers in the lower right corner. “These is right nice.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’d want to make sure we’re buried in the right section. You know, with our type of people.”

  “Hayden!” hissed Meg. “What are you saying? I’m so embarrassed!”

  “That’s all right m’am,” said Wormy. He looked back at me. “I knows exactly what you mean.” He made a show of looking right and left before leaning in and speaking in a hushed voice.

  “This here section—Section D—that’s for white folks only.”

  Meg was horrified.

  “White folks?” I said. “No, you misunderstand. I want a plot in the No-Smoking section.”

  “No-Smoking?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Make no mistake—I do enjoy the occassional cigar. But if I’m going to be dead and underneath the ground, I sure don’t want to be in the Smoking section, if you know what I mean.”

  “I see,” said Wormy, thoughtfully. He sat back in his chair and nodded. “I see. I hadn’t given no thought to a No-Smokin’ section, but now that you mention it, I can see the advantages.”

  “So, you can accommodate us?” I asked.

  “I feels sure that I can.” Wormy was smiling again. “Now let me tell you about our special music program.”

  “You have an special music program?” asked Meg. “Do tell.”

  “This is getting better and better,” I said.

  “Here’s how it works,” said Wormy. “It’s called Eternizak. We’ve got cable run out there, and we’ve subscribed to a music service. When y’all buys a plot, we puts in a wire from the main building and when you’re buried, we stick a speaker right in your casket. All we have to do is drill a little hole, feed the wire through, and seal it back up with silicone.”

  “Very nice,” I said and looked over at Meg. She was speechless.

  “We’ve got about two hundred channels of music. We can pipe any kind of music into your casket for as long as you want. And it’s only $19 a month.”

  “So I can listen to Palestrina for all eternity? Or at least until my credit card expires?”

  “I never heard of that group, but I guess so. Sure!”

  “Here’s an idea,” I said. “Let’s just say that my friend Pete was killed in a horrible toaster-related accident…”

  Wormy nodded, now wearing his serious, bereavement face.

  “Toaster-related?” said Meg. “Toaster-related?”

  “It could happen. He’s always sticking a butter knife into that thing. It’s going to kill him some day. Anyway…” I turned my attention back to Wormy. “Let’s say that he was buried out at your place. Could I offer to pay for his Eternizak?”

  “Why, sure. That’d be a nice gesture.”

  “So I could arrange, let’s just say for example, for Eternizak to play The Carpenters Greatest Hits for a few years? Then switch to accordion music? Maybe some Lawrence Welk polkas?”

  “Of course,” said Wormy. “No problem at all.”

  “You wouldn’t!” said Meg.

  “Wormy,” I said, standing up and thrusting out my hand. “You are a genius. I’ll be in touch!”

  “Thanks! Here. You folks take a brochure and a map. I’ll let you know about that No-Smokin’ section right soon.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Wormy. Thanks.”

  “By the way,” said Wormy. “Y’all know that Noylene and me is gettin’ hitched?”

  “We heard,” said Meg. “Congratulations.”

  * * *

  “What’s all the racket?” asked Nancy, looking out the front window of the Police Department.

  “I guess it’s Junior Jameson back for another blessing,” I said. “Billy told me he was going to swing by on his way to Darlington.”

  “Should I head out there? It looks like quite a crowd.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. I’ll go with you.”

  The crowd was gathering. Even though Junior was stopping just long enough to get the car blessed and refilled with Holy Water, his fans had heard he was on the way, and some had driven all the way up from South Carolina just to get a glimpse of the service.

  “If he keeps winning, or is even close,” Nancy said grimly, “this is only going to get worse. I sort of preferred a nice, quiet little town.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, looking across the park lawn. “Those aren’t NASCAR fans.”

  “Oh Lord, what now?” said Nancy.

  We studied the fifty or so people at the far end of the park. They were gathering separately from the racecar fans. Then I saw a placard come up in the hand of a familiar face.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “This isn’t going to be good.”

  Dr. P.A. Pelicane had found out about the Blessing of the Racecar, rallied her forces, and was leading them across the park. I heard the shouting and saw the rest of the signs go up.

  “Free Kokomo now! Free Kokomo now!” the crowd chanted.

  I looked up at Gaylen Weatherall in her cassock, standing at the top of the steps with Junior Jameson. She hadn’t begun the blessing, and they both stared at the group coming toward them, trying to make some sense of it. The rest of the two hundred people, who had come to cheer Junior’s car on to greater glory, also turned to watch the approaching mob. They were joined by one CNN camera and a news crew from Darlington that had been sent to get footage of the blessing of Car 17. As long as Junior was winning, the news crews would be in attendance, and Dr. Pelicane had figured out that publicity would be Kokomo’s best ally.

  “Free Kokomo now! Shoot Baptists, not gorillas!” shouted the crowd, echoing the slogans on their signs waving above their heads.

  “What’re we going to do?” asked Nancy.

