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

by Stan Hayes

  “Here I thought we were gonna have a serious disquisition about art, and you switch right over to screwin’.”

  “Hell, screwing is art. You can’t wanta debate that.”

  “No, I guess not,” Moses said, returning the grin. “ ‘What fools we fuckers be,’ and so forth.”

  “Haha. In riposte, here’s my proposal for licentious poetic justice. Henceforth, that’s how I’ll be thinking of that modest little shack of yours.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Are you paying attention? Chez Mose is forthwith Rancho Notorious, and no place deserves it more.”

  “Come, come, my boy. Surely my humble little compound deserves better.”

  “Hm. Maybe I have been remiss. The spread may be notorious, but let’s call de big house Chez Cock, and your liniment-soaked barn Chez Jock.”

  “You have been here awhile, haven’t you?”

  “Just long enough,” Webster pronounced, six or seven Red Caps adding to the curious dignity the portly can sometimes assume, “to perceive in sharp clarity the parallels in which life and the cinema are cast. Your quaint little theatre, my boy, is more than a window on civilization. It is a veritable crystal ball. When you sit on the green expanse of Chez Cock, you should indeed feel the pride of a patron of the arts.”

  “Well, in all candor, I do. Almost as much as I’m sure that my colleague in artistic endeavor, the eminent Buster Redding, feels in his garish mobile sculptures of sheet steel.”

  “Ah shit. Talk about breakin’ the mood. What’s the huckster of Hudsons doin’ to get you excited? Your lady friend’s the artist in that family.”

  “Art’s an all-pervasive phenomenon, my boy- you of all people should realize that by now. When you pitched me on sponsoring R&B Lee last year, you must’ve been thinkin’ about what that music means to th’ teenage soul. It might not make Carnegie Hall any time soon, but it moves these kids like nothin’ else, and I’ve got th’ Winston ticket sales to prove it. I’m prepared to call it art, just the same as I am to call Buster’s four-wheeled jelly beans art.”

  “They’ll hafta build bigger galleries, then,” said Lee.

  “Oh, I dunno- You got a gallery; your show. It’s as big as you can make it, within the strength of your transmitter. The movie studios got galleries all over the country, and they move more minds with one big release than Michaelangelo did on his best day. If art’s not about changin’ minds, what th’ hell is it about?”

  “So you think Buster’s gonna change some minds? Whose? Lintheads’ and farmers’? Who else gives a shit about cars chasin’ each other around a dirt patch?”

  “Just about every male child in th’ country over th’ age of eight. All I can tell you is this; all those lintheads and farmers drive cars and buy cars, and th’ banks’re only too fuckin’ happy ta lend ’em money to do it. And by th’ way, what th’ hell else does damn near everybody have in common? Cars! Every time they scratch off at a green light, they’re dreamin’ of race tracks they’ll never run on. Buster may be a little rough around the edges, but he’s got his finger on the pulse of the common man. He’s had a pretty good year so far; a fifth at Lakewood behind Buck Baker’s nothin’ to sneeze at. If he does anything like that well this year at Darlington, he’ll probably get Pap behind him to run the full Grand National schedule next year, and a first-rate driver. The fat little fucker’s no fool. Know what he said to me the other day? ‘You see a man wearin’ a necktie- besides politicians, who already gave up so much manhood that they don’t count- he’s tellin’ you one thing and one thing only: ‘I ain’t got enough money yet.’ ”

  “Not what I’d call the wisdom of the ages,” Lee sniffed.

  “You determined to miss th’ point? The guy knows what th’ people who’re his customers’re thinkin’, and he uses that knowledge to send ’em a message: ‘Look at this; it’s powerful, it’s pretty, and you can have one just like it!’ Maybe not fine art, but art just th’ same.”

  “Well, since these damn Hudson suppositories appear to be a growing part of our destiny, I guess the great artiste is doing what he set out to do. Shame he doesn’t give that knockout wife of his the same kind of attention that he does dumb machinery.”

  “Yeah,” mused Moses. “That is a shame. Maybe you should picture yourself in a New York bakery.”

  “And how, pray tell, will that help me?”

  “Taking a number for faster service. Ask her, in other words.”

  “Oh,” said Lee, reddening. “You know, that’s not all that bad an idea, since Buster doesn’t appear to be a cuckold-shooter. Maybe this is her month for fat disc jockeys.”

