by Stan Hayes
“Baltimore,” I said. “Ever heard of it?”
“Hunh-uh. Whey it is?”
“Up north. Close to Washington, D.C.”
“Whey Roosievelt useta be.”
“That’s right. Just a few miles away.”
“Who have his job now?”
“Mr. Truman’s the president now.”
“I be done seen de crain wid Roosievelt dead on it.”
“Really. Did it come through Bisque?”
“Nawsuh; my uncle Bob be drive us downa Macon.”
“Well, that was a fine thing for him to do. You’ll always remember seeing that train.”
“Yeh, I will. Peoples be cryin’; black folks, white folks, all be cryin, while dat crain go by so slow. Uncle Bob say it be de saddest day de country eber know. Dat Mistah Cruman- do he be a guut main?”
Yes, I think so; at least he seems to be an honest man.”
Ziggy shook his head slightly from side to side. “I sho hopes so; hope he don’ be gettin us inta no mo waw, anyway. My brother jus’ be back a little while; he say don’ nobody needa be in no waw.”
“I guess that’s his shirt you’re wearing.”
He smiled. “Useta be; he gibita me. It be miine now.”
“Well, he’s right about war; it makes no sense at all. Does your brother live in Bisque now?”
“Uh-huh. He stay wid us.”
“Well, I’m sure you like that.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna stay here? In town?”
“Yes, I am. I’m buying the movie theatre.”
“Which one?”
“The Ritz.”
“Whooeee. Whatchoo give fo’ it?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Oh, not all that much. Do you like to go there?”
“Uh-huh. We sits in de bayulc’ny. Kin I have a job dere?”
“I thought you already had a job at the grocery store.”
“I does. I got nudduh job, too- at de lunch room. But I got time fo’ nudduh one, do it be at de show. Who gone clean up fo’ you? I kin clean up evuh niit afuh you close it up.”
This kid’s definitely a hustler, I thought. “You still go to school, don’t you?
“Sho do.”
“Let me find out who’s doing it now; maybe we can work something out- if your folks don’t mind.”
“Iss jus’ my mama, an’ she don’ mind nothin’ I does- honest, I mean- long as it make money.”
“Well, drop by next week and we’ll see. We’d better be getting back into town now.”
“Awright, den.”
Shit, I thought, feeling the oppression of the overripe air that pushed out my cheeks and weaseled up my pants legs, a lifetime of Faulkner wouldn’t get you ready for this.
We parked the rig back in front of Ray’s at about three-thirty. By then I was quite at home with it. Ziggy got his bike and left with another “Awright, den.” over his shoulder, leaving Roy and me alone inside the shop.
I opened two Red Caps and handed one to him. “Did you say $48.50?” I asked.
He took a long pull from the green bottle. “$48.50, plus fitty cent a day fer storage. Just round ‘er off tuh thirty bucks; hit’s been here since June.”
“That’d be $78.50, then.” I put ten twenties on the counter. “There you go, and another $121.50 on account.”
He laughed. “On accounta what?”
“On account of you doin’ a coupla things that I’d like to have done to it. Know anybody that could paint it?”
“Yeah; they’s a few paint shops around. You talkin’ about just a coata paint, or do you wanta get ’er done riit?”
“Damn well right. I like that old girl, and she’s going to do a job for me. I think you sort of like her, too. That engine’s too frisky not to have been gone through. You must’ve overhauled it.”
He grinned, looking at me and shaking his head. “Well, it ’us too good an engine just to let it splatter itself tuh pieces. She didn’t need what yuh’d call a overhaul; just rings and valves, and I cut th’ heads down a little as long as they was off. Big end’s jist fine; don’t seem like she’s really been rode that much.”
“Coulda been delivered right at the end of the war. Well, it’s time she got a new look; who do you think ought to do the paint job?”
“Only one I’d trust her with’d be Skeeter. He’s a body man at th’ Chrysler shop. Paints on th’ side at ’is own shop. Liikes ta do old cars; he’s got a T-Model Ford looks liike hit’s brand new.”
“He’s our man. Would you get hold of him and find out when he could do it?”
