by Stan Hayes
Jack chuckled. “Maybe. But there’s this about steady pussy. Sump’m happens after awhile where it starts to seem almost like a job. Major, major difference from situations like that one with you and Maybelle last year; just pure mutual lust; quick, violent couplin’. Hey, how d’ya liike ’at? ‘Quick, violent couplin’.’ We could just call it ‘QVC’ from now on.”
“That’s about all it was with ol’ Maybelline, all right; QVC all th’ way,” laughed Ricky.
“At least you had that big weekend in N’yawlins.”
“Yessirree.”
“And never got with ’er ass again.”
“I toleya about that, didn’t I? Not a fuckin’ sniff. She started turnin’ off on th’ drive back; wouldn’t even drive my ass back to Atlanta. And a bus ride outa Claxton aino way t’wind up a weekend.”
Jack shifted in his chair, beer flatulence whooshing silently downwind. “Terry said she was back in Clarence from Claxton’s lap like nothing’d ever happened, which, as far as he’us concerned, hadn’t. The reason she wadn’t with ’im over Christmas was his folks took ’im someplace with them. Told ’im she was at Terry’s th’ whole time.”
“Some little bitch; er, big bitch. But it ’us money well spent. Reg’lar little sexual Swiss Army knife; couldn’t get enough while we ’us down there. I gotta thank Mose again for buyin’ my tickets, and then not even showin’ up. My invisible uncle. That’s a buddy for ya.”
“Yeah, he’s a piecea work. Nobody understands like ol’ Mose.”
“Still gettin’ a lotta flight time?”
“You bet. Matter of fact, I chalked up a pretty big number coupla weeks ago. 300 hours.”
“Damn! Congratulations, son!”
“And now that they’ve got th’ big plane, I can start serious work on an instrument ticket.”
“You flyin’ that big ol’ biplane? I’m impressed. You made a damn good decision stayin’ here, buddy. I know you took a lotta shit for not goin’ back on th’ team.”
“Not from anybody I gave a shit about. I enjoyed havin’ the time free, to tell th’ truth.”
“Goddamn, I know that’s so! It’s gonna be a bitch for me from now on, keepin’ my grades up durin’ th’ season. I’m probly gonna be wishin’ I could walk away from playin’ ball before it’s over.”
“It won’t be easy, but you’ll do it. At least you won’t be gettin’ pounded like th’ QB’s will, or have ta call th’ plays.”
“Yeah, but you know what?” Ricky said, leaning back in his chair. “If I was a QB, I wouldn’t give a shit. With football, there’s QB’s and there’s everybody else.”
“Well, you’re done red-shirtin’, anyway.”
“Yeah, and my 40-yard time’s down under 4.7. I think I can beat that by th’ end of spring practice.”
“You might get a chance yet; just keep that arm in shape.”
“Nah, they’ve made their decision about me. Only way I’d get another shot would be for three or four quarterbacks to break a leg. Best thing for me to do is try ta get playin’ time at flanker. At least they’ll call my name when I catch th’ ball, an’ they got a coupla end-around’s in th’ playbook.”
“And Trisha in th’ stands to cheer you on.”
“Yeah, hope so. I hate us bein’ next door to each other th’ way we’ll be over this vacation, and her folks actin’ like such asses, tellin’ ’er she can’t see me. They still won’t speak to my folks, and it’s been three years.”
“What a mess. Just be glad she’s goin’ to Scott. They can’t keep very close tabs on ’er from a hundred miles away.”
“Yeah, but you know she acts like they can. When we’re together, I mean. There still ain’t no sex; she says she just don’t feel riit about it yet.”
“Mmm-mm-mm. That’s too bad, buddy. Well, I guess you’ll just have to make some other arrangements until she gets over whatever kinda mo-jo it is that they laid on her. Not seein’ anybody else, is she?”
“Not as far as I know, and I think I would know it. And you know what? I really ain’t that interested in ‘other arrangements,’ at least not ’til I get t’drinkin’.”
“And speakin’ a that,” Jack said, “are you ready, Hezzie?” puncturing cans as he spoke.
“Bring it on, hotshot. An’ I’ll tellya sump’m else.”
“What dat, bwy?”
