The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

  Opening her door to her son for the second time in 24 hours, Serena said, “Welcome, stranger,” smiling over his shoulder at Harry as she spoke. “Hi, Harry. Jack’s description didn’t do you justice.”

  Harry took her extended hand, noting the grip strength as he returned the smile. “Hi, Miz Mason. How ya doin’?”

  “Call me Ríni, please. And you, Mister, if your obviously inebriated state permits, kindly resume your bartending duties.”

  “This is some layout, Ríni,” Harry said, walking to the middle of the room and looking around. “I can’t imagine not feeling creative in a place like this.”

  “Thanks. I was really pleased to find this old loft, even if it did cost me an arm and a leg to fix up. I forgot to tell you, Jack; I have access to the roof, just like the old days in Bisque. Not that I plan to work up there.”

  “Her Majesty Ríni, the Bowery sculpture queen,” chortled Jack as he passed each of them a glass. “I would say that this’ll put hair on your chest, but I guess that’d be ‘inappropriate.’”

  “Nothing new there,” Harry said. “How’d you manage to raise such a little pisser, Ríni?”

  “With the forbearance of a saint,” Serena said with a laugh. “Plus a load of luck and a fair amount of input from a guy by the name of Moses Kubielski.”

  Jack, grinning broadly, extended his glass to touch theirs. “Here’s to my first flight instructor-slash-benefactor. He’s with Jesus now.” They drank, Serena and Harry exchanging quizzical glances as they digested an Atheist’s gleeful reference to Heaven.

  Serena’s first sip was followed quickly by a deeper one. “You know, that’s really nice. Yesterday, I wasn’t sure how rum and vermouth would mix.”

  “Not that well; that’s why I leave the vermouth out.”

  Laughing again, Serena raised her glass; “My turn; to my ever-inventive son, and his- what? Co-pilot?”

  “Captain,” Jack said, mock-punching Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, Sy and I’ll all come out of Wichita fully checked out on the Lear Jet. Funny thing is, Harry’s the only one of us with any jet time. Up to now, Sy and I’ve just been recip jockeys.”

  Serena’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Re-sip?”

  “Planes with gasoline engines,” Jack responded. “The parts go up and down.”

  “Some recip,” Harry said, angling his grin towards Serena. “70 tons and 30 crew members, give or take. I do have some jet time, and proud of it, but I’m every bit as proud to’ve checked out as PPC in the Willie Victor. And I know damn well that you are, too.”

  “Sure I am, but I’m ready for something a little sportier, and that Lear Jet’ll out-climb an A4D.”

  “Hold it right there, and back up for a second,” Serena broke in. “Since y’all are so proud of it, I’d like to know what a PPC is.”

  “Patrol Plane Commander,” Harry said. “Means the same thing as Captain. Sorry about the jargon, but we lived with a lot of it in the Navy.”

  “Obviously! But I guess every profession has its code; saves a lot of excess blabbing between people who know it. Well, congratulations anyway on being trusted with that much of an airplane, to say nothing of so many lives. Now I know for sure that my baby boy’s a bona fide grownup.”

  “And the president of an all-jet air charter company,” Jack added. “Even if it’s just one jet.” And that ain’t the half of it, he thought.

  “Well, it damn sure doesn’t have to stay that way, with a little luck,” Harry quickly put in. “There’s a lot of bucks-up types around, particularly here in New York, that want to go places fast, with runways that can’t handle the big jets. And if I were in their shoes, whether I was headed to Podunk or Miami, I’ll be damned if I’d want to screw around at an airline gate with a crowd of people when I could hop outa my limo at Teterboro, hop into a Lear Jet, and haul ass- er, ’scuse me- just take off, and no hassle at the other end of the line, either.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ear, buddy,” Jack laughed.

  “I hope y’all don’t mind eating in tonight,” Serena interjected; “not only did I want to have you to myself, I didn’t want to have to talk over a restaurant crowd. Chinese OK?”

  “Sure is for me,” Harry said. “Bet you’ve got a lot of good options in this part of town.”

  “Good. Have a seat, why doncha, and I’ll get Ding Hao’s take-out menu. They’re just around the corner. Those are their pot-stickers and spring rolls on the bar; have some while we decide what we want them to bring for dinner.”

