Grantville Gazette.Volume VII

by Eric Flint

  "Did the post office say Mister Head or dickhead?" Ken inquired.

  "Yes, Dick Head is the name we were given."

  The other two patrons snickered and James blushed again.

  "Where are you staying?" Ken asked. "If Herr Head comes in today, I'll give him the message. And then, if the greatest of Grantville's philosophers wishes to talk to you, he can send a disciple to make arrangements."

  All the while Ken spoke, Jimmy Dick was thinking hard. He was never going to live this down. He knew it. People who hadn't spoken to him in years, if ever, would hail him on the streets of Grantville at the slightest of excuse, just to have the opportunity of addressing him as "Herr Head." The more polite of them would seek the opinion of Grantville's greatest philosopher. Small towns can be quite cruel that way.

  It was almost a relief when the door opened and two cops walked in.

  "Is there a problem, Mister Beasley?" one of them asked.

  "No. No problem at all. These gentlemen were just leaving."

  One cop looked at the other and tilted his head slightly towards the door. The second nodded ever more slightly. Then Hans, the down-time cop, went out with the three strangers to make sure they didn't have any complaints that should be addressed.

  Lyndon approached the bar. When he reached the cash register he asked, "What happened, Ken?" Officer Johnson was probably the only cop that ever addressed Ken Beasley by his first name. He once briefly dated Ken's step-daughter, and Ken still thought well of him.

  "Sorry about that, Lyndon," Ken said. "When three armed Krauts came through the door looking dangerous, I thought I had a problem. Turns out someone down at the post office sent them here on a wild goose chase; just to get rid of them, I suspect."

  Lyndon worked so hard to swallow his laughter that he almost choked on it. "Sorry about that, Ken," Lyndon apologized. "I guess that's our fault. When the three wise men came wandering into the station looking for our philosophers so they could commune with them, the person behind the desk tried to explain that we didn't have any. She finally got rid of them by sending them to the Post Office. After all, they have everybody's address. Well, someone thought it was funny, I guess, to let them chase their tails all over town and called the post office and suggested Jimmy Dick."

  "Thanks a hell of a lot!" James added from the sidelines.

  Lyndon continued. "If the post office had given them his home address they never would have come here."

  "Hey?" Jimmy Dick called out. "Hello." He waved his hand in a big "bring on the train" wave. "I'm down here. If you can't talk to me, you could at least not talk about me as if I ain't here, damn it."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Jimmy," Lyndon said. "When I didn't see you talking to them I figured you weren't here."

  "Why the hell should I talk to them? And why was it funny to give them my name?" James demanded. Then before that could be answered, if indeed it could be, he also asked, "And just who do I thank for that anyway? And why would I want them poking around my house?"

  Lyndon started to answer the first or second question and then bit his tongue. He didn't answer the third question either but he did reply to it. "Jeez, Jimmy, I'm not sure who made that call."

  ***

  In truth, Lyndon knew exactly who made the call. He knew it had been discussed for almost three minutes and everybody in the office, including the chief, knew about it and thought it was funny.

  The conversation started out with someone suggesting that they call the post office and have them send the three wise men down to the stables to look for Don.

  "Don who?" someone asked.

  "Donald Duck," someone else suggested.

  "That would do, but I was thinking of Ma Quixote's oldest boy."

  The people in the room had chuckled. Then someone had showed his age by saying, "If they want philosophy, we should send them to Ma and Pa Kettle."

  "Who's that?" At least two people asked.

  As he tried to explain who Ma and Pa Kettle were and then what a cracker-barrel philosopher was, the name Dick Head came up.

  The truth was that they were, perhaps, just a little embarrassed that they did not have a Philosophical Society in town nor did they have anybody they considered a philosopher. So they sought to hide the embarrassment in humor. Pain turned inward is depression. Pain turned outward is anger. Pain turned sideways is humor. All three can be destructive.

  ***

  "If there's no problem I'd better get back to work," Lyndon said. Ken noticed he hadn't answered the fourth question, either.