“Don’t much matter who it is, soon as we’re done screwin’ I wish they’d turn into you an’ a six-pack.” Waves of laughter rolled across the pond and back into their laps.
“Now I’ll tell you sump’m,” Jack said after he’d caught his breath. “It don’t look to me like it gets any easier as you get older. Just look at how it is with Mose and my mom.”
“What? They havin’ trouble?”
“Oh, I Guess not, ’less you call how they been carryin’ on for th’ last ten years trouble. He wants ’er to divorce my dad and marry him, at least he used to, and she won’t, but she gets mad as all hell at him when he gets after other women. But she won’t break up with ’im; they just go on, fine one day and bullshit th’ next, from one year to th’ next, with her always talkin’ about movin’ back to New York. Damndest thing I ever saw.”
“Yeah. Well, lookaheanh, buddy; I do’wanna be getttin’ inta any kinda shit you don’ feel liike gettin’ into, but ain’ nobody can make too much sense outa what people do to each other in th’ name a’love. Yo’ mama an’ Mose, eh’bidy knows how they been, you know, t’gether all this time, an’ anybidy wid a licka sense respects ’em, and their feelins’ for each other. Both of ’em smarter than niiny-niine p’centa th’ people in Bisque, an’ people’a pretty much quit tryin’ ta shove ’em inta them lil’ol’ Bisque pigeonholes.”
“It’s a shame, ain’t it?” Jack said, getting up out of his chair and stretching his arms above his head. “All th’ time we spend just tryin’ t’stay straight with women? I ain’t heard much from Terry lately but ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doin’, not pledgin’ a fraternity? J’you think I came up here to Athens just t’keep my nose in a buncha books? Th’ Greek system’s th’ heart of partyin’ at Georgia, and that’s all there is to it.’ She’s some piecea work herself; gave me what she’d probably call an ultimatum, even though she sucked my dick first, while we ’us drivin’ down here yesterday. Guess what it was.”
“Join a frat, or I will.”
Jack guffawed mirthlessly. “Bingo! Bing-fuckin’-go! She was diplomatic about it, of course, which I guess you hafta be with cum in your throat, but yeah, that’s about it. ‘I’ve been hopin’ you’d see what it means to me,’ and so forth, and ‘if we just don’t have that much in common anymore,’ and so forth. Puttin’ a gun ta my head liike ’at, after I told ’er b’fore we ever went up there that I’d never do it. ‘Pledge!’ this, an’ ‘Pledge!’ that. S’most childish fuckin’ thing I ever saw.”
“Well, holdin’ onta pussy’s no reason ta do anything,” said Ricky, crushing his empty Black Label can and dropping it on the grass.
“It boils down to this, buddy; I need my privacy, and she just can’t see that.”
“So how is apartment livin’ up there, anyway?”
“OK; it’s a garage apartment, and I got the garage too. Owner’s this widow lady, Miz Stevens; lives in th’ big house with ’er aunt; out Baxter Street a ways. Even got a sleeper sofa in th’ livin’ room, if you ever gitcher ass over ta see me.”
“I’ll be there, buddy. So ya got th’ academic part under control?.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Wish ole Reba’d keep ’er mouth shut about th’ dean’s list bullshit. I’m workin’ my ass off, but it could just as easy be th’ dean’s shit list next quarter. I’m goin’to summer school, just for insurance. Hey! You got a job or anything goin’ for th’ summer? You could come up an’ stay with me, and we’ll troll for new, nasty wimmin.”
“I ’preeshate it, buddy, but I’m thinkin’ I’ll take a course r’two myself this summer. See if I can get this sitchashun
with Trisha straightened out.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah, I am. How many times do I hafta tellya? I love Trisha. Have since sixth grade. Cain’t stop jus’ cause I’d liike to. Her folks hate me, an’ tryin’ to make her hate me. They just miit do it, too, if I don’t hang in there. Hell,” he said, as a tear rolled down each cheek. “They will do it. But she’s gotta tell me it’s over before I believe it.”
“Well, if that’s what it’s gonna take. Remember ol’ Jim Reynolds from your Sunday school class? Gave up a shot at th’ majors for one with Miz Bateman. Seemed pretty happy about it back then. Wonder if he still feels that way.”