  “Well, I’m not sure that fifty animal rights activists are going to be able to take two hundred NASCAR fans. And that’s if the fight is fair.”

  “I’ve never known a NASCAR fan to fight fair,” Nancy said.

  “You go tell Gaylen what’s happening. I’ll talk to Dr. Pelicane.”

  * * *

  “Hang on,” I said, standing in front of the crowd with my hand out, my badge clearly visible. “This is a private religious service.”

  “Out of our way!” said a man in the front of the pack. “You can’t stop us from demonstrating in a public park.”

  “Do you have a permit?” I asked.

  “Don’t need one,”
said the front man. “I checked your local ordinances. I’m a lawyer.”

  I tried a different tact. “If you interrupt them, those NASCAR fans will beat you half to death,” I said. “You guys aren’t PETA are you?”

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?” shouted a pimply-faced young man wearing a tie-died t-shirt, jeans and sandals. “You gonna arrest us?”

  “No, just hang on a minute,” I said. “The news people will still be here when the car leaves. You can talk to them then.”

  “Shoot Baptists, not gorillas!” shouted the pimply man into my face. “Free Kokomo now!” The rest of the protesters took up the mantra, and they marched past me. I turned and watched them head toward the steps of St. Barnabas.

  “What’s going on?” said a voice behind me. I turned around and saw Moosey standing there, watching the crowd.

  “They’re trying to save Kokomo,” I said, “because he killed that minister by accident.”

  “Are you going to arrest them?”

  “I guess I will as soon as someone actually breaks the law. I’m going to have to arrest a whole bunch of people. Listen, Moosey, you go on over to the other side of the park and find somewhere to watch. I don’t want you getting hurt.” Moosey nodded.

  * * *

  I followed the mob across the park, jogging my way around the outside of the phalanx. I could see Nancy, and she was talking to Gaylen and Junior. They were nodding at her. Gaylen, apparently deciding to get the blessing over and done with, carried her branch and the bowl of water down the steps and walked up to the car. I arrived at the front steps just as the protesters came up behind the NASCAR fans.

  “Free Kokomo now!” the group shouted.

  “Hey,” yelled Junior. “Y’all shut up, dammit! We’re trying to pray here!”

  “Shoot Baptists, not gorillas!”

  “Hey, that’s about enough!” Junior hollered back. “I’m a Baptist! Hell, we’re all Baptists! And I’m telling you for the last time! We’re trying to pray!”

  By this time, I was on the top step next to Junior. “Let’s just all be quiet for a minute, and we’ll work this out,” I yelled. It was no use. No one could hear me over fifty animal rights activists chanting at the top of their lungs. I saw one unfortunate protester, obviously carried away in the heat of the moment, swing his sign at the head of one of the NASCAR fans. The protester was a tall man and thin—a vegan, perhaps. I noticed his pallor wasn’t nearly as ruddy as that of his target—a 280 pound carnivore wearing a baseball cap that said “Beer—It’s Not Just For Breakfast Anymore,” and a sleeveless t-shirt showing off his Special Forces tattoo. I saw the sign bounce harmlessly off his cap, watched him turn around, grab the protester by his shirt and lift him off the ground with a roar. I saw his fist draw back, but lost sight of them as both sides weighed in.

  I ran down the steps, grabbed hold of Gaylen’s arm and pointed her toward the doors of the church. She took the hint. Nancy was at my side in a matter of moments.

  “What do we do now?” she said, looking out over the melee that had begun in a matter of seconds.

  I surveyed a scene that would later be described by the TV newscaster as “a one-sided donnybrook with Junior Jameson’s fans in the driver’s seat.” The animal rights people may have been used to protesting in California, where people chat for a while, wave a sign, throw a bucket of paint on a fur coat, and then go out for some Brie and a nice Merlot, but that wasn’t happening here. They had angered the wrong folks. From my vantage point, I saw at least ten of the PETA protesters lying on the ground. The PETA women weren’t faring much better than the men, because, although a male NASCAR fan isn’t likely to hit a woman that he’s not married to, a female NASCAR fan has no such problem, and the ladies were taking advantage of easy pickin’s. The PETA women probably didn’t even realize that brass-knuckles came in designer colors. Junior Jameson, never one to walk away from a good brawl, was in the middle of it, snatching up protesters by the scruff of the neck, punching them once, and tossing them aside like rag dolls, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs, “Y’all shut the hell up! We’re trying to pray!”

  I let out a big breath. “Give me your gun,” I said to Nancy.

  “You gonna shoot one?” asked Nancy, unholstering her .357 Magnum and handing to me.

  “Hope not.” I raise the gun over my head, cocked the hammer back and fired one shot into the air. It was like a cannon had gone off. Everyone stopped dead in mid-punch.

  “Now,” I hollered, “don’t make me shoot you, ‘cause I will! I’m crazy. Ask anyone.” I fired one more shot into the air for good measure.