  The other two patrons were out the door behind him before it shut all the way. The closing of the door seemed to trigger a wave of laughter.

  "Ken, bring me a bottle of whatever you're calling whiskey these days," Jimmy Dick said. "That story is all over town by now. Looks like I'll be doing my drinking at home for a good long while."

  "Shoot, Jimmy. That won't help and you know it. The only thing you can do is make it your joke on the Krauts and ride it out."

  James picked up his beer and took a long slow sip and thought for a minute. You can't talk while you're drinking and you can't talk while you're thinking. Or is it you can't think while you're talking? James mind went back to junior high school. If someone insulted you it was best to turn it back on them; it was almost as good if you could turn it on someone else, then you were doing the laughing instead of being laughed at.

  "Oh, come on, Jimmy," Ken said, "why do you think I told them you'd have a disciple come to their hotel? You can have the whole town laughin' at you or you can have the town laughin' at them."

  "I don't know, Ken."

  "Go have a free dinner. Order two of the most expensive meals on the menu. Hand them some bullshit. Then tell everybody in town what saps the puffed up highbrow Krauts are."

  "I don't know, Ken," James said, again. The answer came a bit slower this time.

  Ken knew he was coming around. "Well, why not?" Ken pushed.

  "That interpreter he had was hard on the ears," James said. It was lame and he knew it. He also knew that he would be taking Ken's advice. He just couldn't give in without arguing. It wasn't in his nature.

  "So when you send the messenger tell 'em you're bringing your own. Better still, tell them you're bringing two, so it'll be three on three."

  Julio brought half a tray of glasses to add to the stack under the bar. The only time he ever brought less than a full tray was when he wanted an excuse to come out front. "I'll get my grandson to deliver the message," he said.

  "He's in school, ain't he? I want to get this over with." James said.

  "I'll call over there and get him out," Julio said.

  "Why don't we just call the hotel?" James asked.

  "Naw! It ain't dignified enough. Grantville's greatest philosopher would send a formal note. While we're waiting for the boy, I'll call home and get a blank card. Don't just stand there, Julio," Ken said. "Call the school and get the kid over here."

  ***

  When Matthew got back to school he had missed one class and was late for the next. When he entered Mister Onofrio's math class he handed the teacher a note from the office. The note said simply "Matthew Bartholow was excused and may be admitted to class at this time."

  After forty years of teaching, Emmanuel Onofrio knew a rat when he smelled one. "You will speak to me after class, young man. Do you have today's assignment?" It was the last class of the day and Emmanuel knew Matthew's shift as a bus boy didn't start until dinner time. The lad had tried, once, to use it as an excuse for not having his homework done.

  When the room was empty except for the two of them, Mister Onofrio asked, "Just where were you, young man?" in his well practiced "I can see your soul so don't mess with me" voice.

  "My grandfather sent for me to run an errand," Matthew replied.

  "And what was this errand that was so important that it couldn't wait?"

  "They needed a message delivered." The boy's answer sounded rather lame to the old man.

/>   "And what was this important message, that had to be delivered, by you, before school was out?" The mathematician wanted to know. The boy blushed but did not say a word.

  "Come, come," the gray beard said. He knew he was near a confession when the lad blushed. "Speak up."

  "Well, they didn't tell me not to read it," Matthew said.

  "So you read it. What did it say?"

  "Dick Head, along with an interpreter and an associate, will be pleased to except Herr Krieger's dinner invitation tonight at seven. Please make reservations for six at Grantville Fine Foods."

  At the name Dick Head, Emmanuel Onofrio started to dismiss the whole thing as a bad joke. But the name Krieger caught his full attention. "Krieger?" He almost gasped. "Not Wilhelm Krieger?"

  "That's the one. I got his first name at the counter when I delivered the note," Matthew said.

  "Why would he want to see that idiot Jimmy Dick?" Emmanuel asked the universe, all but forgetting that there was another person in the room.

  "All I know is that the post office sent 'em lookin' for Dick Head and they found him where Grandpa works afternoons," Matthew said.

