by James Ross
J Dub gave Tuey a dumbfounded look. “Have you lost your mind, Tuey?” The cool breeze was making him shiver. “It’s time to hit it.”
“An’ dere’s Bucky an’ Burp an’ Mista Slime an’ Ms. Slitha . . .”
J Dub made his way back toward the utility vehicle as Tuey reluctantly followed. “There’s work that needs to get down out here. Let’s get back to your ditch.”
“But I’s wants ya ta meet Socks da fox an’ Snappa da turtle,” Tuey protested as he followed J Dub through the trees.
“We’ll do it some other time . . . when the weather’s a little warmer,” J Dub said as doubts about the subcontractor roamed in his mind.
The vehicle was idling when Tuey climbed into the passenger seat. “An’ den dere’s Wisconsin an’ Minnesota.”
“What about them?” J Dub asked. “Are they getting some snow up there?”
“No!” Tuey exclaimed. “Dat’s da badger an’ da golden gopha.”
“Yeah, right,” J Dub said. “If I didn’t know better I would swear that you had some schnapps in your hot chocolate.” He revved the engine and pulled off toward the maintenance shed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Christmas Eve came and went uneventfully. A stark dichotomy existed between the various religious services. J Dub attended a protestant service with his wife and children. The church was a traditional structure with a steep, pitched roof and eighty-foot steeple. Candlelight flickered and illuminated the stained glass windows. Pine bough garland hung in swags around the interior. Red bows and holly clippings trimmed the green needles. Poinsettias that had been donated by members of the congregation lined the window sills, pulpit, and chancel choir platform. Traditional seasonal hymns echoed throughout the sanctuary.
Tuey, on the other hand, attended Christmas Eve services on the second floor of an office building owned by Harold Syms. The temporary home for Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen didn’t have a steeple, let alone the atmosphere that the Christmas season normally brought. He pulled his battered pickup with magnetic sign plastered on the driver’s door into the parking lot amid the cars outfitted with mud flaps, curb feelers, and four-inch whitewalls.
With a smile plastered across his face, Tuey, dressed in a brown suit with white tie, tan derby hat, and two-toned tan and white patent leather shoes attended the services alone. LeVournique was busy working at the casino and wanted no part of his new church anyway. The converted office was decorated with aluminum pie plates, strings of flickering imitation icicle lights, and ceramic reindeer and sleighs. Instead of majestic sounds from a pipe organ the congregation moved to and fro to the tunes produced by BowTye’s banjo.
Across town Harold Syms attended services at the Hands of Faith Catholic Church with Stella and his children. The Christmas mass was delivered by Father Alphonso Blair. The priest strategically seated Scottie P in the front pew so that the congregation could easily connect with his beaming smile.
The spirit of Christmas did not discriminate—it was everywhere.
With Thanksgiving and Christmas out of the way, the boys decided to meet at the Aqua Mermaid to usher in the New Year. The weather was chilly and an afternoon of college football games were to be broadcast over the cable television networks. The casino seemed like the perfect spot to gather since Prairie Winds was closed due to the inclement conditions.
It was agreed that the gang would meet at the bar nearest the stage that BowTye performed on. His stage appearance wasn’t to be until later that night, but the bar was an identifiable landmark and convenient to find. The whole gang showed up. Elia, Paco, BT, and Paul did not disappoint. Dr. DV drove Captain Jer. Pork Chop and Fred had been the first to arrive and they were holding court at one of the tables. BowTye beamed; YouWho yukked; and Scottie P glistened. J Dub failed to make it. He chose instead to spend the day off with Marcia. Curt was still in the hospital recovering from his fall. But Tuey made it. He came covered in mud . . . straight from the job site still dressed in his camouflage suit and skull cap.
“I hear that you’ve got some connections around here,” Pork Chop called as Tuey neared the group. “Can you get us some slot machine winners?”
“Whatcha mean?” Tuey asked. “I’s don’t gamble.”
“Doesn’t your wife work here?” Pork Chop asked. “Maybe we can get her to fix some of these slots and get us a jackpot or two,” he added in jest.
In a serious tone Tuey said, “Oh no. She jus’ counts da money an’ pays it out.”
