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

by Stan Hayes

  ‘It is not a good day, sir,’ said Joshua. ‘It is a disastrous day.’

  ‘You are, it seems, a man of God,’ said Brother Ted. ‘Is there anything to this charge that’s put you here?’

  “ ‘I am God’s servant, sir,’ he said. ‘Are you?’

  “ ‘Yes,’ Brother Ted told him. ‘Yes, we are.’

  “ ‘Then, in his name, help us. We are, as you can see, in dire need.’

  “ ‘What can we do?’ Brother Ted asked him. ‘Has bail been set for you?’

  “ ‘No, and I doubt that any will be,’ he said, and for the first time the inferno behind his eyes became less furious. ‘They apparently intend to take me back to Cleveland. My concern is twofold; first for my people, and second for the commitment that we have made to the good people of the Second Baptist Church of Columbia. Our revival must begin there next Friday.’

  “ ‘You haven’t told us,’ Brother Ted reminded him, ‘Why you were arrested.’

  “ ‘The landowner on whose lot our Tabernacle was erected,’ Joshua said, ‘broke faith with us. After shaking hands on the agreement to rent the lot for a twenty percent share of the revival’s love offering, he produced a document that set forth a rent of fifteen hundred dollars.’

  “ ‘But surely you hadn’t signed it,’ said Brother Ted.

  “ ‘No. But my Mr. Quarles, my associate, appears to have done so. He has an unfortunate way with business details. In any case, I cast six hundred and ten dollars, the amount of our actual agreement, on the ground before the brigand and we put Cleveland behind us.’

  “ ‘Well,’ Brother Ted asked him again, ‘What can we do?’

  “ ‘Whatever you can to help my people get to Columbia,’ Joshua said, his eyes blazing again. ‘At least they can begin preparations for the revival. If they are here for much longer, I fear that some attachment will be placed on our property. You appear to possess the quality of leadership. Please help me convince Mr. Quarles to get our caravan on the road to Columbia once again.’

  “Well, that’s exactly what he did. Mr. Quarles turned out to be the excitable man with the freshly bruised head. A quick and urgent discussion with him put the Apostles of Redemption back on the road to Columbia, with an additional passenger; Lustrum Grainger. As we walked out of the court house, Brother Ted said to me, ‘Lustrum, I feel that you oughta go with these people. I’ll see about the situation in Cleveland, but unless I miss my guess old Joshua in there won’t make it to Columbia in time to start the revival, and it looks to me like they’ll be needin’ a preacher. I’ll explain your absence to the folks here. Just go, son; I have a feelin’ that’s the Lord’s will.’

  “I did preach that revival in Columbia, and to this day it’s a regular engagement that the Tabernacle is honored to perform. Many things have changed since then; I was anointed with the new name of Sheppard Peters, the Reverend Joshua now lives in retirement in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, and Brother Ted retired early from Farmun to become a key man in our organization. All of which brings us to this place at this time, to consider not where I’ve been, not the stampede into the lake of fire, but where we all, in our hearts, want so deeply to go; into the presence of our Heavenly Father…”

  And now I’ll go with you, Sheppard Peters- to Columbia, or to the ends of the earth, to spread the good news about what Jesus helped you do for me tonight.

  The show went on from there to a fairly predictable finish, with renewed promises of peace in the valley in exchange for “…letting the Holy Spirit come and take control,” and sending a great revival to our souls. I headed for the door as the aisles filled with people headed the other way toward redemption, as delivered by Peters and company. Among those shuffling toward salvation that I recognized was Jack Mason’s pal, Terrell, having a serious conversation with himself.

  The overcast afternoon’s gray light leaked stingily through the barroom windows. “Hey, Webster,” Moses said as the flap-flapping of swinging doors subsided.

  “Hey yourself,” said Webster, squinting in the early dimness.

  “Did you make good on your threat?”

  “Threat?”

  “The revival. You went?”

  “Oh. Did I ever.”

  “Funny, you don’t look saved. How’d it go?”

  “See it to believe it,” Webster said, nodding thanks to Ribeye as he picked the cold Red Cap off the bar. “A guilt Guignol and old-time medicine show rolled into one. Ol’ Peters laid ’em in the aisles. You shoulda been there; it needed someone of the Jewish persuasion.”