“OK. An’ I guess you’d like ta know what it’s gonna cost.”
“Of course. Just tell him I want it to look like a new one.”
“New? You mean liike it was when it ’us delivered?”
“Well, not exactly. Do you suppose he’d come by here one day after work to talk about it?”
“He’ll meet up with us next door, anytime you’re buyin’ th’ beer.”
“Good. Tomorrow then. I won’t rush him, but I’m gonna need it done as soon as possible. And tires. Guess those’ll hafta be ordered.”
“You’ll need to talk to th’ tar store about that. I reckon Firestone or Goodyear, either one, makes some that’ll fit ’er.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of that. Just let me know how much they are, and I’ll give you the money, plus twenty percent for your trouble. I’ll do that on the paint job, too.”
“Godamiteydayum, Mister...”
“Mose.”
“Mose,” he said, “You gittin’ ready to spend a buncha money on that ole rig, but if that’s whacha mean to do, then I’ll be glad to see that hit gits done riit. I love good machinery, an’ I reckin you do too. How come you in sicha hurry?”
“Business.”
“Bidness?”
“Business. To promote th’ theatre.”
Late the next afternoon, a large shadow cast by Buck’s Billiards’ ceiling fan-stirred light preceded Lee Webster’s rotundity as he waddled into the poolroom. Buck, shooting perpetual nine-ball with the perennial regulars, straightened up from shooting a game-winning combination and winked a languid greeting. A couple of the others nodded stingily in his direction. “Hey, Lee. You lookin’ for Mr. Kabeesky?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“He said he left word fer ye down at Rib’s,” said Buck, swiping his fancy handkerchief over an ample forehead. “He the one that put on the show down ’ere yes’dy? Seems like a nice enough fella. He’s back on th’ snooker table.” Buck moved closer and wrapped a heavy arm around Lee’s shoulder, leading him away from the front table and lowering his voice. “Hey, looka heeunh. If he’s a frienda yours, I b’leeve I’d let ’im know ’at some people, like them ole boys up in th’ front, don’t keer all ’at much fer white folks messin’ ’round wi’ niggers liike ’at…”
“Greetings, buster; ya look like a monsoon victim. Why da you guys insist on wearin’ ties with yer short shirts anyway? Loosen that fucker up before ya choke.”
“There’s certain things you do to get by,” said Webster, looking reflexively around before loosening his tie and digging into his neck’s folds of fat to undo his collar button. “Around here, one of ’em is, if you’re a manager, psuedo-manager or a salesman peddling to the aforementioned, you swap your coat and Arrow Dart longsleeve shirt around April Fool’s Day for an Arrow Dart shortsleeve shirt. Burn up otherwise. But you don’t dare shed the tie; people just won’t take you seriously without the goddamned tie.”
“Do tell. Got time for a game, Mr. Sincere?”
Moses leaned across the width of Buck’s lone snooker table to take his shot on the pink six-ball, which sat slightly off the side rail and back some thirty inches from the corner pocket nearest the scoreboard. “Six in the corner,” he said, easing his cue stick back and forth inside the bridge of his left hand as he sighted the shot. Satisfied, he stroked the cue ball gently toward its target. A soft click sent th
e six down the table. It hit the rail just at the nearside edge of the pocket’s rounded corner, rattled between corners and rolled to a stop near the middle of the back rail. “Shit,” he grunted, standing up and looking at Lee Webster, who would have a clear shot on the seven once he made the red ball that was a short straight-in shot into the opposite corner.
“Appreciate that,” said Webster, flashing a brief grin in the relative gloom outside the coverage of the table’s fluorescent light. “Thought you had it.”
“That’s snooker, at least it’s snooker with a hangover. Guess I’m gettin’ old, lettin’ a few beers catch up with me.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you’ve got plenty of company; according to Buck and the guys on the front table, half the town’s got a hangover from your little ride yesterday.”
“What? What the hell’re you talking about? I test-ride a bike, and that gives people hangovers? Besides me, that is.” Moses walked over to the blackboard to chalk down the single point addition to his score.
