The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  I finished breakfast, and was at the register signing my check, when he came back. “Ready?” he asked.

  “All set. Where to?”

  “Jack, don’t you take Mr. Kabeesky to that nasty pool room now,” Reba admonished. “He don’t need to see that collection a’no-goods.” Brushing back a stray blonde wisp, she rolled her eyes toward heaven in search of divine support.

  “No, ma’am,” he replied, mimicking the eyeroll.

  We walked up Lee Street from the hotel, past clothing, shoe and hardware stores that hadn’t opened yet. I decided to ask Jack about the elevator man.

  “You mean Denver,” he said.

  “Denver, huh?”

  “That’s his name. Denver Dander. Some people call him ‘Cat.’ He’s the porter.”

  “He been around long?”

  “Oh yeah. Since before I was born. He’s kinda famous.”

  “Famous?”

  “Well, yeah, kinda. Freddy says he can fart ‘shave and a haircut, two bits’.”

  Not having a response to this information, I said, “I could hardly understand him in the elevator last night. Don’t care much for nigras, does he?”

  “One time Reba said he sounds like he’s got a chitlin’ stuck in ’is throat. I don’t know what he thinks about colored people, though.”

  “Chitlin’? What’s that?”

  “Comes out of a hog’s all I know. I never saw one.”

  Bisque looked like it’d picked up some steam in the year or so of postwar economy. Two drugstores, a Lane’s and a Rexall, faced each other at the corner. Crossing the street to the Rexall side, we walked in a crosswalk made out of brass-colored cast metal ovals, about six inches wide. Set solidly into the pavement, their sharp-relief lettering said “Double Cola.”

  As we reached the curb, I looked down the block and saw a theatre marquee.

  R

  I

  T

  Z

  Cascaded from the side of the building in red, green and blue neon... a cultural beacon, of sorts, for the great city of Bisque. “Hey,” I said to Jack, “some movie.”

  “This here’s the fancy one,” said Jack, as we walked toward it. “There’s two more in town. I like the Roxy the best. It just shows cowboy and scary shows, and it’s only nine cents. This one’s fourteen.”

  How much?

  “Fourteen cents. That’s for kids. It’s forty-five for ad-ults.”

  The current attraction, said the poster locked in the glassed-in cabinet labeled TODAY, was Anchors Aweigh. The poster showed Kelly and Sinatra, dancing horny-happy in their whites, grinning out at the viewer. The COMING ATTRACTIONS cabinet, on the opposite side of the box office, promised Double Indemnity, starting Monday. The double doors on both sides were open, vacuum-cleaning noises boiling out. “Let’s go in,” I said.

  “If Mr. Walton is around, he’ll run us off,” said Jack. “He hates it when you come in before the show.”

  “Well, I’m new in town,” I said. “How would I know?” We walked in, finding no one in the lobby. The doors to the theatre itself were also open. I looked inside; it was larger than I thought, with about 400 seats in the orchestra. The ceiling arched over them, promising decent acoustics. The vacuum cleaner, somewhere out of sight, was clearly audible where we stood, another indication that whoever built the Ritz knew what he was doing. I’d like to see the projection room, I thought. “Wanna to come back and see the first show?” I asked Jack, who clearly had had enough of my snooping and was ready to go.

  “Nah. Maybe we could see what’s at the Roxy.”

  “OK. Lead on.” We turned to leave the auditorium, but our way was blocked by a large, balding man, at least six-four, around forty, studying us through heavy tortoise-shell glasses.

  “Are you looking for me?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I replied, “Please excuse our- well, my- intrusion. I’m just passin’ through Bisque. My young friend’s been givin’ me a tour of the town, and I couldn’ resist a quick look inside. I’m a projectionist, and naturally curious besides. My name’s Kubielski. Moses Kubielski.”

  “Richard Walton,” he said distractedly, giving my extended hand a quick, limp shake. “Well, y’all come back now, he-unh; enjoy your visit.” He stood aside, plainly ready to see the last of us.

  “Thanks. I may be back for da matinee.”

  “Oh. Good. The feature’s two-fifteen. Bring your friends.” With an abrupt about-face, he strode into the lobby and up the stairs without looking back.