  “Well,” laughed Moses, getting to his feet, “Tell ’em Groucho sentcha.”

  Lunchtime at the Bobwhite Café, on Broad Street in downtown Augusta a couple of blocks off the Savannah River, is pretty well over by two. Cleanup and shift change has the dark wood-paneled interior ready for the influx of thirsty patrons that starts a little after four. Regulars maximize their cut-rate cocktail intake before the eight o’clock price change, knowing that the fires of happy hour hooch will be banked by a solid Neapolitan buffet whose inclusion of moussaka and baklava affirms the Bobwhite’s Greek ownership. Having done so, some call it a night, heading home to who-knows-what, while others await the Bobwhite’s nightly juke-joint conversion, after which, in the knowledgeable opinion of Nelson Lord, is “th’ best grabass joint in Richmond County.” Some regulars, including Lord, generally limit their patronage to the grabass segment.

  Moses and Lee Webster walked into the Bobwhite for the first time. They’d met Lord a little after nine, making the short drive from Bisque in separate cars. Lord was received as a regular by the owner, Leonard Metaxas, his barmen and waitresses. Lenny, an ex-army cook, had, for whatever reason, joined the relatively short “love” column of the “Love Lord or Hate ’Im” ledger. He waved when he saw them come in, pointing at an empty table near the edge of the area that had been cleared for dancing. Between words of gracious but perfunctory greeting to Moses and Webster, the Bobwhite’s owner prevailed on Nels, not for the first time, to take over his kitchen. “Don’t wanna work nights, Greek,” Nelson responded, grinning as he shook his head. Just here for th’ pussy.”

  “He always tell me dat,” Lenny said to them with a mournful shake of his own head. “Alla my waitresses, dey love him, would marry him in a minute. But all de summonabitch wanna do is fuck my customers.”

  And the pussy to which Nels refers is there, if you can deal with a certain variance in quality and sobriety. The women who frequent the Bobwhite, usually in twos and threes, tend to be drinkers first, dancers second and lovers later, if at all. At a given point in the evening, Nels said, they make the “fight or fuck decision.” “If it’s ‘fight,’ ” he said, “you’ll know it right away; they’ll sit there lookin’ snotty ’cause they’ve done brought some kinda shit in with ’em from outside, and now they’re ready to blame yo’ ass for it. Don’t matter how good they look, you got a crazy bitch on your hands. Talk yer damn ear off, maybe take a swing atcha, plus they’ve already poisoned th’ ones that come with ’em. Definitely no pussy in that picture. Jus’ look fer a knotted-up jaw muscle. You see that lockjaw, jus’ move along, ’cause you will not be havin’ a niice evenin’ wid dat lady.”

  “Well, Nelson my boy,” said Webster,”You have no peer as a picker of low-hangin’ fruit, and that’s an effective and time-honored strategy. But did you ever wonder what it’d feel like to turn just one a’them crazy bitches around? Redirectin’ all that poison inta passion, from fightin’ to fuckin’? Could be quite an experience.”

  Lord looked at him with ill-concealed pity. “How many of ’em do you guess’s gonna shit in yer hat while you be ‘redirectin’?’ I don’t want nothin’ ta do with them odds.”

  “I could stand a little abuse,” Moses observed, “from that little rascal over there.” He indicated a booth on the far side of the room which was occupied by two very different women. The
older, a stringy, streaky blonde well into her thirties, was laughing at something that the other, who was maybe ten years younger and wore her dark hair cut short, had said.

  “Yeah,” Lord said after a thirty-second appraisal, “she’s riit niice. Th’ beanpole’s OK, too; I seen her around. Jus’ been rode hard ’n put up wet now an’ then. Wanta get ’em over here?”

  “How about dancin’ with ’em?” asked Moses. The jukebox was playing a succession of songs geared for slow dancing. “That way we can back out if they’ve got th’ lockjaw.”

  “Well, sure, why doncha daince widdat little black-headed thang? If she goes fer it, I’ll snag th’ beanpole. ’Less you want to,” he said to Lee.”

  “No, you go ahead,” said Lee. “I’ll check around for other targets.”

  As he approached, the women looked up at Moses with tentative smiles. “Hi, ladies,” he said, switching his gaze from one to the other. Don’t mean to interrupt, but I thought maybe-” looking this time at the dark-haired one- “you might like to dance.”