“Does she ever get sick of doing that?” Captain Jer said as he motioned for the cocktail waitress to refill his beer.
“Ya means handlin’ aw uh dat money?” Tuey asked.
Captain Jer nodded.
“I’s ne’er met uh womin dat gits tired uh puttin’ her hands on da money.” The boys laughed as they knew all to well what he was referring to.
“I need for her to count me out a whopping jackpot to bring in the New Year,” Pork Chop joked. “Do you think that she will do that?”
“If you’s got da ticket, den she sho’ wills uh cash it,” Tuey assured the gang.
“Then that’s what we can do,” Pork Chop proposed. “We can win a big payout and send Tuey up to the window with the ticket.”
“No, no, no,” Tuey said as he backpedaled. “Den she’s gonna tink dat da money be mine an’ she’s gonna want some uh it.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” BT said as he threw in his two cents. “No need to get you in a domestic spat at the start of a new year.”
Tuey look confused. “Huh?” He grabbed a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream from the cocktail waitress.
“You know,” Fred explained, “get your wife mad at you.”
“No!” Tuey exclaimed. “She’s aw uh ready mad at’s me enough.”
“You can’t do nothing right either?” Captain Jer blurted as he twirled the coaster around on the table. All the guys chuckled.
“It sho’ do seems dat uh way,” Tuey agreed.
“Welcome to the crowd,” Paul said joking that he had been married so long that he didn’t pay any attention to what his wife said.
“Yeah,” Dr. DV added, “that’s why a lot of us are single.”
“We don’t have to put up with their crap,” Scottie P chimed in.
The guys laughed at the timing of Scottie P’s comment. “You might as well be married,” Fred said. “After all . . .”
“ . . . but it’s different,” Scottie P interrupted.
“I guess it would be,” Captain Jer blurted as he took a healthy swig of beer. “How does all of that work anyway?”
“That’s asking for more information than I want to hear,” Pork Chop said as he got up from his chair. “Who wants to play some slots?”
“Let’s go,” Dr. DV said. “I’m ready.”
“I hope that was directed to Pork Chop and not Scottie P. He might take it the wrong way,” Fred joked.
Scottie P tucked his hair behind his ear and rolled his eyes. Pork Chop, Dr. DV, YouWho, BowTye, and BT made a move to the slot machines. “I’m going to the crap table,” Fred said.
“You are?” Pork Chop asked disappointed that he couldn’t play both at the same time.
“Me too,” Captain Jer said as he bumped into chairs on his way out of the bar. He had carved a “v” out of the coaster and wedged it onto his nose. He yelled at no one in particular. “Who’s been flinging those coasters around the room?” Paco, Elia, Scottie P, and Paul stayed in the lounge as they chuckled at the pilot’s sick sense of humor.
Pork Chop reached into his pocket for his wad of bills and turned to Fred. “Do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” his golfing buddy and eating partner replied.
“Put twenty on the Brooklyn forest for me,” Pork Chop said as he handed Fred a crumpled bill.
“What the heck is that?” Fred asked.
“There’s no Brooklyn forest on the crap table,” Captain Jer said. “Are you some moron or something?”
“Sure th
ere is,” Pork Chop insisted. He raised his right hand to his ear, shook his hand violently, and feigned throwing the dice. “You know . . . a hard six.” He flashed the thumbs up sign at Fred. “But I only want you to place the bet when you throw. I know how you can toss them.”
“For crying out loud,” Fred said as he accepted the bill from Pork Chop.
“How the heck did you get a Brooklyn forest out of a hard six?” Captain Jer said chastising Pork Chop.
“You know,” Pork Chop said, “a pair of trees.” The boys looked confused. “That’s a Brooklyn forest.”
The boys yukked it up as Fred stuffed the bill in his pocket. “What a mess you are. You are something else!”
Pork Chop looked for more action. He turned to BowTye. “Are you going to play that video poker machine with the bonus multiplier?”
“No, not tonight, Mista Pork Chop,” BowTye said in a deep voice. “I don’t want to get started. We have a big night ahead of us.”
Dr. DV and BT found their machines and fed some hundreds into the slots of their choice. YouWho wandered off. “Where are you going?” Pork Chop asked.