  “You PETA folks gather up your wounded and head on over to the police station. You’re all under arrest.”

  The protesters started make some noise, so I fired another shot into the air.

  “I wish you’d tell me when you’re going to do that,” said Nancy, under her breath. “You’re killing my ear-drums.”

  “I’ve got three shots left,” I muttered.

  “Whad’s da chahge?” hollered the PETA attorney, using a handkerchief to stem the blood coming out of his broken nose.

  “Disturbing the peace, assault, and PISSING ME OFF!” I shouted back.

  “Pissig you off id dot agaid da law,” the lawyer sputtered. “Oh, by dose!”

  “Mr. Mayor?” I said, now noticing Pete standing on the steps beside me.

  “Oh, yes it is,” said Pete. “The town Council passed that law about three years ago. You can look it up!”

  “Id wod hold up id court,” said the lawyer. “We’ll sue.”

  “And you might win,” said Nancy. “But for now, you’re all under arrest. Now march over to the police station. You know the drill!”

  “What about them?” whined the pimply-faced boy, one of his arms hanging loosely at his side. “I think my arm is broken.”

  “You started it,” I said. “Now get on over there.” I pointed across Sterling Park toward the police station. They turned dejectedly and started walking.

  The NASCAR fans were in a fine mood, Junior included. There were high-fives all around and a general consensus that with the Blessing of the Racecar coupled with a good ol’ fashioned brawl—all caught on video-tape, it had been a fine afternoon.

  “Go get Gaylen and let’s get this blessing finished,” I said to Pete. He nodded and disappeared inside the front doors of the church.

  * * *

  Pete and Meg were already at a table when I walked into the Slab Café later that afternoon. Collette was putting two pieces of Black Forest Cake in front of them.

  “Did you really arrest them all?” asked Meg. “That’s a whole lot of work isn’t it—charging and fingerprinting fifty people? Not to mention the fact that you’d have to find somewhere to put them until they’re arraigned. And think of the paperwork.”

  “I did,” I said, sitting down and borrowing Meg’s fork. “That’s why I let them all go.” Meg pushed her slice of cake in front of me in resignation.

  “I figured,” said Pete. “What did Dr. Pelicane have to say about the whole thing?”

  “She wasn’t there. I think she vamoosed after the trouble started. Great cake, by the way.”

  “Did all the protesters go home?” asked Meg.

  “I don’t think so. I heard some talk about heading out to the animal shelter to have a candlelight vigil tonight and then another protest tomorrow morning. Hey, Meg, you should try some of this cake.”

  “Did you call Gwen?” asked Pete. “You should probably give her a heads up.”

  “Already done,” I said. “She’s waiting for them.”

  “Here you are Hon,” said Collette as she put another piece of cake in front of Meg. “Can I ask you something, Hayden?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know that Dave and me were supposed to get married in a couple weeks.”

  “Yep. We’re all looking forward to the ceremony.”

  “That’s just it,” said Collette, with a muffled sob
. “We can’t get married. Brother Kilroy is dead!”

  “I’m sure another minister will do the service,” said Meg. “Has New Fellowship Baptist arranged for an interim?”

  “A what?” sniffled Collette.

  “An interim minister,” said Meg. “A sub.”

  “I don’t think so. At least, I haven’t heard of anyone. I thought maybe Hayden could do it.”

  “I’m not actually ordained,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Why don’t you call Bootsie Watkins and ask her,” suggested Pete. “She’d know if New Fellowship was getting a minister.”

  “I will. I’ll ask Noylene, too,” said Collette. “She and Wormy are supposed to get married. Maybe she’s found someone to do the ceremony.”

  “Maybe,” said Pete. “And maybe you could bring us some coffee.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Meg, once Collette had made for the coffee pot. “Noylene and Wormy are cousins, but it’s legal for them to get married?”

  “Of course,” said Pete. “North Carolina is an equal opportunity state.”

  “First cousins? Isn’t that creepy?” Meg said.

  “Nah,” Pete answered. “There’s lots of precedent. Edgar Allen Poe married his cousin. Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein…”

  “Queen Victoria,” I added, happy to add to the list. “J.S. Bach. Even Mary and Joseph.

  “What? Mary and Joseph were not cousins!”

  “Oh, yes they were,” I said. “Check your New Testament genealogy. But seriously, it was very common for cousins to get married until well into the twentieth century.”

  “I still think it’s creepy.”

  “Well, maybe they won’t be having any children,” Pete said. “Noylene’s got to be what? Forty-five? Fifty?”

  “I wouldn’t hazard a guess,” I said, “but if I did, it wouldn’t be that high. Maybe early forties. Her son’s got to be twenty-five at least.”

  “D’Artagnan’s twenty-four,” said Meg. “And Noylene is thirty-eight. She had him when she was fourteen. She could easily have some more kids.”

  “How old is Wormy?” I asked.