  “You’d do well to keep in mind that not absolutely all Jews are masochists. They probably wouldn’tve let me outa there ’til I converted.”

  “S’possible. Lotsa emotion bottled up in there last night. They mighta worked up a little ‘Christ-killer’ scenario for you.”

  “Ah, emotion. Thought with no basis in fact. Essential for love, sex and art, and a pain in the ass damn near anyplace else.”

  “You really wanta reconcile pussy-fixation and martyrdom today? We shoulda gotten an earlier start.”

  “Ah, hell,” Ribeye interjected, “You know how them preachers are. They don't think they've done their job ’til they got you rollin’ around in th’ aisles, scared shitless about goin’ to hell or sump’m. I ever tell you the one about th’ preacher that ’us finishin’ up a sermon, and looked out over the congregation and said ‘Who's ready to go to Heaven? Everybody that’s ready, raise their hands.’ Well, hands started goin’ up all over the room. Pretty soon everybody's hand was up, except for this one ol’ snaggle-tooth boy, riit in th’ middle of the third row. He just sat there in ’is Sunday overhalls with his hair slicked down, lookin’ back up at th’ preacher. Well, th’ preacher couldn't stand that, so he pointed a finger down at ’im. ‘You, sir; you habm't raised your hand. Don’t you want to go to heaven?’ Well, th’ old boy looked up at him and said, ‘Sho do; I reckon ever’body wants to go to heaven.’ ‘Well, then,’ the preacher said, why ain’t you raisin’ your hand?’ and the old boy looked up at him and said, ‘Oh, I thought you ’us gettin’ up a load today.’ ”

  “Looks like it’s gonna be a longer week than most around here,” said Moses, grinning ruefully at the joke as he shook his head. “God save us from the newly-saved. They jump you, fresh from th’ spiritual retread, when ya least expect it.”

  Webster laughed. “Well, when you consider that mosta these good folks are pretty damn ill-informed about anything that takes place more’n a hundred miles from here…”

  “Yep,” Moses grinned as he waggled his empty Red Cap in the air at Ribeye in request for renewal. “With a horizon like that, sump’m like eternal life could look pretty plausible, couldn’t it?”

  “Um-hm, ’long as it’s backed up with good theatre. That music man whipped a pretty decent choir together outa Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians et cetera. Reba was sayin’ you gave ’im a ride on that widowmaker of yours the other day.”

  “Yeah; he walked up to me at the café and asked me about it. Turns out he’s had a bike or two, so I ran ’im out to th’ house to show off my little collection.”

  “A bible-thumpin’ biker. Quite a combination.”

  “Yeah, he’s a pretty decent guy. And damn glad to be over here.”

  “No doubt. That’s some story he tells. Stowin’ away not once, but twice, to get here from Latvia, wherever that is,” Webster said, stifling a belch.

  “He told you that?” asked Moses.

  “He told everybody that. At the revival.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re right, it’s quite a story, and there’s got to be a lot more to it. Too bad we can’t sit ’im down in here and hear the uncut version.”

  “Yeah, preachers and bar rooms don’t mix, at least in Bisque. Even though he’s not exactly a preacher.”

  “Close enough. Maybe I’ll get ‘im out to the house after the soul-savin’s subsided. How’d you like that?”

  “Sure. Never had a bad time at Rancho Notoriou
s.”

  “In the meantime, you can get some pagan relief down at your favorite salon of th’ silver screen.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s playin’?”

  “A 1942 revival, brought back by unpopular demand- White Cargo.”

  A single word parted Lee Webster’s lips. “Tondelayo.”

  “Yes, my boy, Tondelayo- Hedy Lamarr with th’ deepest tan you’ll ever see on a white girl. You remember.”

  “Who could forget? The whites of her eyes… and teeth. Seems like they’re glowin’ in the dark. And that whip work; she even makes a human being outa Walter Pidgeon. How long’s it gonna run?”

  “Right through the weekend. Don’t you read your own commercial copy?”

  “Tondelayo make time stand still.”