“I’m looky fo’ my fav-rit machine,” the Japanese businessman said. His dark hair hung over his forehead and rested atop the black frames of his glasses.
“You’s looks uh lots like Bucky,” Tuey said. YouWho’s teeth reminded him of the beaver in the cave and the security guard outside city hall.
Pork Chop looked over his shoulder and decided to follow the Oriental. “Let’s see what you got. I need a new one to play. These other ones have my number.”
YouWho zigged and zagged through the aisles until he spotted his machine. Pork Chop and Tuey were on his heels. He plopped himself into a seat in front of Mister Chang’s House of Zodiac Rockets. He peeled off three hundred dollars and fed them into the bill acceptor. “Ooooooh, dese . . . ah . . . fun.”
“I’ve seen this one but never played it,” Pork Chop said.
“Watch,” YouWho said. “I show you.” He started pressing the buttons and spinning the reels. Pork Chop and Tuey were spellbound by the colors, symbols, characters, and sounds of Mr. Chang’s zodiac rockets house.
“What are you trying to get?” Pork Chop pried.
“Bonus wound,” YouWho blurted.
“What symbol?” Pork Chop asked. His eyes were glued to the screen.
“Twee uh dose,” YouWho said as he pointed to a square that was white with a large red dot in the center.
“That looks like a Japanese flag,” Pork Chop muttered.
“Yeah. Dat’s it,” YouWho said. A few spins later three red dots accompanied by the loud beat of a bass drum stopped in place. “Got it!”
“Now what?” Pork Chop asked wanting to understand the payoff.
“We go to diff-went house of zodiac an’ twy to catch animals befo’ dey git us.” YouWho pressed on the screen and the video picture took the viewer on a wild journey through space. Different animals zoomed in to divert attention. “Watch.”
“It looks like a video game,” Pork Chop said as he watched YouWho play the bonus round.
“Ah yes it is video, but it gives you money if you can blow up da animals,” YouWho said.
“Before they get you,” Pork Chop said.
“You got it,” YouWho said. His hands were busy flying across and pressing the screen. One by one YouWho blew up the animals. He got a squirrel, rabbit, frog, dragon, fox, raccoon, butterfly, serpent, beaver, and skunk. Each animal that was destroyed added dollars to his bonus round total.
Pork Chop was hooting and hollering every time an animal went down. Fifty dollars here and a hundred dollars there added up to nearly two thousand dollars before YouWho was finished. “That’s neat! This game is better than the moo-cow machine and the croak-frog machine.”
“You can make some money on it,” YouWho agreed.
Tuey’s eyes were fixed. The explosions seemed to hypnotize him and he stood there with his mouth agape as the video entranced him.
“What’s that stuff on your mouth?” Pork Chop asked as he peered in Tuey’s direction. Tuey stared straight ahead. A white substance that looked like salt brine covered his lips. He worked his tongue in an attempt to wet his whistle and rid himself of the sudden dryness in his mouth. Pork Chop noticed the hot chocolate. “Maybe it’s the whipped cream.”
YouWho grabbed his cell phone and handed it to Pork Chop. “Take my picture,” he said as he positioned himself in front of the blinking lights on the slot machine. He grabbed Tuey’s forearm and pulled him to his side. “I want him in the picture wit’ me. My welatives in Othaka won’t believe dat I know a black man.” He grinned from ear to ear in front of the flashing jackpot sign, dwarfed by the body of Tuey.
Pork Chop took the photo amid the cacophony of jackpot sounds. “That looks great. Too bad it doesn’t include sound.”
“I’s gotsta git home,” Tuey said as if he was in auto-pilot.
“Why are you leaving so early?” Pork Chop asked. “We’re just starting to have some fun.”
“I’s gotsta goes an’ shoot my gun wit’ da neighbors at midnight.” Residents of Wiebbey bottom annually fired their weapons skyward when the clock struck twelve. Tuey wheeled and over his shoulder whispered, “Have mercy on you.” Then he walked out of the casino.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
A sizeable snowfall blanketed the area a couple of weeks later. Traffic and business around St. Louis came to a standstill. The bleak weather forecast provided the occasion for Mayor Broderick Leavitt to call a meeting with Monty, city attorney Kenneth Ficke, and public works director R. W. Reeves in the mayor’s office at city hall.
