by Stan Hayes
“Well, Dr. IQ, that’d be Mose!”
“Give the man in the balcony 10 silver dollars and a box of Mars Bars! And guess what he did with it? Two fat leather two-suiters full of hundred dollar bills?”
Rick looked slyly sidewise at Jack from under lowered eyebrows. “He stole it!”
Jack laughed triumphantly. “Fuckin’ A! That’s exactly what he did! Took a bus to Baltimore, put the loot in a local Swiss bank branch, and went undercover to see how the war worked out. We were in it pretty soon anyway, so anyone who’d be looking for him would shortly be packing to go back to Berlin. He already had a fake ID made up- got the name off a Philadelphia tombstone, he said- got a job in a movie house and laid low till ’46. He was headed to Florida, and a ship to Cuba, when his radiator blew up right here in little old Bisque. How’s that for pickin’ ’em up and layin’ ’em down?”
“Not bad,” Rick agreed, pouring a vodka-on-the-rocks of his own and looking with regret at the scant centimeter that remained in the bottle. “No wonder he bought the Ritz and did so well with it!”
“Oh. And he didn’t get shot down, by the way.”
“He didn’t? How’d he get hurt, then?”
“Crashed. Engine quit on him, climbing out after takeoff. The only field that he could get into was full of stumps; caught one with the landing gear and flipped over, with full tanks. An officer with a truckload of troops just happened to be driving by, so they hauled him out, broken leg and all, before the plane caught fire. It was broken so badly that they sent him back to Berlin for surgery. Turns out that the guy who saved his life was riding on the same plane. By the time they’d touched down, his rescuer had promised to visit him after his surgery. Turns out he was an Abwehr guy, and before you know it, old Mose is in there himself. And guess who the recruiter was.”
“Give up,” Rick grunted, taking a sip from the bottle and handing it to Jack to finish, which he did before he spoke.
“Remember Paul Pulaski?”
“Paul Pulaski? The Minister of Music with Shepard Peters’ revival bunch?”
“The very same. He was in East Prussia when the Soviets broke through, and long story short, he was pulled into the KGB. He was assigned to infiltrate the Savannah River Project; the revival team was just a way to get here.”
“For Crissake. No pun intended,” Rick grated. “As if there weren’t enough normal kooks under that tent. I can’t believe I bought into that junk. A regular little apostle,” he went on. “But the son of a bitch was good, you’ll have to give ’im that. I wasn’t the only one who thought that smirking pissant was the shortcut to salvation.”
“By no means,” Jack agreed. “He had the town pretty well buffaloed.”
“But not Mose. And by extension, not you. The two of you are still the only people in Bisque who ever called yourselves atheists. I still don’t know how y’all had the guts to do that.”
“I can’t remember now what town worthy he said this to; seems like whoever it was asked him if he’d ever practiced the Jewish faith. He said, “Nope. None of the God stuff makes any sense at all to me. I’m with Epicurus.”
Rick shook his head. “I know you’ve felt that way too, for a long time. I hope you’re right, for your sake. But I just can’t imagine living without faith. Hell, if I couldn’t confess my sins to God, they’d drag me down.”
Jack reached for Rick’s elbow and squeezed it. Thanks, buddy. I do have faith, y’know.”
“Whachoo talkin’ about?”
Jack leaned back against the car door, letting his head drop back and out the open window, and released a deafening burp, which threw Fred and Tony, his fellow car hop who had just come on duty, into a leg-slapping chortling fit. Straightening up, he said, “My faith is this; long term, everyone acts in his own best interest.”
Rick engaged Jack’s gaze and held it for half a minute before he spoke. Then: “Shithead. Don’t you know I’d die for you?”
Jack reciprocated the pregnant pause. “Hell yeah, I know that. But you’d enjoy it.” He was prepared to wait for the laugh, but it came almost immediately. Jack joined in. Their combined paroxysm put the car hops’ mirth deep into the shade. It subsided, then restarted each time they’d look at each other.
Weak from laughter, they waited for breath. Jack caught his first. “You hungry?”