  “Oughta take some of th’ revival chill off, anyway. Give th’ non-believers and fence-straddlers a little sump’m to take their minds off all the new-found sanctification.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Webster, “hard to tolerate much sanctification in th’ presence of a hard-on.”

  Chapter XXIII. Go Down, Moses

  Guess it’s revival hangover, Moses thought as he walked into an almost-deserted Bisque Café. He’d driven downtown with the windows down, the damp morning sweeping gently over his face, having left the Hamm County Beverage Company anchored in a most unnatural Monday morning calm. The mood here appeared to be the same. Even Reba’s perpetual perkiness was somehow attenuated, as though she were projecting it through gauze. Like film of a past-her-prime actress shot through scrim, but for emotional effect instead of softening the striations of survival. She, like the rest of his fellow Bisquites whom he’d seen so far this morning, seemed to be moving around smoothly, quietly at about three-quarter speed. “Good mornin’, Mose,” she said as she filled his cup.

  “Mornin’, Reba. Not much traffic today.”

  “No. Habm’nt been much a’tall. Guess a lot of people are keepin’ to themselves this mornin’, digestin’ what the revival’s meant to them. Don’t guess I’d mind doin’ that myself, if it ’us so that I could.”

  “Yeah, I imagine so. Taking a good look at yourself’s a strenuous thing to do. Any sign of the revivaleers this mornin’?”

  “They’re gone,” she said, unable to keep a plaintive note out of the words. “They’us checked out by eight. Brother Ted said they’d be leavin’ as soon as their meetin’ with th’ Council was over.”

  “That’s a hard-working bunch. Did he say where they were going next?”

  “Florence. First meetin’s Friday week.”

  “All the way across South Carolina,” said Moses. “Well, they won’t be forgotten around here for quite awhile, or I’ll miss my guess.”

  “No, sir,” Reba said, glancing across the street at the church. “That’s for sure. Well, lemme see what’s goin’ on in th’ back. You waitin’ on anybody?”

  “Nope. Just thought I’d stop in for coffee and see who’us around.”

  “Well, if you’re gonna be here for a little while, I’d ’preeshate it if you’d keep an eye on things for me for just a coupla minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  He’d asked Dieter to plan on pointing the green Studebaker’s bullet nose back to Bisque after the Tabernacle’s next engagement. That, he figured, would give him time to work out a rationale for the soon-to-be ex-Minister of Music’s becoming a Bisquite. He hadn’t gone much beyond the idea that his post-revival popularity and ecclesiastical cover would let him say something on the order of “I felt called” to return. His visits to the town’s churches would then be likely to produce some kind of job offer, Bisque being Bisque, making his pre-departure sojourn as uneventful as possible. The details underlying that master view, however, were still to be worked out. He’d start with their already-established mutual love for motorcycles and work things out from there. Another immediate question is when, and how much, of this new development Dieter will figure’s necessary to share with his KGB masters, in the interest of forestalling an untimely “field inspection.” At that point, Jack broke in on his cogitation. “Good morning, sir.”

  Startled, Moses looked up at him. “Hey, shitbird. Thought you’d be on the road by now.” Then, as he focused on the boy’s face, he asked “You all right?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t get much sleep. Stayed up most of th’ night talkin’- or listenin’- to Ricky.”

  “What now?”

  “I’m glad you’re sittin’ down. He called me after the revival closed last night. He’s joinin’ up with ’em.”

  Moses swung his head up to look at the ceiling in resignation. All he said was “Mmnh, mmnh, mmnh, mmnh, mmnh.”

  “And that ain’t all.”

  Moses looked over at him morosely. “What more could there be?”

  “Diana and Dolores’re goin’ too.”

  Moses, who had bowed his head slightly, now raised it to look once again at Jack. “Let me ask you one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Are they takin’ that fuckin’ car with ’em?”

  Jack looked at him for a split second before breaking up; in another they were both laughing maniacally. Reba looked around the kitchen doorway in time to see the two of them convulsed, Jack’s head on the table and Moses holding on to its edges as though he were trying to keep it from flying away. She started to say something, thought better of it, and withdrew, shaking her head.

