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

by Stan Hayes

  She sensed being looked at as she bent to shift a table into place at the end of one of the lobby sofas. “Hey, darlin’.” She stood up to find Wahoo McDaniel at her elbow.

  “Wahoo,” Serena said, not bothering to disguise her exasperation. “What’re you doing, sneakin’ up on me?”

  “Couldn’t help it,” he said, “I was struck dumb. I guess it was the angle.”

  “Nice sentiment,” she said levelly. “What’s up?”

  “Well, maybe nothin’; does there have to be somethin’ ‘up’ for a friend to drop by?”

  “Guess not. It’s just a bit of a surprise to have you make a ‘friendly’ call, if that’s what it is, after such a long time.”

  “Well, there’s all kinds of friends. I thought you and I was just sort of th’ ‘noddin’ and smilin’ type by now.”

  “Guess so. So shall we just nod and smile and you run along and fuck my sister-in-law some more?”

  She got the tightest of murderous smiles in response. “Actually, I am here in the line a’duty. Just wanted to pass the time of day with ya, which used to be a pleasure. Guess you just have one too many close friends to leave much room for some of your old ones.”

  “May be. What the hell’s going on, anyway? Does it involve the hotel?”

  “Only so far as it bein’ the location of a sensitive meeting’s concerned. Just had lunch with a couple of guys from Washington.”

  “Oh? What’s the deal?”

  “Nothin’ much. That I can say anything about, that is. They wanted to brief Chief Bolton and me on security operations over at the Savannah River site.”

  “Oh. The a-bomb plant. That place gives me the willies, and I’ve never been near it.”

  McDaniel’s eyes widened. “Where’d you hear anything about a-bombs? That’s a highly classified site. There’s nothin’ at all being released about what’s gonna be done there.”

  “Oh, not officially. But people talk, and the talk’s about a-bombs. You can’t have that many people working on something and not have it get out.”

  “Well, from what these guys told us today, people who get caught talkin’ about anything that’s going on over there will be up to their necks in trouble,” said McDaniel, recovering his poker face. “If I was you, I’d just act like the place didn’t exist.”

  “I wish that it didn’t, at least in our backyard. I’ve had all the nuclear crap I want, for a lifetime.”

  “I know. I guess I’d feel the same way if it had cost me a marriage. But nookie-lar weapons are what’s going to keep this country safe, as long as we stay ahead of the reds. They’re not goin’ away.”

  “Now it’s my turn to clam up. Except to say that Larry’s involvement with ‘nuke-lar weapons’ just sped up our understanding that getting married was a mistake. My feelings about nuclear fission do come from what I learned while we were together. And the main thing I learned is how easy it is for it to slip out of control. I’m not the least bit interested in glowing in the dark, or ending up like those poor Japs that survived Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I wish that goddam plant was a thousand miles from here.”

  Wahoo’s smile went patronizing. “But, just like the reds, it ain’t goin’ away. The more talk, though, about stuff like glowin’ in th’ dark gets around, the more upset people’re gonna get. That was one of the main things that these AEC boys talked about today. Even though that site’s been designed to be so safe nothin’ bad can ever happen, public opinion could go against it and cause ’em a lot of problems. That, and of course keepin’ the reds from gettin’ hold of our technology, is why the security lid’s gotta stay tight.”

  Serena’s face was execution-witness somber. “That’s great,” she said. “We’re over here on the edge of their friggin’ abyss, but we certainly shouldn’t cause them any problems. That’s doomsday shit they’re messing with over there, Wahoo; nothing less than that. An a-bomb’s a nuclear chain reaction gone wild. And one of them can kill fifty thousand people. Already has. And they’re gonna stack these things up in quantity, not fifty miles away from here? And what about the radioactivity from the reactors that they’re running to make the uranium? Did anybody ask us if we’d like this nice little piece of hell next door? You bet they didn’t, because they knew damn well what they’d hear. But Jimmy Byrnes and the rest of the big dogs over there in South Carolina wanted it, and Senator George and the Georgia delegation didn’t object, so it got done. And we get to live with this goddam death machine from now on. One more reason, and a big one, for Jack and me to get the hell outta here.”

  “If that’s the way you feel,” said McDaniel, “then maybe you should. Most people around here don’t appreciate that yankee style of yours anyway, gettin’ people all stirred up about crap that they can’t do anythang about.”