“Cat got an ass?” Hitting the horn once again, Rick called forth a somewhat apprehensive Fred, whose professional experience was rife with the caprice of drunken moods of his clientele. “Three all-th’-way dogs, fries and a coke for the driver, my good man.” Looking at Jack, he said, “Name your poison, bub.”
“I’ll do that, too,” Jack said with a reflexive flip of the hand.
Six hotdogs later, raw onion bouquet hung inside the Nomad, permeating the headliner, defying the spring breeze’s modest efforts to waft it away. Twilight shadows deepened in the parking lot, cueing the floodlights. The kid customers and their bald-tired transportation were gone, headed for ham salad and homework, their parking slots filling up one and two at a time with heavier, shinier hardware. A man and a woman somewhere in their thirties, unrecognized by Jack or Rick, oozed into a secluded parking place under one of the big Oaks in a top-down Packard Caribbean. “Come on out to the house for awhile. We can cut by the Casbah for a couple of sixpacks.”
Rick shook his head. “One thing you learn when you’re making a living with your body is when to quit. Usually. I think I’ll pack it in, buddy. Couple APCs, get up for bacon and eggs with the folks. Really need to spend some time with them, seein’ as how I’m headed down the road on Sunday. Got to swing by and see your aunt Cordelia, too, but we don’t need to talk about that.”
“What time?” Jack asked him.
“After lunch, I guess. Columbus ain’t all that far down the road. Hey, bub.”
“Hm?”
“That’s some story you told me tonight. Of all the people who did incredible, impossible things to help us win in World War II, Mose was the one who saved FDR’s and Churchill’s lives. How many times’ve you told it?”
“Just once. And that’s as far as it’ll go. He was the father that I never had, and you’re the brother. I thought you ought to know about it; a guy could get himself killed doing what we’re about to do. He loved you, too, buddy, and you needed to know what a great goddam man walked into our lives back in ’46.”
“He taught us a shitload, that’s for sure. I’m sorry he’s gone; just think of all the things the three of us could’ve done.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m thinking.” Maybe one day, he thought, I’ll tell you the rest.
“Oh, hell. Just a goddam minute.”
“What?”
“I’ve sat here all night gassin’ about Trisha and me, and never asked you a goddam thing about Linda. You still in touch with her?”
“Nope. She trotted on back to her husband the minute we were off the boat. Can’t say I’m sorry.”
“Well, shit. I hope I didn’t cause that.”
“Not a chance, buddy. Soon as she and Cordelia paired up, my enthusiasm went south in a hurry. She was fun for awhile, but she’s yesterday’s news now.”
Rick nodded, smiling. “You know what I was thinking about today? She’s the namesake of the New York Linda who got your cherry.”
Jack looked out the window at the couple in the Packard. “Yeah. Funny thing about that.
“Funny.”
“What?”
“You asked me whether I thought Trisha felt guilty.”
“What about it?” Rick said, a bit edgily.
“Well, since you said that, you’ve got me wondering whether the other Linda- you know, Linda the first- ever felt that way.”
“What for? Contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”
Jack smiled. “Maybe I was contributing to the delinquency of a major. I was really thinking more about the guy that owned the Petrel, the boat that she was living on when I met her, and how he’d feel if he knew th
at she let a kid make love to her on his boat. For the five years that I knew her, it never seemed to bother her, but if he loved her, and she knew it, whether she loved him or not, she must’ve felt a little guilty about it. She’s human, after all.”
“All kind of humans in this world, buddy. The boat guy has a wife, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’d say if she was gonna feel guilty, she ought to feel guilty about fucking a married man way before she should feel that way about giving you a few thrills. But that don’t matter either way with you, does it, really?”
Jack shifted in his seat to look squarely at his friend. “Whacha mean by that?”
“What I mean is, guilt or no guilt, you’d take up with her again if you had the chance.”
Jack held his friend’s gaze. “Most probably, if we both lived in New York. Why not?”
Rick laughed as he fired up the Nomad’s engine. “Funny thing about you and these old gals; from her to Clare Looth Buce. If you take up with Eleanor Roosevelt, kindly include me out.”
Jack had shut the door behind him, but turned to grin at his old pal through the open window. “In that case, Buster, I’ll expect you to stay out of my aunt’s pants.”