  Barry Edwards sat alone at a table in the Elks Club bar as Moses walked in, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He stood, portly and immaculate in gray seersucker slacks, short-sleeve Gant oxford cloth shirt and blue-red-yellow Paisley tie, waving a hand. He extended it as Moses reached the table. “Mr. Kubielski.” he said with a broad smile. “Thanks for accepting my invitation.”

  “I was too intrigued not to,” Moses said as they shook hands. “Well, Mr. Edwards; it’s been a while.”

  “Yes it has. I still remember the day that Bruce Goode brought you here for lunch not long after you moved here.”

  “About ten years ago,” said Moses. “Hab’mnt set foot in here since. Not much has changed, near as I can tell.”

  “No, not much; I guess that’s the way most of us prefer it. You haven’t changed much, either; wish I could say the same. A congressional campaign’s no way to lose weight.”

  “No, I guess not.” Nor keep your hair, either, Moses thought as he looked at Edwards’ widening expanse of scalp.

  “How ’bout some lunch?” Asked Edwards, beckoning to a waiter as he pushed his chair back.

  “How’s it goin’, anyway?” Moses asked as they sat down in the dining room.

  “Uphill, as you might guess. I bit off a hell of a chunk, switching to the Republican party and taking on somebody with a statewide identity. Secretary of State may not be a glamorous job, but old Clark’s used it to make a lot of friends. And one of ’em’s a friend of yours.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Pap Redding. Shall we order?”

  “I remember that the special was good the last time I was here,” said Moses, looking up at the waiter. “Whatever it is, I’ll go with it again.”

  “Make it two,” Edwards said, returning to his subject. “There’s a handful of people in the Tenth District whose opinions’re greatly respected. Pap’s one of those people. So are you. People tell me that he respects your opinion above anyone else’s.”

  “Well, I’m fortunate to have him as a friend and business partner, but I’ve learned a great deal more from him than he’s ever likely to learn from me.”

  “Based on what I’ve heard, I’d say you were a very modest man. I certainly admire that. But you managed to see that I got my ass kicked in a couple of commission campaigns. And based on what I know about the way you do business, I’d guess that your politics weren’t exactly in what we might call the mainstream around here.”

  “I’m not sure that I follow you,” said Moses.

  “I mean,” said Edwards, “putting a nigra into
a management job.”

  “That’s not politics. You used the word yourself; it’s management. Ralph Williams is a hell of an asset to my business, and if he weren’t he’d still be loading trucks.”

  “I understand that; anybody who runs a business should. But as I said, it doesn’t exactly reflect mainstream thought in the Tenth District, or Georgia in general for that matter. But things’re changing, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you, one on one, without any campaign staff looking over my shoulder.”

  “Go on.”

  “What I came here to do today,” Edwards said, his gaze one of gravitas, “is to invite you to join us.”

  Moses smiled. “By ‘us,’ you mean the Republicans.”

  “Yes, I do. The Democrats’ve had it their way in the South for far too long. It’s time for a change, and I’m asking you to join with us to bring that change about.”

  “You mentioned Pap Redding a minute ago. I assume your invitation extends to him, too.”

  “Of course. If you think he’d consider it.”

  “Of course. And you think that he might, if I asked him to.”

  “I think that it’s probably the only way that he would,” Edwards said, goosing the gravitas to a maximum.

  “So you’re running for Congress,” Moses said, poker-faced, “to change things. What things j’you have in mind?”

  He watched Edwards’ heavy features relax several percent as he shifted into campaign mode. “Georgia’s grown fast since the war- I mean World War Two- but’s it’s going to grow even faster in the years ahead. It’s the largest state east of the Mississippi, and it needs leaders with vision to link its Confederate past with its manifest destiny as a leading state of the union. Reveille’s been sounded; it was the Supreme Court’s decision in Brown versus Board of Education. As long as our lawmakers insist, as they did when they adopted the new state flag this February, on refighting the War Between the States every chance they get, the rest of the country’s gonna go on lookin’ at Georgia and its people as God’s-Little-fuckin-Acre come to life. Georgia needs new leadership, in Washington, in Atlanta, all over the damn state; people who’ll think more of the future than of the past. Segregation’s the past; one-crop cotton farming’s the past; new industries, nuclear energy- that big-ass monster over there, the Savannah River Project- are the future. And Georgia’s future can best be served by the Republican party.”