  “Hey, look!” Jack said as we stepped out on the street. He ran a couple of steps toward a motorbike that was parked out front. It was close to brand new, and resplendent in its glossy black paint and gold-striped trim. Its name, Servi-cycle, ran the length of the gas tank in splashy gold script. Its coil-sprung solo saddle was covered in tan leather.

  “You like motorbikes, huh?” I asked him.”

  “Sure! Who doesn’t?”

  “Mostly da mothers udda people who ride ’em, I guess. Why doncha sit on it?”

  “Oh, no. It’s Freddy George’s, and he’d get really mad. Anyway, my legs’re too short.”

  “Guess yer right not to sit on it widout permission. I don’t think yer legs are too short, though. What grade didja say ya’d be in?”

  “Fifth.”

  “Yer a pretty big kid. Where to now?”

  “This way; th’ curb market’s open today. There’s this one lady that makes these really great brownies. Dime apiece, or a dollar a dozen.” The curb market sat on the corner, just down from the Ritz, in a building that looked like it had been a fairly large retail store of some kind. The place was almost entirely populated by women, in print dresses and severe hairdos, obviously in from the country. As they busied themselves for the onslaught of Bisque wives, their hunched way of scuttling made them look like a bunch of lower-case “f”s in different type faces, held to the base line of their life sentence by black lace-up oxfords with sturdy heels like the teeth of an industrial gearwheel.

  As we walked down the stall-lined aisles, it was obvious that Jack knew his way around. “You must come here a lot,” I said.

  “I come up here with Nelson- th’ cook at th’ café- every now and then,” he said, waving back in answer to greetings from several of the women as they passed. “Here’s Miz Bartow. Hey.”

  “Hey, Jackie,” she said, enveloping the boy in a hug. “Wondered where you wuz today. Mr. Lord’s done come and gone.”

  “An’ miss these brownies? No may-um. This here’s Mr. Kubielski, Miz Bartow.”

  She looked at me, smiling shyly. “Hey, there,” she said, looking away as she did.

  “Hi, Mrs. Bartow. Could we talk you out of a dozen of your famous brownies?”

  “Why yes, yes sir, f’you liike. Jackie use’ly just has th’ one, an’ I give ’im that ’un. Thankew for bringin’ me a new customer, Jackie. I’ll put a extry ’un in the baig fer ye.” She began loading a white paper bag with dense chocolate rectangles, their aroma an urgent invitation.

  Now I’ll show you the fire station,” Jack said between bulging cheeks. We faced the county court house, across Jackson Street from the market, its white columns extending to the second of its three stories. As we reached the street, a new black Ford sedan pulled into the last parking space before the corner, its chrome siren sitting on the left front fender like a PT boat’s torpedo tube. “Sheriff, Hamm County,” proclaimed the , white badge on the front door. The driver, looking across the street as he got out, waved in our direction. He was tall and spare, a Gary Cooper type. Jack waved back, shouting, “Hey, Wahoo,” as he did. He started across the street, saying to me over his shoulder, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the sheriff.”

  The sheriff’s khaki twill uniform, starched and cut to a snug military fit, was holding up well under the heat. “How you doin’, Jack?” he said, smiling, reaching out to tousle the boy’s hair.

  “Fine. I’m just showing Mr. Kabeesky around town. He’s a gu
est at the hotel.”

  Brown eyes, set deeply in the lean, tanned face, shifted quickly to me. “How do you do, sir,” he said. “I’m John McDaniel. Welcome to Hamm County.”

  “Pleased to meetcha, Sheriff; Moses Kubielski.”

  “Looks like they’re makin’ you feel riit at home down at th’ ho-tel,” he said. “Jack dudn’t give every Tom, Dick and Harry a tour of th’ town. Are you stayin’ awhile?”

  “Just until my car’s fixed; then I’m on my way to Florida.”

  “Well, enjoy your visit; I’d best be movin’ on. Maybe I’ll see you later; I have supper at the hotel now and then. See you now, he-unh.” He turned toward the court house and moved out with parade-ground poise.

  “Well,” I said, “looks like ya got a pretty good lawman lookin’ out for ya. Ever get a ride inna squad car?”

  “Yeah; he takes Mom and me out to Tubby’s barbecue for supper sometimes, but you know what?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He wouldn’t blow th’ sireen.”