“Oh, man,” Ricky slapped his leg. “Sunday school. That was some feelin’, gettin’ th’ Word from ol’ Jim Reynolds, wadn’t it? Made it easy to believe, comin’ from the guy who beat Billy Bruton in a footrace from center field to home plate.”
“Oh, yeah. Didn’t mean that much to us then, did it? An’ now Bruton’s led th’ National League in stolen bases for th’ last three years.”
“That’us some feelin’ in there, wadn’t it? Th’ whole Sunday school thing, I mean. Hokey as hell, but there was a safeness about it. Everybody feelin’ good’n safe, there in God’s house.” Ricky shook his head slowly, as if he was trying to clear it, while two more large tears caught the moonlight as they dripped, glimmering, off his chin.
“Hey!” Jack said, reaching over to clap Ricky on the shoulder. “It’s comin’ to me. We doin’ it all for pussy, same as Reynolds did. An’ that ain’ gonna change no tiime soon. We oughta jus’ go ahead an’ admit it an’ start our own church, th’ Church ’a th’ Big Pussy. Aawwlll ’ese little pussies,” he wailed to the crescent moon, they aawwlll in th’ image ’a th’ Biiig Pussy!” He began to sing to the tune of Heartbreak Hotel:
“Evabidy need dat pussy,
It make-a yo’ peter swell,
Gotta be gettin’ it it all th’ time
“Don’ care how ba-hada it smell,” Ricky joined in to complete the verse, and they swung confidently into the inevitable chorus:
“ ’Cause it make us so hawny, baby
It make us so hawny
It make us so hawny we could die”
“Awriit now, hold it a minnit,” said Jack. After a pause, he sang:
“Pussy don’ keep all that good
Be needin’ it fresh evry day
Big slimy, slick-lipped pussy baitin’
Th’ hook to make us play”
“ ’Cause it make us so hawny, baby
It make us so hawny
It make us so hawny we could die”
They applauded each other lavishly before cracking the last two Black Labels. “Not bad for a coupla drunks; that long-haired fucker’d looove ta have them lyrics,” said Ricky.
“Damn riit he would. Gotta share th’ credit wid Mose, though.”
“How come?”
“Last time I was home we ’us talkin’ about different stuff, includin’ women, an’ he said sump’m ’bout pussy bein’ perishable, an’ it stuck wid me. Sump’m liike this: ‘Domesticated men- uh- generally discover too late that sex’s a very perishable commodity, unless dispensed by a rare and inspired donor. It’s society’s addictive dry-fly, nailing the horny fish, consigning him to the aquarium, and reducing him to subsistence.’ ”
“Thass pretty good,” said Ricky, shifting from one foot to the other in pre-stagger, “Pussy an’ fish kinda go together.”
“He ’us jus’ tryin’ t’tell me t’watch my ass wid Terry, so I don’t get stuck liike you almost did.”
“Now that is a very good buddy indeed. Wish my daddy’d tole me that.”
“Well, ta be fair, I think talkin’ ’bout shit liike at’s a little easier for buddies than it is for daddies,” said Jack. “C’mon, buddy, le’s grab some shuteye.” Gathering up chairs and dead soldiers, they carried the load up the hill to the house.
Chapter XXI. Kamerad
“Mr. K.”
“Yes?”
“Could you get someone to sit here for just a couple of minutes? I rilly need to go to the bathroom.”
He looked at his watch; 7:50. The feature would start at 8:05, and most of the audience was already seated or at the candy counter. “Go ahead, Evvie; I’ll take it.”
He slipped into the box office chair; Evvie-borne scents of bubble gum and “toilet water” remained. He was smiling to himself at the absurdity of the name as three men approached. The first of them, a tall, smiling dark-haired man in his thirties, pushed a five-dollar bill across the counter. “Good evening,” he said. “Three, please.”
“Good evening,” said Moses, holding the ticket dispenser’s key down for three adult tickets. As he pushed the change back over the counter, his smiling glance at the trio froze on the face of the last man, who stared back at him. It was Dieter Brück. Older, thinner and silver-haired at the fringes, but unquestionably Brück. A long moment later, they entered the lobby. Mose’s quick look back through the box office door followed them past the candy counter and through the theatre’s left aisle entrance.