  Harry took his first good opportunity to observe Serena in motion as she walked away, stern quarters lightly rippling the caftan’s surface. Jesus, he thought, all muscle and nowhere near a yard wide. And no makeup whatever. Too bad you’re my new boss’s mother; he said you were the far side of 50, but I’d do you in a heartbeat. Not an ounce too much, stem to stern.

  Harry and Jack sat in the center of the big room on the long Corbusier chromed-steel and leather sofa, savoring the Szechuan hors d’ouvres and their second Martini. Sitting to Jack’s right on a matching chair, Serena rattled off the menu. She called in their order and returned to sit facing them on her massive brassbound oak chest-cum-coffee table. “I’m so glad you’re gonna be here for a couple of weeks. Why don’t y’all just stay here this weekend? There’s a nice double bed behind that screen over there that I sleep on about half the time anyway, so Harry could have the bed and little bathroom upstairs and you’d be fine on the couch, honey. You slept on it in the old place, remember?”

  “Thanks, Mom, but remember we’re already checked in at the Plaza. You’re the first stop on our list, but we’re gonna need some neutral territory to celebrate emancipation from His Majesty’s Navy and getting hold of one of the world’s first hotrod executive jets. I won’t do either of those but once in my life, and a big part of the celebration’s raising a certain amount of hell with our New York buddies, staying up late and dragging loose women into gin mills with jazz combos. And you know what people say about guests and fish stinking after three days.” Not to mention how itchy you’d get not being serviced, he thought. Who would it be by now? Still the Old Reliable? Before she could respond, he asked, “How’s ole Hap doin’? Still gougin’ big dough out of the idle rich for your stuff?”

  “If you mean, ‘Is Hap still getting a fair price for your work from people who appreciate fine art?’”, Serena said, “then the answer is Hap’s doing very well, thanks. He asked about you the other day, too.”

  “Really? Wha’d he say?”

  “Oh, he just asked when you were getting out of the Navy, or if you’d decided to stay in.”

  Jack laughed with nearly no trace of bitterness. Good old silk-stocking Hap; politics strictly in line with those of his clientele. “Glad to hear you’re not boring him too much with my views on indentured servitude.” Or anything else about me, he thought. Far too- could you be thinking some shit like “outré” at this point?

  “Harry, Jack has this deep-rooted suspicion that nobody in the arts makes an honest living. We just keep the rich folks smiling while we pick their pockets.”

  “Yeah, I guess the beer business’ll do that to you,” Harry said with a knowing half-smile.

  “Well, we’re not drinking beer tonight,” Jack said with no effort to conceal his exasperation. “Who’s ready?” He headed for the Martini shaker without waiting for a response.

  “Actually, I did order a few Tsing Tsaos to wash down dinner,” said Serena. “Best hurry up there, bartender; Ding Hao’s pretty quick on the draw this early in the evening.”

  As they sat, Ríni teased them with the coming delights of Cashew Shrimp, Moo Shu Pork and fiery Empress Chicken before the conversation turned to the upcoming presidential election. “Jackie, I meant to tell you the moment you walked in; Clare’s in town. She and Ralph McGill’re going to, in her words, ‘go at each other’ on Eric Sevareid’s show next week. You guys may run into her around the Plaza.”

  “Is that right? Hell, we’ll
definitely look her up,” Jack said. “Maybe we can catch her for cocktails. You wouldn’t turn your nose up at drinking with the former Ambassador to Italy and wife of a multimillionaire publisher, would you, Harry?”

  “Oh, I guess I can stand it if you can, buddy,” Harry replied, a twinkle in his eye. “And who might this charming lady be?”

  “Maybe you’ve heard of her; Clare Boothe Luce?”

  “Whoa! You’ve got to be kidding. What’s she up to these days? I had a flight instructor at Corpus, Blackjack Murphy, who flew with the Flying Tigers. She showed up at their field in ’39 with her husband; she was writing for LIFE about the war in China, and Madame Chiang brought them on the base to interview Chennault and some of the pilots. This guy said she was really something; had the whole Group frothin’ at the mouth.”

  “One of the many things that she does very well,” Serena said, eyeing Jack as she did so. “Jack and I got to know her when I did her bust in marble a few years back. It was before Jack went to Pensacola, and she insisted on our taking a little vacation in Nantucket in a cottage that she knew about. Then she flew up there in a chartered seaplane with a picnic hamper, just to make sure that we had a good time. And we definitely did, didn’t we, honey?”