  “Gimme an R,” Freddy George called over his shoulder, reaching back and down with his right hand from his perch on the ladder.

  “Wait,” said Jack, who had stepped back from the foot of the ladder and the case of marquee lettering, looking up at the letters that were already in place. “You need to switch the last 2. It’s spelling ‘NIGA’ right now.”

  “Oh, shit. Well, get an R ready while I change it.” Shifting his position to face the marquee, he removed the foot-high sheet metal “A,” holding it in his left hand, and slid the “G” to the right on its support bars to make room for the “A,” and made the switch. “NOW gimme the goddam R,” he said.

  “Here you go,” said Jack, stretching to slip the letter into Freddy’s hand. “Woulda been kinda funny to have people driving by here in the morning seeing ‘NIGARA’ on the sign, though.”

  “Probably get more business that way,” grunted Freddy. “Marilyn Monroe and Joseph Cotten in ‘Nigara.’ They’d be wondering who’s playing the nig. Gimme an A.”

  As he handed up the “A,” Jack observed, “That Marilyn really looks good, don’t she? Layin’ back in that red dress singin’ ‘Kiss me?’ Boy, she’s got some nice ’uns.” He closed the letter case, securing its latches. They had already finished the other side, and it was getting close to his eleven o’clock curfew. He held the ladder as Freddy descended.

  “Yeah, they’re niice all riit,” Freddy said, “but Evvie’s ’re bigger.”

  “You talk like you’ve seen ‘em,” Jack said, knowing this would bring a response. He lifted the heavy letter case, taking it inside the lobby doors, and came back outside to hold the bottom of the ladder while Freddy tipped it over and lowered it to the street.

  “I seen ‘em, Buster, and since she’s not around, I’ll tell you sump’m else; I’ve sucked ‘em ’til she squealed.”

  Jack laughed. “That’s not what she says. She says you’d like to.”

  “Then she’s a liar. I’ll tell you what. If she’s tellin’ you so much, ask her about them little bumps all over her nipples.”

  They were taking the ladder down the right-side aisle, heading to its understage storage spot. “Whaddaya mean, ‘little bumps?’ What kind of bumps?”

  “Just bumps. Like zits, but bigger, and they’re not zits. I wouldn’t suck on a zit.” They lifted the curtain that screened the space under the stage, turning the ladder onto its flat side, and dropped the curtain back in place.

  “You’d suck anything she’d let you suck,” Jack said as they walked back up the aisle. He was enjoying this unexpected disclosure, true or not. “I’m going to ask her to show me. I bet she will, and I bet there ain’t a bump in sight.”

  It was Freddy’s turn to laugh. “Show you? Show you? “ He chortled. “She won’t show you shit. She’d be afraid you’d tell, and they’d lock her ass up for corrupting an innocent cheeeild.” He released the stops on the lobby doors, letting them swing shut behind them, still enjoying his joke. “An innocent cheeeild!”

  “We’ll see. I’m asking her tomorrow.”

  “Well, just be ready, Sport,” Freddy said, lifting the Servi-Cycle off its stand and swinging a long leg over the saddle. They’re b
umpy as blackberries. Don’t tell her I said so, though. See ya.” He kicked the bike’s starter, blipped the throttle a couple of times, and eased off in a sputtering cloud of blue smoke.

  Jack turned in the same direction, walking up toward Lee Street and home. I wonder if they are, he thought. No chance I’m gonna ask her. She’d kill me. Oooh. What if they are? That’d be awful. Like zits. I’d throw up; tits’re too beautiful for that.

  A couple of blocks away, Hank Williams sang “Kaw-Liga,” and Moses sat with Lee Webster at the Bisque Lunch Room bar, watching sweat beads run down the side of his third, or fourth, Red Cap. Ribeye was at the bar’s other end, inspecting a nickel-plated S&W .32 snubnose that a chubby, late-thirtyish guy who looked like he’d just come off a cotton-mill shift had brought in. No, too early for that, he thought; shift changes at 12. Maybe he snuck off to beat the rest of ’em here, in order to peddle the pistol in peace. He laughed to himself, just loose enough for that to be hilarious. Peddle the pistol in peace, dum dum. You could dance el jarabe tapatío to that. While Ribeye does gun business. He must buy and sell half a dozen, or more, in a week’s time. Wonder if he ever fires any of them. Wonder what he’d give for a shoulder-stock Luger? The things I’ve left behind.