“Well, let’s see. You blow into town in a white limousine, flirt with buying the town’s number one movie house, commandeer an old motorcycle loud enough to wake up the Confederate army, put a coon in the sidecar, come near wiping out a row of automobiles pulling out from Ribeye’s, rip around the countryside for a couple of hours swilling beer, and no one’s going to take notice? You can’t be that obtuse. This is Bisque, not Baltimore. In Bisque, they break out the chastity belts and Klan robes for a lot less than that.”
“Jesus. Well, you know what they say. If they can’t take a joke, fuck ‘em.”
“Fuck yourself’s more like it,” Webster said, brushing thinning brown hair back off his forehead as he leaned over to pocket the red ball. “You piss off the good people of Bisque and sooner or later they’ll shut you down. All you’d have in that movie’ll be drunks, rats and roaches.”
“Not if you can help it. I wanted you to know as soon as possible. I’m the Ritz’s new owner, so dazzle me with what you’re going to do to make it famous. Here’s the other half of that hundred, by the way.” He tossed the torn paper onto the table near Lee. “A solid schedule of your inspired commercials, plus decent newspaper ads, plus the proletariat’s unquenchable thirst for the Hollywood miracle, and they’ll be there, lined up to buy tickets, if the the devil himself owned the place.”
Lee picked the bill up from the table, sliding it into the side pocket of his wrinkled seersucker jacket. “That, my friend, definitely remains to be seen. As a member of the news media, I’d like to think that you’re right. But I’ve been in this town for long enough to know one thing for sure. Unless you play by their rules, these people will do everything they can to mash you flat. They’re still getting over the Louis-Conn fight, and you drop this turd in the punchbowl.”
“Billy Conn; the Pittsburgh Kid. Shit, he was lucky to make it to the 8th. Some Great White Hope. Hope he got what was comin’ to him outa that purse. What was it, two million?”
“See? That’s what I mean. That’s an opinion that you oughta just keep to yourself. You got to understand what things like that mean to people in a town like this. It’s like religion. Hell, it is religion.”
“Which is another word for fear,” said Moses. “People usually operate out of fear. Relax, Webster; once they see I’m no threat, things’ll go right back to normal. “People in this burg’re like people everywhere else. Give you a hundred reasons why your idea won’t work, then show up looking for a job when it does.”
“The only thing I see wrong with that theory,” said Webster, using bottom english to drop the black seven and get position on another red ball, “is how long it’ll take ’em to see that you’re not here to tear up their playhouse. Rich or poor, most Bisquites are about the length of a plowchain, psychologically, from a cottonpicker’s shack. Until- and unless- you stop scarin’ em, you might as well be in league with th’ devil.”
“Another one of humanity’s little misperceptions.”
“Hell, man- humanity is misperception. How many examples do you need?”
“Well,” said Moses, “Hope springs eternal.”
“No, I think you were closer to the mark just now. Fear, at least in these parts, is what springs eternal.”
Chapter IX. Inside Moves
“Be still, Cordelia,” Serena said to the lean ash blonde who sat on a tall stool some eight feet away from her to avoid the sculptor’s shadow. They were alone on the Hotel Bisque’s roof, which she had converted into an outdoor studio.
“If I’da known that it’d take this long, I wouldn’ta asked you to do the goddam thing,” Cordelia groused. “I got me a serious case of flat-butt, sittin’ on this stool so long .”
“That’ll be th’ day, darlin’. That’s the nicest over-21 butt in Hamm County.”
“It used to be the nicest under-21 butt in the goddamn state,” Cordelia said. “Let’s take a break. You’re drinkin’ all the wine.”
It was just past nine in the morning. Cordelia Redding perched uneasily on her high wooden stool, posing for what they now agreed was an ill-conceived undertaking: a bust of Cordelia as a birthday gift for her husband Buster.
They moved to a couple of high-boy director’s chairs, a bottle of Chablis in an ice bucket on a tall metal table between them. Sitting under the seamless ceiling of cool blue morning sky, their isolation from the town was secured by the four-foot brick wall that extended above the perimeter of the hotel roof. Cordelia pulled a pack of Chesterfields from her bag, shook one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “I hear your new Yankee guest’s not bad lookin’, in a burly sorta way,” she said, letting the smoke escape.