  “Yeah, we sure did. And then she got Pete, Linda and me together with her friend Bill Pawley down in Miami, which led to a fair amount of FlxAir business from the Feds down there. And, small world, Harry, this guy Pawley was also behind the Flying Tigers. He was Curtiss’s representative in China, and got Chennault the P-40’s that put him in business. I’ll get hold of him once we’re ready to start service, and Clare, too. She visits her pal Bernard Baruch down in South Carolina fairly often.”

  Harry took a moment to absorb this latest insight. “Holy Shit! Oops, sorry, Ríni- Bernard Baruch! Now there’s a prospect. One bird may not be enough to haul all these moneybags.”

  “And,” Serena observed, if Goldwater wins the election, she’ll certainly be in his cabinet. I’d say Secretary of State wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  “Well, as bad as I hate to say it, I’m afraid Goldwater’s chances are somewhere between slim and none. He’s just too quick to tell the truth, good or bad, for the average voter’s taste. Since Kennedy got shot, seems to me that way too many people are simply looking for a father figure to make it allll beeeh-ter,” Jack replied, his face grim. Hell, it’s a lead-pipe cinch that Johnson wouldn’tve even been on the ticket this time around, if Kennedy’d lived.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Serena said, shooting Jack a knowing look as she got to her feet. “Hap gave me something the other day that y’all need to see.” Returning with a multi-page publication, the cover page of which identified it as A Minority of One, she thrust it between the two men, each of whom who instinctively took hold of it. “Flip over to page 6,” she instructed. “It’s an article by Bertrand Russell that directs 16 questions to the administration about the Kennedy assassination. Hap says there’s no way Oswald could’ve done it alone, if he actually had anything to do with it in the first place,” she said after a healthy swig of Tsing Tsao. “He thinks Castro’s behind it.”

  “Could be, I guess,” said Harry. “That- yeah, here- the Warren Commission didn’t take much time deciding that it was just Oswald. Not nearly enough time, seems to me, to check out all of the possibilities.”

  “Hell, what difference does it make?” said Jack with an exasperated exhalation. He’ll be just as dead, no matter how long they grind his bones. And Oswald and Ruby’re dead too, so I doubt they’ll ever find out who, or who all, was behind it. Kennedy had more enemies, inside and outside the government, than Carter’s got pills. Regardless, that sonofabitch Castro and his pals need killing, in the worst way.”

  “Why?” asked Serena. “Weren’t the people they ran out of there just as bad, or worse?”

  “Probably; but they weren’t Reds.”

  “Seems like the Cubans’d get rid of ’em themselves, given time, just the way they got rid of- what the hell was his name? –Batista.”

  “Except for one thing,” Jack said. “The damn Soviets’ve had five years to worm their way into that civilization. Now they’ve taken root, and they won’t be so easy to get out. Kennedy lost his goddam nerve at the Bay of Pigs, or we could’ve taken ’em out right then.”

  “And risk a world war in the process?” asked Serena.

  “Until there’re no more Reds,” Jack said, “we’ll go on risking a world war. That’s what the pissants’re counting on, that we’ll continue being so risk-averse- they’d just say ‘soft’- that they’ll be able to do anything they damn please.”

  “All I know is, Cuba’s not worth you getting your ass shot off, and I imagine that a lot of Naval Aviators’ moms feel the same way.”

  Jack’s face hardened. “We’ve already lost more than we should have on that goddam island. Way more.”

  Harry realized that Jack was drunker than he’d thought. Knowing where this could take them, he shoved an immediate turning point into the conversation. “So what are your neighbors like, Ríni?”

  Serena had been gazing out the window; she spun her head toward Harry, her gaze at first exasperated, then quickly shifting to understanding, then gratitude. “Oh hell, who knows their neighbors in New York? There’re six ‘lofts’ in this building- took me awhile to get used to that, since I was under the impression that a loft was at the top of a building- now, of course, I understand that New York’s full of folks who’ve got to feel like they’re on top, whether they are or not- anyway, this building has six, one to a floor, but I’ve only run across a couple of people in the elevator, and since there’s no doorman, that avenue for gossip’s eliminated. I guess they’re all artists, or artist-wannabes.”

  “No nice young male models?” Jack said, in an obvious feint of sincere interest.

  “No, honey, I’d have noticed. But I did have a visit recently from a nice young female of your acquaintance.”