  He dropped in Ribeye’s one or two evenings a week; had since the beginning, except for the few weeks just after he bought the house. The house. He winced, thinking of the fantasy in which he was bathing when he bought it, and the eight-and-a-half acres of pasture and pine woods around it, almost five years ago. The fantasy had been gradually eroded into something else, the evolution’s irony claiming a smaller part of his consciousness each year. It would still come back to him, however, as the anniversary of buying the house approached; he’d closed on the property on the twelfth of October. And he’d lived there all this time, fantasy slipping away, after buying it for her. But she came and went, according to her mood, and he and Jack had some fine times out there in her absence.

  Slamming car doors and squealy women’s laughter just outside refocused his thoughts. “If that’s coming in here,” he said to Lee, “Old Mose’ll be movin’ along.” He drained his Red Cap and stood up to reach into his pocket as the party breached the swinging doors. Instead of the crowd that the noise suggested, it was Nelson Lord, another man he’d never seen before, and two passable-looking women, all looking to be fairly drunk. “Hey, Ribeye!,” said Lord, as they pulled out chairs and sat down at the far table next to the jukebox, “Could we have a pitcher of yer fiinest horsepiss over here?” Seeing the pair at the bar, he grinned. “Howdy, gents.”

  “Evenin’, Nels,” said Lee. “Evenin’, folks.” The women, flattered, giggled hello, showing, Moses thought, what looked to be complete sets of teeth.

  “I’ll see you, Webster,” grunted Moses, sliding his stool back.

  “Hang on a minute, “ Lee said through his teeth, twisting his pudgy frame around to grip Moses’ forearm. “The world may be coming to an end. Here’s Precious Lord, president pro tem of Bisque Bizarre, at the public trough with a stranger and not one, but two, grown women. We owe it to posterity to divine the reason.”

  “Well, Newshawk,” said Moses, “I think I can help you there. If he brought jailbait in here, old Rib would lose a boot in his ass. Public drinkin’ requires mature company.”

  “True, all true. And all the more reason that old Sluts-a-Plenty doesn’t show up in here all that much. Let’s have a nightcap and observe this rarity.” Lee beckoned Ribeye, just back behind the bar from serving the Lord party, who had surrounded the jukebox.

  “Another round, gents?”

  “Yeh-baw-ey,” said Lee, pushing a wet dollar bill toward him. “And how’s the scent of those lovely ladies this evening?”

  “They smell all riit,” Ribeye said, scooping up the money. I hope they smell good enough to Lord so he won’t miind gettin’ shot over bein’ out with ’em.”

  “Whoa!” Lee responded in a low voice. “Precious Lord’s tempting fate again... as only he can. Who might these ladies be, that you’d think Precious is in such peril?”

  “I jest know th’ one with th’ long hair. She’s Johnny Lindall’s ole lady. Works at one of th’ mills. Reckon he’s on the road.”

  “Lindall? Who’s he?”

  “Trucker. Farms a little on the side. He don’t come in here; he’s some kinda holy roller. But he’s bad when he’s mad. I hear somethin’ outa th’ Mule Hole ever’ now and then about how he’s done threatened to shoot some nigger n’other for fishin’ in his pond.”

  “Well, from the looks of the goings-on over there, ole Precious’ll be in the crosshairs before you know it,” observed Lee. Butcha can’t blame him all that much. Dat ole crotch crusher’s the strongest muscle on earth. Some people stand up to its lure better’n others.”

  Lord and Mrs. Lindall sniffed each other, their heads almost touching across the corner of the table. The other man and woman appeared to be engrossed in watching lust unfold until the man, tall, wide, and fortyish, sandy hair cut severely short, abruptly stood up and ran for the swinging doors, obviously seconds away from being sick. The woman who’d sat next to him watched his exit with mild interest. She had a broad, open face and a mop of dense, curly hair made blond. She was built solidly, about a hundred and twenty-five, Moses guessed. She had glanced toward the bar several times, but Moses put that down primarily to the small size of the place, there not being all that many places to look. There was no mistaking her intent, however, when she stood up and walked over to them. “Hey,” she said. She was looking at Moses. She was taller than he’d realized; he bumped up the weight estimate accordingly.