  “Let me finish my drink first,” she said, looking up at him with solemn navy blue eyes, then down at half of an Old Fashioned. “Why don’t you dance with Roberta, and we’ll have the next one.” Roberta dialed her smile up a few candlepower, awaiting developments.

  “By all means,” he said, extending his hand to the blonde. “Shall we dance, Roberta?”

  “Sure,” said Roberta. “Why doncha have a seat for a minute and let’s see what th’ next song is? This’n’s about over.” She slid back in the booth to make room for him, keeping him in focus with red-webbed eyes.

  “Thanks.” He sat down. “My name’s Mose, by the way.”

  “Hi, Mose. This here’s Dotty.” The girl extended her hand, Moses taking it for a brief shake. “You and yer friends from around here?”

  “Bisque,” said Moses, as Lord sidled up on her left. “This,” he said, “is Nelson.”

  “Hi, Nelson,” Dotty said, saying a lot more at the same time as she slid to the inside of the booth. “Won’t you join us?”

  As the juke box launched the sound of Harry James’ trumpet leading his orchestra into Marie, Moses felt Roberta’s elbow in his ribs. “Here we go, sweetie,” she said. Standing and moving aside to let her out of the booth, he saw Nels duplicate his move, slipping his hand around Dotty’s waist. She bumped him lightly with inverted-heart hips as they moved toward the dance floor.

  “So whattya do ovair in Bisque, Mose?” asked Roberta.

  “I work for a beer distributor, Roberta; how ’bout you?”

  “Whiitehed Wholesale; in th’ office,” she said in a stage groan, the sharpness of her pelvis pressing lightly into him. “Dotty used to too, but she’s back in college ny-uh. She’s just home for th’ weekend, so I brought her over here t’niit for a little celebration.”

  “Whitehead Wholesale; whadda y’all wholesale?”

  “Growshry iitems. You know; coffee, crackers, canned goods. Stuff liike ’at.”

  He spun her once as Harry launched into his major solo. “Where’s Dotty goin’ to school?”

  “Berry College. Up in Rome.”

  “Hm. Never heard of it.”

  “I never did either,” she laughed, letting him pull her close, surprising him with breasts like baseballs loosely loaded with buckshot under her loose-fitting blouse. “She went thair before she come t’work at Whitehead; says the school’s got a lotta acreage that th’ students help farm. I kinda wish I could go too.”

  “Sounds pretty good; why doncha?”

  Her exasperation was evident as she looked up at him. “First I’d hafta get a high school diploma. Then I’d hafta talk my folks inta lettin’ my daughter live with ’em fer four years. Then I’d hafta be smart enough ta pass th’ work. Then all I’d need is money.”

  “When you put it that way, guess it wouldn’t be such a good idea. How old’s your daughter?”

  “Niine. Seems liike just yesterday she’us a baby.”

  James finished Marie with his trademark flourish, and the dancers returned to the booth as Hank Williams began a lament about a cheatin’ heart. Before they could sit down, Dotty said “Would it be all right if we sat over there with your friend? He’s all alone over there, and the booth only holds four.”

  “Sure, honey,” Nels, having neatly slid into the driver’s seat with her, said. “You’ll like Lee. He’s a disc jockey.”

  “Wait,” said Roberta. “Bisque. WQUE. Izzat R&B Lee?”

  “None other,” said Moses. “You sound like a fan.”

  With a dainty snort, she said, “You bet I am; he was playin’ R&B before Gene Nobles and Hoss Allen on WLAC. ’At bawey flat knows th’ blues.”

  “Hey, Webster,” Lord called as they reached the table. “Here’s a fan a’yours.”

  Lee, who had been observing their approach, hauled himself to his feet. “Well, well,” he said, “How very nice,” taking Roberta’s outstretched hand.”

  “It’s mah pleasure,” she said, giving his hand a vigorous shake. “I cain’t believe I’m meetin’ R&B Lee, an’ here of all places. “Thainks fer playin’ all th’ good music.”

  “The pleasure, I assure you, is mine,” said Lee as he pulled the chair next to him out for her. “Please, sit down.” As he did, Nels pulled out the adjacent chair for Dotty, then sat down on her other side. Smiling mostly to himself, Moses sat down opposite the two happy couples, and waved their waitress over.

  “Janice, bring us a round, please. The ladies’re havin’ Old Fashioneds, and back up my Red Cap with a shot a’ Jack Daniels.”

  “Green or Black, hon?”