  Chapter VI. The Ritz

  Jack’s Bisque tour covered all the bases; it was lunchtime before we were back at the hotel. Hot and thirsty, we went straight to the café and collapsed into the chairs of the first open table. Reba, who was clearing another table, saw us and rushed over.

  “Johnnie Mae! Wouldja get that table ready fo’ me, please? I got to tend to sump’m else,” she said to the heavy-set Negro woman behind the counter. Dropping her voice as she poured glasses of ice water for us, she said to me, “I thought you all wouldn’t never get back. Somebidy’s been lookin’ fer ya.”

  In spite of myself, I overreacted. “For me? Who?”

  “Mr. Walton. He called up here and made me promise to remind you to come to the show this afternoon. Said he wanted to ask you something.”

  “Oh. Yes, I told him I might come back to see the feature this afternoon.”

  “Well, he sure does want to see ya,” she said, gazing intently into my face. She glanced quickly at Jack, then continued, “He’s had a hard time with that show; he keeps it looking so niice, but Nelson- my cook, you ain’t met him yet- he says he thinks Mr. Walton is about to shut it diyun.”

  “Shut what?”

  “Shut it diyun, honey. Close it uup. He just ain’t makin’ any money, Nelson says.”

  “Oh. I see. Shut it down. What a shame.”

  “I guess he wants to see if you kin advise him, seein’ you was in the business and all.”

  News travels fast, I thought. “Well, I don’t know that I’ll be of any help to him, but I’ll drop in. Not before we have lunch, though. What’s good today?”

  Reba smilingly shook her head. “It’s ALL good, honey, but we got some niice fresh catfish in this mornin’ that’ll make you slap yo’ granpaw down. Nelson fries ’em so light and crispy you’ll think you done died and went to heaven. Jack loves ‘em, dontcha?”

  “Yes ma’am, and hushpuppies.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Well, on Jack’s recommendation. I’ve never had catfish.”

  “I’ll bring y’all some nice mashed sweet taters and half-runner beans, too,” she said, and was gone.

  “You’ll like the catfish, Mr. Kabeesky,” Jack said.

  I laughed. “Let me ask you something, Jack. Since I have such a mouthful of a name, would you rather just call me Mose? That’s what my friends call me.”

  He grinned, looking at me with that direct, green-eyed gaze he shares with his mother. “Sure. Mose. That’s a lot easier. You look like a Mose, anyway.”

  “Done. Too bad your Mom’s not here to join us. Does she like catfish?”

  “Oh yeah. But she don’t usually eat lunch here in the café, ’cause it’s such a busy time in the hotel. She just has a sandwich or something up at our place.”

  “I see.”

  Reba reappeared with the famous catfish. True to her word, and Jack’s, I never ate better fish in my life. “What’s this white stuff?” I asked him, indicating a dish that she’d set between us.

  “Oh, that’s whatcha call tartar sauce. I don’t much like it, but Mom does. “It’s got onions in it,” he said, grimacing. “So do th’ hushpuppies, but it’s different when they’re cooked.”

  “Well, I like onions, so I’ll probably like it.” And I did. We ate with very little conversation, savoring Nelson’s genius. The hushpuppies, deep-fried little balls of onion-studded cornbread, were perfect with them. “Want to come see the movie with me?” I asked as we each dug into big pieces of lemon icebox pie that Reba brought us without asking.

  “No sir, thanks just the same. Ricky and I usually go swimmin’ in the afternoon.”

  “Well, you better get some rest after this giant lunch so you don’t get cramps. That’s what my mama used to tell me. Where do you go swimmin’?”

  “In th’ pool out at City Park.”

  Staying in the shade where possible, I walked up to the Ritz’s box office just after two. Richard Walton, seated inside, motioned to me to come in. With no ticket. I could already see why he wasn’t making money. He met me, shifting his gray-checked trousers under a promising paunch, just inside the door. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I don’t want you to miss the beginning, but if you have time, I’d really like to talk with you afterwards for just a few minutes.”

  “That’s OK. I’ve seen Anchors Aweigh. We can talk now, if you’re free.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. Just let me get someone out front, and we can go up to my office.” That done, I followed him up the steep narrow stairs into the office, most of which was occupied by a desk and sofa. “Sorry to jam us in here, but it’s impossible for me to get away during show hours, and I didn’t want us to be interrupted.”