“Thanks, Mr. K,” said Evvie, squeezing past Moses into the box office.
“Sure,” he responded absently, still looking at the left aisle door.
“Excuse me, please,” said the tall thin man.
“Yes sir. Popcorn?”
“No. Thank you. The man who was in the box office a few minutes ago- is he the manager?”
“Mr. K? He’s the owner.”
“Oh. Is he still here?
“He’s upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“In the office. Did you want to see him?”
“Yes, just for a minute.”
“I’ll go up and tell him,” said the girl. “Does he know you?”
“No. I wanted to ask him about renting the theatre. I’m with the revival team; Jehovah’s Tabernacle.”
“OK. Just a minute.”
“He says come on up,” she said, hurrying past him to the candy counter.
Moses was just inside the office door. He caught Brück by his forearm, pulling him into the room, simultaneously reaching behind him to close the door. He looked into the man’s light blue eyes, smiling. “Dieter. Vas tun sie hier?”
He mirrored Moses’ smile. “To save your soul, Peter.” They embraced, laughing.
“Shit, I need it. You took ten years off my life.”
“And you mine. Now that we know, I must get back to the others. When will you be alone here?”
“Come back at midnight. Everyone’ll be gone by 11:30. You gotta car?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Studebaker. ‘53. A green coupe.”
“Park on the other side of the street. I’ll watch for you through the box office.”
They sat together on the office sofa, a bottle of Cognac between them, filling in the twenty-year gap in their friendship. “My cover name is Paul Pulaski,” he said. “I’m Jehovah’s Tabernacle’s music man.”
“And I’m Moses Kubielski. I went to ground right after Pearl Harbor, and sat out the war in Baltimore. Two skis,” he laughed. “When I heard that you’d been assigned to Barbarossa in ’41, I thought you’d probably died on the eastern front,” said Moses.
“Staying alive was very much a day-to-day thing. The Russians captured my unit near Kursk in September of ’43. I never spent a day in a prison camp. They were NKVD troops, 70th Army. They took me to a rear area, where I was interrogated. Ernst Wollweber, who’d been a German Communist since the twenties, was attached to the unit. I wasted no time in convincing him that I was worth saving. He convinced the commander to take me in. We were one of the first units into Berlin in ’45.”
“And you’re still on the payroll.”
“Yes. First as an NKVD informant, then as an agent of its successor, the KGB. I was attached to the Stasi, the East German intelligence service, for a while in the fifties.”
“And you tru
st me with that information.”
“Why lie? You’d never believe it. And now my question to you; for whom are you working?”
“Myself.”
“And does that mean that you sell movie tickets, or something else?”
“It means movie tickets. And beer.”
“Beer?”
“Beer. I’m a distributor. Wholesaler.”
He laughed, slapping his knees. “You! A village burgher! That’s priceless! How long have you been here?”
“It’ll soon be ten years. And I’m not not just any burgher. This is Hamm County, ya know. I’m a Hamm-burgher!”
Brück laughed. “I’d give a lot to be you. If I had a lot. You must tell me the whole story. But tell me this first; are you aware of the Savannah River Project?”
“Sure,” Moses deadpanned. “Big government operation, just across the river from Augusta, in South Carolina. Scuttlebutt says it’s a uranium plant, like Oak Ridge. Been under construction for quite awhile. A couple of people from around here work construction jobs up there. FBI was around a couple of years ago, doing security checks on ’em.”
“Oh, yes, it’s big,” he said with a smile. “Damn near the size of Los Angeles. It’ll produce the majority of the United States’ plutonium and tritium when it’s running at 100%.”
“For A-bombs.”
“They’re ‘H-bombs’ now. Hydrogen bombs. Weapons that are based on nuclear fusion, instead of the a-bombs’ nuclear fission. They build them out of tritium and deuterium- heavy hydrogen- and plutonium 239. The first reactor went critical last year. They’ve been shipping plutonium for several months.”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes. Since our own successful test of a thermonuclear device last year, it’s become a top priority to get an agent network in place. My assignment could easily eclipse all other KGB initiatives.”
“You’re obviously askin’s for a boatloada trouble, considering what happened to the Rosenbergs after Los Alamos. Any more of your people here?”
“No. But there will be, from time to time.”