“Not bad at all. Gray eyes, Jewish but doesn’t look it; appears somebody tagged him on his nose, so he doesn’t have the ‘Meyer’ profile. Built like Buster Crabbe, and smiles like he knows all your secrets. Moves like a tennis player, or a big old cat, on the balls of his feet. Favors his right side a little. Nice guy, from what I can tell; he’s headed to Florida, unfortunately. Wants to buy a picture show.”
“Oh. Big dough?”
“No. Just tired of cold winters, he says. Guess he’s just saved enough to invest in something of his own.”
“Reba said that he was talking to Richard Walton the other day.”
“Yes. Jack took him on a walk around town, and they ran into him.”
“Maybe he’ll tell Richard how they do it up north.”
“Do what?”
“Run a picture show. What’d you think I meant?”
“Well, you just said ‘do it-’ could’ve been anything- from screwing to the Charleston.”
“Maybe he can screw while he does the Charleston. Ever think of that?”
“No, Cordelia, I didn’t; but I’m not surprised that you did.”
Draining her wine glass, Cordelia stood up, walking back to the posing stool. “Don’t tell me your vote helped elect me Bisque’s official slut.”
Serena looked at her over the bust’s shoulder, caressing the wet gray clay. “You’ve got way too much competition to get my vote, if I bought the slut label in the first place. So you like to fuck. So do I. Nobody calls a man who likes sex a slut; he’s an ‘ass man,’ or a ‘Lothario,’ depending on the part of town you’re in.”
“Yeah, but we’re in this town; that’s my problem.”
“I know it still hurts, honey, but at least you’ve got the satisfaction of knowing that you were that sonofabitch’s last victim. Now that people know what was doing over there with the little BHS girls for so long, there’s just the usual handful of sanctimonious shits that insist on seeing you as anything but the one who caused him to get caught.”
“You’d think that twenty years’d be long enough to live anything down. Wish I’d had the sense to leave this town and get my sexual initiation someplace else, like you did.”
“Well,” Serena sighed, “It’s a shame we can’t just fuck who we please, when we please, minus the horseshit of men’s jealousy, but
here we are today, for better or for worse. “At least you’re getting serviced regularly- that’s more than I can say. You are, aren’t you?”
Cordelia arched her back and stretched, smiling lazily, her navel peeking out above her white jersey skirt. “I’m just fine, sweetie. But now that Buster’s about to get busy being a car dealer, you miit have to hold my hand now and then.”
Serena, shaping the juncture between the bust’s underjaw and neck, let one hand drop to the top of its right breast, her fingers fondling it lightly. “I swear, child. You are way too much. That fool Matthew Green didn’t know what he was lettin’ loose on humanity when he started playin’ with you.”
“That poor man didn’t turn nothin’ loose; he just happened to be there when it busted loose. If he hadn’ta been such a damn fool, talkin’ about leavin’ his wife and lettin’ the whole mess get out, we’dve been all right. Good lord; to think that little bit of fuckin’ could cause so much trouble.”
“The problem is that your idea of ‘a little bit’ just isn’t the same as most people’s, Cordelia. I love you, and I worry about you. Why the hell did you marry Buster, anyway? He’s never gonna get you out of Bisque, if that’s what you want.”
“That may be true, but don’t bet the hotel on it. He got me out once, so I guess heeg’n do it again. Buster may not be quite th’ man your daddy is, but he’ll do OK. By the way, talkin’ about gettin’ outa here- what’s your plan?”
“New York again, just as soon as Jack’s done with school. I left here once, and I can do it again. But I’m resigned to making the best of Bisque ’til then.”
“That’ll be some trick. It’s funny, you know, how we are. You’re five years older than me, and if we hadn’t gone to Miss Rhonda’s studio, chances are we’d be strangers. Five years’s a lifetime when you’re a kid. You’d already gone up North to school when I was a freshman in high school. And look where we are now.”