  “Is that right?” Jack said, visibly sobering. His first thought was in Lulu’s direction, wondering how she’d gotten to his mother ahead of him. “Who might that be?”

  Her smile lightly tinged with smugness, Serena said, “Trisha McNeil.”

  Jack was relieved, but not a lot. “For God’s sake. “What brought her to your doorstep?”

  “She’s a New Yorker now. Works just a couple of blocks from here, for a magazine called Freedomways. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so. How’d she know where to find you?” And, He thought, what the hell did she want?

  “She had my number from a few years back, when Ricky brought her by my old place. Just checking in with somebody from home, same as I’d do. She still looks fabulous; one of Hap’s real estate friends found her an apartment close by that won’t bankrupt her. If Ricky wasn’t such a good friend of yours, I’d sic you on her. Or,” she paused for effect, “Maybe Harry.”

  “No doubt,” Jack said, burping, his hand moving too late to cover it. “That the can?” He nodded at a door to their left. At Serena’s nod, he said, “Y’all ’scuse me.” As the door closed, she crooked an eyebrow at Harry.

  “We had quite an afternoon,” he said.

  “Looks like,” Serena, her eyes still on the door, responded. Turning back to Harry, she said, “Sure you’re up to two weeks of this?”

  Harry smiled, raising his voice a notch to be heard over the retching noises that filtered through the bathroom door. “Sure. Sometimes we reverse roles.”

  “Hm. Well, I hope he feels like eating. Can’t you talk him into staying here tonight?”

  “Ah, he bounces back pretty quickly. Let’s see how he’s doing after din...” the sonorous four-tone doorbell turned Harry’s last word into pantomime.

  “Speak of the devil,” Serena said, leaning toward Harry, hand on his knee, pushing down as she rose to answer the door, leaving him to rerun the instant that gave him visual and olfactory clues concerning what delights lay under the
caftan.

  Recovering, he stood up in her wake, saying, “Let me get that.”

  “Nope,” she said over her shoulder. “I have a charge account. But come take the stuff and put it in the kitchen.”

  Exiting the kitchen, Harry saw Serena, her arm around his waist, guiding Jack toward the curtain that she’d said concealed a double bed. Three’s definitely a crowd right now, he thought, and, returning to the couch, acted on impulse to trade the Martini dregs in his and Serena’s glasses for fresh contents. Hell, he thought as he added ice to the shaker, guess I’m headed for the couch tonight...

  Serena left the screened-off bed space quietly, and was within 10 feet of him before she spoke. “Harry?”

  “Huh? Oh, Ríni. How’s he doin’?”

  “Out like a light. You fixin’ us another drink? Mind reader. I’m not all that hungry yet, are you?”

  “Uh-uh. The spring rolls and potstickers sort of did me in. Trust me to crank out Jack’s Rum Martini, or would you like something else?”

  “No, I think I’ve taken a liking to them. Not much of a way to screw them up, is there?”

  Extending a glass to her, Harry observed, “Guess not, as long as they don’t get warm on you.”

  “Yeah, that would seem to be a major part of the Martini mystique. Drink ’em fast and they taste just great. Harry?”

  “Hm?”

  “You like Jack, don’t you?”

  “Like him? Sure I do. Better than that, by a long shot. Why?”

  “Well, I’m worried about him. He’s got everything going for him now; the Navy’s behind him, he has enough money to do what he wants to do, and yet he’s edgy as a stropped Bowie knife. I know he’s making a big investment in the new plane, but it’s just not like him to be- hell, I don’t know; he’s talking all about you guys having a good time and everything, but he is goddam morose, and it scares me.”

  Harry drank half the contents of his glass, then nodded reflectively. “I’ll tell you something, Ríni; when he came back off leave after the President was killed, I noticed a big difference in the way he handled things in just day-to-day life. Kind of abrupt, bordering on angry. I didn’t think too much about it, because a lot of people were down over losing the President that way. He used to spend every weekend in San Juan with his girlfriend Lulu, even brought her on base now and then, but the closer he came to going off active duty, that changed, too. He never volunteered anything about them breaking up or anything, but toward the end he hardly left the base at all. We’d fly, lots of training hops since it wasn’t hurricane season, hang around the quarters, swim, get drunk, nothing out of the ordinary, but looking back on it, he hasn’t been the same old laughing Jack since November. I think you’ve spotted something that maybe only a mother could; something serious’s still bothering him, no doubt about it.”