  “Hey yourself,” said Lee. “How ya doin’?”

  “Better’n miiy friend,” she said, still looking at Moses.

  “I’m Lee Webster. What’s your name?”

  “Maxine.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Maxine. This is your host, Mr. Randall, and this is Mr. Kubielski.”

  “Mose,” said Moses, extending his hand.

  “How’re y’all,” she said, taking Moses’ hand in a firm grip and nodding at Ribeye. Her pale blue eyes were heavy-lidded under blue mascara, and moderately bloodshot. “I hope you don’t mind me comin’ over here for a little bit. My friend and ol’ Nelson are just a little too damn busy to be sociable, and I thank th’ guy I come with’s through for th’ niit.”

  “Yeah, they do look busy,” said Lee, extending a battered Zippo to light her cigarette. “Are you from Bisque, Maxine? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in here before.”

  “I’m from riitchere,” she said, exhaling, “an’ I definitely know you, Mr. Lee Webster. You’re callin’ yourself R&B Lee these days.”

  “Right you are, but only on Fridays; do you enjoy rhythm and blues?”

  “Well, my nieces do. They luv that nigra music.”

  “That’s the idea. Would you like to join us? I don’t think they’ll miss you.” Lee said, sliding off his stool so that she could sit there.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking at Moses as she sat. “As long as I won’t be interruptin’ anythang.”

  “No,” said Moses. “We were just about to leave when you guys showed up to make life more interesting. Where were you before here?”

  “Over at Sadie’s. Just sittin’ around, drinkin’ and talkin’. Nelson’s funny. Don’t know when he hooked up with that Mickey giiy.”

  “He damn sure is,” Lee said with a grin. “He’s a regular Jack-fuckin’-Benny. I don’t know how he does it. Juggles all these girls around, rambles all night and still slings that gourmet-grade hash.”

  “And pretty natty without the apron,” said Moses. “Little bit of a Steve Cochran look, now that I think about it.”

  “Steve Cochran in th’ movies? Y’know, you’re riit,” said Maxine. “‘Cep he mostly plays naisty kinda giiys, an’ ole Nellie’s jist a teddy bear.”

  “That could explain the attraction,” Lee observed. “Little girls love those hairy little rascals.
”

  “Honey, he just goes out jukin’ ever now and then. Don’t you liike a little jukin’?”

  “Just a little off the top,” Lee laughed. “Anyway, he’s consistent. He’s been jukin’ ever since he hit town.”

  “How long’s he been here?” asked Moses.

  “Showed up in the summer of ’45, as I understand it; right after they dropped the a-bombs. Caught Reba between cooks, just after burying her husband, and been there ever since.”

  “Hm. Well, maybe they both got lucky,” Moses mused. No tellin’ what people’ll do, or trade for, to get what they want.”

  “Nope. Precious gets a rich and varied social life, and Reba gets herself a cradle-robbin’ cook.”

  “Hey!” Maxine was finished with philosophy. “If y’all are so interested, le’s go over there and see what Nellie has to say about it.”

  “Now it’s my turn to say goodnight,” Lee said, shifting his rotundity forward in a first preliminary to getting on his feet. “I think this is my limit on Lordly insights for one evening. “Coming, Mose?”

  “Oh, no!” said Maxine, linking arms with Moses. “I’m not goin’ back over yonder without at least one a y’all. “I’m tired a’this ‘extra girl’ bidness. Come on, Mose, let’s play some juke or somethin’. Ennythang.”

  “How about your friend?”

  “ ’At Mickey? He’s probly back in th’ ho-tel by now. I dawawna mess with nobidy smellin’ like puke, noway.”

  “I’ll stay for awhile,” said Moses.

  “Suit yourself,” Lee said, grinning and shaking his head. “Enjoy the human comedy.” With a wave to Ribeye, he was through the swinging doors and gone.

  “I’m ready for a drinka likker,” said Maxine, “but there ain’t that many places to git it this time’a niit. We could go to th’ VFW, but Sadie won’t do that. Her brother-in-law works up ’air.”

  “Not that you look like you need your beauty sleep,” said Moses, “but you don’t seem to be too worried about gettin’ up tomorrow. Do you have to go to work?”