  “It’s a very familiar place to me,” I said. “As I told you, I’ve been in the business.”

  “Yes. In Baltimore.”

  More high-speed intelligence, I thought. “That’s right. Did I tell you that?”

  He let a little nervous laugh escape. “No. I heard about it down at the café. No secrets in Bisque.”

  “I guess not. Well, here we are, anyway. What’d you want to talk about?”

  Walton swallowed, looking at me through rimless bifocals that had replaced his massive horn-rims. “You may have heard that I’m having a few problems here. The truth is, I’ve thought about selling out. As much as I thought I’d love the theatre business, it stopped being fun quite a while ago. In the four years I’ve owned it, it’s cost me almost everything I have, and with the admissions taxes, I just can’t figure a way to make it pay.”

  “Hm. That’s hard to imagine. Th’ admissions taxes’re ridiculous, of course, and four screens may be one’er two too many in a town this size. “Who’s your main competition?”

  “It’s hard to say. Some weeks the Roxy, around the corner, really fills up, and others it’s relatively empty. I don’t get out to the other two that often. And the drive-in’s gonna get the older kids, no matter what they’re playing. They won’t see much of whatever it is anyway.”

  I couldn’t see how he’d kept going as long as he had. “Well, I’d suggest that you try to find out what your most successful competitor, whoever that is, is doing, and do it yourself. You’re th’ only first-run house in town, you’re the largest- you’re the best, in other words. People should be comin’ here in droves, especially now, when it’s so hot and you got a nice cool place for ’em to come to be entertained.”

  “You’re right. But I can’t seem to get through to enough of them to keep this place as full as it needs to be to make money.”

  In spite of myself, and against my nature, which is always, always, to know all of my options in a situation, I heard myself asking him, “What’ll you take for it?”

  “What?”

  “I said, what’ll you take for it? How much do you want for the Ritz?”

  “Why, I don’t know; I…”

  “If you want to sell it, figure out your price and let me know. I was headed do
wn to Florida to shop for a theatre; if we can make a deal, then I won’t have to drive so far. I’ll be checkin’ out the market in the meanwhile, so make sure the price you give me’s the best you can do.”

  He shifted in his steel chair and looked at me, saying nothing. Maybe he’d gotten me up there for a sales pitch, or just some free advice, but he wasn’t expecting this. Finally he spoke. “I’ll have to have my accountant…”

  “OK,” I said, “But you probably oughtn’t to give me too much time to think about it. You have some serious problems here, and I might get cold feet the more I look around.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

  “If that’s when you’ve got a price.”

  I stepped out into the midday heat, sun-blinded and hoping she’d be worth it.

  Chapter VII. Radio Waves

  I’m in the Bisque Café two or three times a day since I came back to this garden spot last year. Eating’s not my great passion, but one must, and Nelson Lord’s grub’s the best around, hands down. Interesting hobby, too; screwing around with every underage split-tail in town. Well, nobody’s perfect, and artists traditionally get the benefit of the doubt. And make no mistake, he’s the closest thing to an artist this town has to offer.

  So I’m sitting at my favorite table, which by rights should be my private table, as much business as I throw their way, and being a public figure on top of that. I’m accustomed to better. Atlanta’s my kind of place. Business there gets done in the hotel bars- the Dinkler, the Henry Grady, the Biltmore. And until I drunk my way out of it, and out of town, my private table was at the Biltmore, twenty-four hours a day, a short stagger from my erstwhile employer, NBC station WBS.

  Now you’re thinking, “Poor chump- on top in the big town, at war with the bottle, now dried out and living the straight life in Palookaville.” Bullshit. I just headed back home to the garden spot of Bisque, where I did what’s sometimes referred to as growing up, and a job that I could stay on top of drunk. They glad to have me back as long as my supply of Sen-Sen held out.

  I was just slightly hung over, having choked down a late breakfast, touching up my breath with a Sen-Sen and burning a fresh Chesterfield when he walked in. I figured him for the New Yorker right away; Buck Jordan’d told me about a New York-type guy dropping off a big-ass white Buick at Smokey’s, and this joker fit the description. He obviously had no talent whatever for wasting time; he was in, sitting down, and waving at Reba, all in the same motion.