  “Black, please. Either of you boys wanta join me?”

  “Sounds pretty good,” said Nels. “This here daincin’ takes th’ edge off a buzz riit quick.” With a nod, Lee made the drink order unanimous. The group watched with mild interest as the people moving people move back and forth to the dance floor: soldiers from nearby Camp Gordon in nondescript mufti, haircuts giving their occupation away as surely as a uniform, fresh-showered bluecollars in sticky white waffle-texture nylon shirts, men from various strata of Augusta’s business community and a sprinkling of their female counterparts. Some would speak or wave at Roberta in passing, eyeing the others with ill-concealed curiosity.

  “I understand you’re back in college,” Moses said to Dotty, who looked quickly at Roberta, then back at him.

  “That’s right; shouldn’tve left in the first place, but the money just plain ran out. Took me three years to save what I needed, but I made it back, thank the Lord.”

  “Well, the best of luck. What’re you studyin’?

  “I’m a Business major.”

  “An’ a monkey-business minor?” Nels added, drawing polite laughter from everyone but Dotty.

  As Janice put the fresh drinks in place, Webster raised his shot-glass of sour mash in a toast. “Here’s to you, Dotty. Hope you make a million.” He drained his glass, as did Moses and Nels, following up with a pull off his Red Cap.

  “Thanks,” she said. That’s what I’d like to do, if it’s God’s will.”

  “Coming back here when you finish?” Moses asked.

  “Nosiree. I wanta go to Atlanta and get a decent job with a future to it, even if I will be an old lady of twenty-six by the time I get there.”

  “An’ a decent man, riit?” said Nels with what he intended as a winning grin, circling a finger in Janice’s direction for another round.

  “If that’s His will.”

  “His will? Whose will?” Nels persisted.

  “I think she means God, Nels,” said Lee, little puckers at the corners of his mouth hinting at his private enjoyment of the moment as he glanced at Moses.

  “Yes,” Dotty said, nodding. “That’s who I mean.”

  “Well, hell, God,” said Nels as the new drinks arrived, “don’t guess you can miss if you put God on th’ job. He raised his shot-glass; “Here’s to Dotty an’ big doin’s in Atlanta; an’ ta God’s
will too, I reckon.”

  Dotty turned in her chair to face Nels. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t refer to my Lord with disrespect. You may think it’s funny, but I don’t. And why’d you order more drinks? I haven’t even started the last one she brought.”

  Nels looked back at her for a couple of seconds, then stood up. Picking up whiskey in one hand and Red Cap in the other, he said, “Would ya’ll excuse me?” and headed for the bar, immediately engaging one of the bartenders in conversation.

  Nels’ move left the table momentarily quiet. Then Lee said, “Don’t be concerned about Nels, Dotty. He’s got the rare habit of saying exactly what he thinks. The problem is, you never know what he’s thinking, and if you did, half the time it’d probably make you sick. But he really doesn’t mean any harm; Mose and I’ve known ’im for years.”

  “Oh, we ain’t studyin’ him,” said Roberta, reaching over to pat Lee’s knee, leaving her hand there. If he liikes it better at th’ bar, we’ll get along jus’ fine without ’im.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dotty said, navy eyes still wide-open intense, “if he was offended. But he offended me; he really did.”

  “When I was a sailor, about a million years ago,” said Moses, “an officer told me that in the wardroom- that’s kind of a clubroom for officers, on every Navy installation- they never discussed three things: religion, politics and sex. Guess they wanted to avoid arguments while they were at sea. All we’ve missed so far’s politics.”

  “Well, hell, le’s don’t git inta that,” laughed Roberta, grabbing Lee by his upper arm. “I ain’t had th’ first chance ta talk to this man about music yet. Jus’ let that lil’ pissaint set over’air all niit if he ownts to.” She picked up her bag, fishing inside. “I need a cigarette.” As she rummaged, a metal-studded beanie fell out onto the table.

  “Hey, where’dja get that?” asked Dotty, picking it up for a closer look.

  “Aw, at’s Christy’s,” Roberta said, finding her cigarettes, Lee standing by with his lighter. “It ’us out in th’ yard when I come out ta leave, an’ I jus’ picked it up so some kid or dog wouldn’t. After all th’ damn Kellogg’s Pep I bought so she could get them buttons that come in th’ boxes. I prob’ly got twenny bucks in ’at damn beanie.”