Rick smiled knowingly. “If I did, somebody else’d just jump in there. Hell, now that I think about it, they’re just helpin’ us grow up. God knows we need it.”
“What the hell would we do then?” Jack replied, pushing back from the car. Taking boozy measured steps toward the Cunningham, Jack took his first long look at the Packard’s occupants. The driver’s hat obscured his face, but his companion turned hers toward Jack, dark curls framing a broad smile. Onetime Ritz box-office babe Evelyn Summers McDaniel, ensconced in high-ticket turquoise sheet metal, raised a beckoning hand, augmenting the gesture with a shrill “Jack!”
Making his way to her side of the car, Jack bent over to collaborate in Evvie’s enthusiastic hug. As he did, he looked over her shoulder to gauge the driver’s response to this display of affection; his gaze was reciprocated, augmented by a broad wink. It was Nick.
18 FIG NEWTON
“Hop in, cowboy, if you can spare the time,” said Nick. The broad-brimmed panama that had shielded his face topped a white linen suit recalling Noël Coward’s in Our Man in Havana. As he spoke, Evvie, who struck Jack as looking far more youthful than the last time he’d seen her, leapt into the back seat, a blur of pleated skirt and saddle oxfords. As she came to rest behind Nick, Jack realized that she was wearing a Bisque cheerleading outfit, last seen, on her anyway, seven years ago.
“Come on back here, honey,” she said, the fingers of her right hand aflutter. “We’ve got some serious catchin’ up to do.”
Nick obligingly pulled the passenger’s seat back forward and, smiling playfully, said “Go ahead, sailor.”
Wondering if he was dreaming or just more shitfaced than he’d thought, Jack pulled the massive door open and slid in beside Evvie, putting his left hand behind her neck, pulling her to him. She came readily, lips parted, kissing him greedily, tongue hyperactive in the classic high school modus. Grabbing his wrist, she swept his hand under her letter sweater and onto one of the bare baseball-shaped breasts he’d fantasized about since he was nine. Pulling back slightly, she slipped her sweater up to clear them, breathing, “Do you like them, baby?”
“Yes. Yes I do. But what...”
“Now hush. Nicholas is going to drive us around while you fuck me. You’ve wanted to for a long time, haven’t you? So just lie back and let Mama do you, the way I should have when you were a quarterback.” The Packard was already gliding out of the parking lot, and she’d gotten his cock out into the open air. Jack shot a whimsical wave in Fred’s direction, but the gangly car hop didn’t appear to see him. Evvie got on her knees and sucked avidly, Jack having stretched his legs out on the still-forward seatback in front of him.
Nick sought out a series of quiet country roads along the western edge of Bisque, driving the massive convertible with the measured stateliness appropriate to its mission. Away from the parking lot’s lighting, a new moon shone, approaching its zenith as Evvie came for the first time. She was a vocal lover, it turned out, and so in his turn was Jack. She was right; he had wanted her for a long time, but Bisque had its way of discouraging interclass liaisons. 15 years of suppressed lust for this hard-edged “mill village” denizen took some time to vent, and when it was over they slept. Jack woke up slouched behind the Cunningham’s wheel, Fred shaking him by the shoulder. “We closin’, man, come on,” he said, concern evident in his voice. “You think you can drive okay?”
Squinting to focus his gaze, Jack said, “Sure. How about a couple Alka-Seltzers?” They were duly delivered, consumed and set about their work as Jack headed for home, driving as though he had nitroglycerin in the glove box. He’d try to replay the dream when the hangover retreated.
Another round of Alka-Seltzer when he got home, however, brought him the dreamless sleep of innocence. He slept until mid-morning, with absolutely nothing on the day’s agenda, and he was on his second cup of coffee and contemplating breakfast when Nick showed up, natty in yet more golf togs and a sympathetic smile. “This seems to be your week for hats,” Jack said, indicating the white Ben Hogan cap.
“Some people just look good in hats,” Nick observed, taking the proffered cup of coffee from Jack as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “On the other hand, everybody looks good in a Packard Caribbean. Hope you enjoyed last night.”