  "The post office?!" The puzzled teacher nearly yelped. "Why would they send him there?"

  "I don't know."

  "That will be all."

  ***

  Shortly after Matthew left, Emmanuel was on his bicycle. He was heading for the post office and determined to get to the bottom of it all.

  ***

  The gray haired man stepped up to the window to be promptly told, "Sorry, Emmanuel, there isn't any mail for you. I'd send it on to the school anyway."

  "No, I'm not expecting anything. I was wondering though… Well, I heard something improbable from a student and thought I ought to check before I called him on it. You didn't see Wilhelm Krieger today did you?" Emmanuel asked.

  "Not that I know of," she answered.

  "Thank goodness. That's a relief. I was told you sent him looking for Jimmy Dick," he said.

  "Oh! The three wise men. Yeah, I sent them to Club 250 to see the Dick, ah, Jimmy Dick." Even grown ups can be intimidated by an old teacher.

  "Why?" Emmanuel practically shouted.

  The post mistress must have "got her back up" at his tone of voice, at the implied criticism, and at being made to feel like a naughty little girl. "'Cause the cops called over here and told me to. If you got a problem with that go and talk to them." With those words she turned away from the window.

  ***

  Shortly thereafter, Emmanuel found himself at the police station. Shortly after that, he found himself in Chief Richards office. Oddly, it was the chief who was uncomfortable.

  "Chief Richards, do you know why one of your people sent Wilhelm Krieger to speak to Jimmy Dick?"

  "Well, Mister Onofrio, what can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Chief, you just sent the biggest jerk in the whole town to represent us to the greatest intellectual mind that Germany is likely to produce this century."

  "Never heard of him," Chief Richards replied.

  "He probably didn't live long enough to make it into our history books. Beyond doubt, he will be in the ones we're writing now. His published work on philosophy guarantees that, even if he never writes another word. We can't have him thinking that jackass, Jimmy Dick, represents Grantville. You've got to stop it." Chief Richards knew Emmanuel must be a very flustered academic. He wasn't just speaking forcefully, he was nearly shouting.

  "I don't see what I can do about it. Having dinner isn't a crime. If you feel that strongly about it, go talk to Jimmy Dick. Now, is there anything else I can help you with before I get back to work?" Chief Richards was getting a bit annoyed. He wasn't used to being yelled at in his own office.

  ***

  Emmanuel put his kickstand down outside of Club 250 within a few minutes of leaving the police station. As he read the sign, 'No Dogs And No germans Allowed', his mind corrected the missed capital letter. Then he realized it had been done that way on purpose. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and entered the den to bait the lions.

  ***

  Ken looked up as Emmanuel walked in. Emmanuel could see that Ken didn't immediately recognize him. Then he apparently decided that Emmanuel was obviously an up-timer, probably okay. The old man approached the bar and Ken asked, "What can I get ya'?"

  "I'm looking for Jimmy Dick," Emmanuel said.

  "He ain't here," Ken answered.

  "You're Ken Beasley, right?" Emmanuel asked.

  "Yeah," Ken answered.

  "I'm Emmanuel Onofrio," Emmanuel said.

  "Ralph's uncle?" Ken asked.

  "Or his brother, depending on which Ralph you're referring to. Perhaps you can help me. I need to convince Jimmy Dick to not keep that dinner date tonight."

  "Why?"

  "Mister Beasley," Emmanuel started to explain but was interrupted.

  "Call me Ken," Ken said. "The only people who call me Mister Beasley in here are cops here on official business."

  "Ken, Jimmy Dick is the butt of a horrible joke. A joke that's in very bad taste, I might add, perpetrated by the police department."

  "Manny, we knew that when we sent the note accepting the invitation," Ken said.

  Emmanuel ignored being called Manny. The old man detested that nickname, but was dealing with a shock of his own at the moment. "You knew?"

  "Sure," Ken said.

  "Then why did he accept?"

  "Well, Grantville is going to be laughing about this for years to come. We decided we'd rather have them laughing at some damned Kraut stuffed shirt than at one of our own," Ken explained.