As the wind swirled the snow in circles outside and flurries spit intermittently, Mayor Leavitt welcomed Monty and Ficke into his office. The city attorney came equipped with a spittoon and bag of sunflower seeds while the beady eyes and shifty gaze on Monty’s face was a sure indication that something was up. “Damn!” Mayor Leavitt shrieked when R. W. Reeves walked into the office. “When are you going to shower?”
The static electricity in the room had given the public works director a disheveled appearance. Artificial hair from his cheap toupee was jutting in all directions. His unkempt, untidy mustache needed trimming. The hairs from his nostrils practically grew into his upper lip. And the mayor was right . . . Reeves’ body odor was disgusting. “I did last weekend,” R. W. said in an attempt to mask his neglect.
“And what have you done since then?” the mayor demanded. “Shovel a dozen driveways?” Leavitt reached up, grabbed his nose, and turned his head away from the stench. “Dammit R. W.” The mayor took a disgusted breath. “Why don’t you do something about that? You smell like that contractor that has been causing all of the problems around here.”
“Which brings us to the topic of today’s meeting,” Ficke said as he spat some shells into a cup.
“We need your help,” the mayor said as he turned to Monty.
“Our friend has filed a discrimination lawsuit against the city,” Ficke said.
“What friend?” Monty asked.
“That damn blue-gum!” Mayor Leavitt blurted. He quickly retracted the statement. “Nobody in the room heard that.” The mayor made eye contact with everyone in the group. “Our friend from Wiebbey bottom has claimed that we’ve been discriminating against him.”
“In a way he has been hassled,” R. W. said. He was a little irritated that the mayor had called him out in front of the others.
“For violating ordinances?” Mayor Leavitt suggested.
“You know and I know that we’ve been walking a fine line,” R. W. said indicating that maybe the holiday cheer had softened his stance.
“A violation is a violation,” Ficke butted in. Even though he was the mayor’s butt-boy he knew that his two cents would be appreciated and he picked the right time to add it to the conversation.
A pleased look spread over the mayor’s face as he turned and smiled at the city attorney. “So if he wants
to screw with us, maybe it’s time to turn up the heat a little.”
“What do you mean?” Reeves asked. “It sounds like he’s already got it out in the open and brought attention to it.”
“And it ain’t over,” the mayor stressed. He turned to Monty. “You know the program.”
Monty’s grin was smug. He was a slime ball connected in Illinois politics and accustomed to living in the sewer of life that that state’s political administrations were notorious for. “What do you have in mind?”
“It’s in Judge Bremsky’s court. Get the lawsuit dismissed,” Mayor Leavitt proposed.
“It will cost you,” Monty uttered. “Favors come with a price.”
“But he doesn’t need a reason to dismiss, does he?” the mayor probed.
“No,” Monty answered. “He’s a judge. He can do what he wants.”
“Good. The city has the money,” Mayor Leavitt said. He turned to Reeves. “And in the meantime I want you to send Big Bertha over to the clown’s house.
“What for?” R. W. asked. “The grass isn’t knee high now and the mosquito breeding grounds are frozen over.”
“We’ve had a complaint on that property,” Mayor Leavitt answered.
“From who?” Reeves asked.
“The United States Postal Service,” the mayor cried. He glanced at the others. “They’ve had difficulty delivering mail to the address.”
“What do you mean?” R. W. asked. Grins popped onto the faces of Monty and Ficke.
“The residents of that address have failed to leave proper access to their mailbox for the delivery of United States mail,” Mayor Leavitt smirked.
“We were the ones that plowed the streets and piled the snow there in the first place,” Reeves said as he played devil’s advocate.
“If you look in the ordinance book, then you’ll see that it is a clear violation of Article VIII in Section 19,” Ficke pointed out. “It’s in paragraph 8 (d)iii.”
“I want you to have Big Bertha issue a citation,” the mayor demanded. Reeves shook his head in dismay. What was occurring just wasn’t right. “This afternoon,” the mayor finished. “Meeting adjourned.”