“Who wouldn’t? Kind of an abrupt ending, though.”
“You mean you’d rather have waked up this morning with that little fig-newton of your imagination in your bed?”
Jack took a minute to think about that. “Guess that might’ve been pushing it. But what about you? Slipping me a dream sequence like that when I’m wide awake? That’s pretty flashy, even for you.”
“Just a little going-away present, before you slap on your sailor suit. I wouldn’t have let it go on if you hadn’t got into the spirit of the occasion right away. There’s not that many women in this town, past or present, that you wanted to screw but haven’t. I thought briefly about your aunt Cordelia, I mean really briefly...”
“Well, thanks. For not getting her into it, I mean. Even if… even if she’d never know about it. And by the way, when you say ‘fig-newton,’ I’m guessing my little Evvie was just that. You didn’t involve her in some kind of time travel, did you?”
Nick chuckled. “No, no, nothing that flashy; just dredged up a few idle thoughts that you hadn’t entertained for a while. I must say that it seemed as if you enjoyed it; so did I.”
Jack couldn’t suppress his grin. “You’re right, I did, even though she’s the ex-wife of an ex-employee who’s the ex-sheriff of Hamm County, and whom I’m pretty sure used to screw my mother before Mose showed up. The last time I saw Evvie, she was a little the worse for wear, but I’ve gotta say she was pretty much at her peak last night, right down to the little bumps on her areoles that Freddy George used to drive me crazy talking about, even though he wouldn’t have known an areole from a profiterole. But back up a minute; ‘So did I.’? what did you mean by that?”
“Guess I should have told you before; every now and then I feel constrained to join you -- let’s say at the psychic level -- when you have sex.”
Jack’s jaw dropped a couple of inches. “What!”
“Yep. But I haven’t singled you out in that regard. I’ve had a fair range of experiences in dear old Bisque. It’s a much more intense feeling when I can piggyback on to a central nervous system that has an actual body attached.”
“Jesus, Nick! You didn’t have to tell me that!”
“What was I supposed to do, keep it to myself? One of the main reasons that I checked in with you in the first place was, when I thought you could handle it, to put you in the picture about humanity’s future. I can’t imagine you’d be that surprised to hear that sex is one of the many things that’s quite a bit different i
n the fifth millennium.”
“So you and your fellow fifth millenniumers just jump inside each others’ heads and fuck at will? Do you really call it ‘piggybacking?’
“Sometimes. Do you think that’s inappropriate? You say ‘barebacking’ when you talk about sex sometimes, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, “but not to you. You know, I’m not the least goddam bit comfortable talking about any kind of sex with you at this point. Maybe later. But now that you mention checking in with me to tell me what humanity’s future’s going to be, how about getting into some of that? But let’s do it this afternoon. As soon as I get some breakfast, I’ve gotta sack out again for a while. And do me a favor until then; no more dreams, okay?”
Jack stepped out on the patio a little after two o’clock to find Nick reclining on the wheeled lounge chair, tossing the Ben Hogan cap, quoit-like, first over one foot, kicking it into the air, catching it and tossing it over the other. “Hail, Lazarus,” he said, continuing with the toss/kick/toss routine.
“Not having a body,” Jack grunted. “You make shit like that look way too easy. Plus, you never have a hangover. Do you?”
Nick tossed the cap some thirty feet in the air, thrusting his jaw forward FDR-like, the flying headgear lighting at a jaunty angle over his right eyebrow. “I could, because I can feel every human sensation and emotion. But I hope it won’t be necessary. Have you recovered?”
“Pretty close. Maybe just a Bloody Mary or two away. Oh, no. On second thought, I don’t want to see vodka again for a week. Maybe a light scotch and soda. Join me?”
“Yes indeed,” Nick responded as he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, eyeing the ducks on Jack’s pond as though he were seeing them for the first time.
“Be right back.”
Delivering on the promise, Jack returned in no time at all, handing Nick one of a pair of milkshake tumblers brimming with tan liquid. Tilting his glass a few degrees toward Nick, Jack delivered Moses’ favorite toast: “Confusion to our enemies.”