  "But, Mister Beasley, Ken, that Kraut stuffed shirt is Wilhelm Krieger. He's here to research our philosophy before he writes about it for all of Europe to read." When it came to Herr Krieger's purpose Emmanuel was guessing. Correctly, as it turned out, but still just guessing.

  "Really?"

  "Do you actually want all of Europe to judge us by Herr Krieger's impression of Jimmy Dick?" Emmanuel asked.

  Ken looked taken aback for a moment. The stakes were a lot higher than he had realized, apparently. Still, he asked, "Do you really want Jimmy to spend the rest of his life being laughed at over this?"

  Emmanuel started to speak and paused with his mouth open. He hadn't thought of that. He was angry with himself. In an argument you take the time that your opponent is speaking to plan your next point. In a discussion you listen to the other party and think about what was said before responding. He hated arguing and was annoyed with himself for having slipped into one. Still, he had to try. "Mister Beasley, this is important. Way too important to leave in the hands of Jimmy Dick Shaver."

  "Well, the cops should've thought of that before they set him up to take a pratfall. Shouldn't they have?"

  "I can't agree with you more. Their behavior is reprehensible. But what can you do, report them to the police?" Emmanuel asked.

  Ken actually laughed. The hostility that had been building was, provisionally, set aside, though it was ready to hand and could be easily put back in play.

  "Where is Jimmy Dick? Perhaps I can reason with him," Emmanuel said.

  "I doubt it." Ken smiled. "His mind is pretty well made up. Have a seat and a beer on the house. Jimmy will be back shortly. He's gone out to nail down his interpreter for tonight."

  That caught Emmanuel's curiosity. "Who is he getting?"

  "He wants Old Joe Jenkins."

  "That old hillbilly?"

  "Yep." Ken nodded. "Jimmy said he heard him translatin' sermons, German to English and English to German right down to the emotional slant of the preacher and was never more than one word behind. He also said that Old Joe Jenkins was the smartest man he had ever met."

  Emmanuel was shocked to find that he was angry or jealous and chided himself for it. Why should he care about the opinion of the biggest jackass in a town half full of petty, close minded people? Besides he had never really met Jimmy Dick, so the poo
r man didn't really know what a smart man was. Then he chided himself for being overly proud and again for being uncharitable to the village he grew up in and had chosen to retire to.

  "Who's his other second?" Emmanuel asked.

  "Huh?" Ken looked confused.

  "Jimmy has been challenged to a duel of wits. He's taking two seconds. One is Joe Jenkins. Who is the other one?"

  "I don't think that's been settled yet," Ken said. He knew for a fact that Jimmy was assuming he would be the third member of the party. He wasn't thrilled with the idea. Fresh organic fertilizer had a way of splattering anyone close by when it hit the fan and he didn't want to deal with it. A thought grew in his mind and a smile grew on his face. "But I think it should be you."

  ***

  Fritz Shuler was ecstatic. On a week night his struggling restaurant, Grantville Fine Foods was booked to capacity. He hadn't had a night like this since the opening rush. The crowd was almost all up-timers, for a change. There was one reservation from a down-timer. Then the calls started trickling in. The trickle steadily increased until he was turning people away.

  Fritz was frantically putting the final touches on the new policy that he hoped would be the salvation of his investment. He had researched up-time dining before he opened. He found a paper maker who would make paper plates and napkins. His niece bought plastic flatware and cups at school from anyone who would sell them.

  He had set out to provide an authentic West Virginia dining experience. He featured catfish, Kentucky style chicken cooked in a very expensive "pressure cooker," and beef grilled to order, on top of a full menu. The down-timers found it charming but up-timers didn't come back.

  Someone finally explained the difference between fast food and fine food. After tonight when diners arrived they would be asked, "Paper or cloth napkins?" But tonight, except for the one table, everyone would have real linen, silver flatware, fine china and glass. He hadn't planned to start that until next week but when the river floods, it's time to float the logs.