Jake's Burn

by Randy Rawls

  Hojo looked down on me from his superior height, turned his head, and began to say something to one of his friends. I may have cheated history of some deep philosophical statement. I reached across the bar, grabbed Hojo by the throat, squeezed with my fingers and slammed the back of my hand under his chin. From experience, I knew this was a show-stopper. Whatever he was going to say came out, “Ugh, ugh.”

  While trying to watch his friends, one on each side of me, I said, “In case you’ve forgotten, that was a Killian’s for immediate delivery.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of his friends make a move. Fortunately, it was the one on my left, since my right side was busy. As he drew back his fist, I dipped at the knees and slammed a sharp elbow into his stomach. He bent forward with an audible “Whoof,” so I spun and kneed him in the groin. Several hostile husbands taught me to look for an advantage, and grab it first. He crumpled to the floor in such a way I knew there was one less to worry about. There are advantages to being short.

  Then came that sound you always hear in a low-life bar fight. What a shame so many beer bottles get shattered. Wonder if that’s why they’re not refillable like pop bottles used to be.

  The guy on my right said, “All right, super cop. Now, you get yours. This is for Sonny.”

  I turned Hojo loose, grabbed the bar towel, and wrapped it around my left arm as protection. From behind, I heard wheezing from the guy I had kneed. Hojo was busy massaging his neck and trying to squeeze sounds through. I figured neither was in any condition to help me, although I wasn’t sure that would be their first priority. Of course, that also meant they couldn’t help the beer bottle guy either.

  “Edwards, you’re a dead man,” he shouted. “You shoulda been dead the other night. Now, I’m gonna finish what some dummy messed up.”

  He jabbed with the beer bottle, and I took it on the towel, praying it wouldn’t cut through. At the same time, I chopped down on his forearm with the edge of my open palm. I heard a distinct cracking sound that didn’t come from my hand. He yelped, and the bottle crashed onto the floor. He grabbed his arm. With my towel-wrapped arm, I slammed him across the face, driving him backward. He toppled over a chair and hit the floor, his head cracking on the sawdust-strewn concrete. He no longer presented a challenge.

  Behind me, Hojo regained his speech and expressed doubts about my heritage as well as my parents’ marital status.

  “Excuse me, Hojo. I’m waiting for my beer,” I said.

  He stopped his tirade and looked at his two friends who were still out of action. He rubbed his throat again and reached into the cooler. I played it cool, refusing to rub the edge of my hand which hurt like hell.

  As he placed a Killian’s in front of me, a voice yelled, “He’s got a gun.”

  I turned to see the beer bottle guy pulling a gun out of his boot. I grabbed my Killian’s and drew back my arm to throw it.

  “You best put that back, Buster, or I’m gonna twist your head so you can keep a close watch on your ass,” came a voice from the crowd.

  I searched for the owner and saw Bubba. His appearance was fortuitous, had probably saved my life. Of course, on second thought, he might have saved it for his enjoyment. Since there was no way to know, I accepted my good fortune.

  Beer bottle, I assumed his name was Buster, eyed Bubba, then put the pistol away. I took a swig of my rescued beer. If it was to be my last, I planned to enjoy it.

  Bubba stepped to my side. “Don’t you ever slow down? You gonna whup all of Eastland County while you’re here?”

  Before I could answer, Bubba turned toward Hojo. “You done disappointed me now. I ’spect you best move away from behind us.” He addressed the room. “Shut off that damn juke box. Hojo, kill the sound on them TV’s.”

  Well, here we go, I thought. He’s asking for silence so he can tell everyone he’s going to reduce me to another off-color spot in the sawdust. I wondered what color my blood would be when it dried. I tensed, ready to defend myself as best I could.

  As the sounds died, he said, “Now, ain’t that better. I got somethin’ ta say and y’all best listen. This here little man,” he pointed at me, “is my friend. I thought I made that clear the other night. He didn’t kill Sonny so don’t blame him. Instead, help him find the sonafabitch what did kill Sonny and whoever killed Sheila. Now, you don’t do that, I’m gonna be fightin’ mad. And I’m gonna tell you right now there ain’t but one muther in this room can whup my ass.”

  Bubba stopped talking and looked around. I looked too and saw everyone doing the same. The unspoken question was who, who was Bubba talking about?

  After letting the suspense build like a good Hitchcock movie, Bubba said, “Now, who could that be? It’s this damn midget right here.” Again, he pointed at me. “He whupped my ass this afternoon down at the fire station in front of all th’ damn firemen. So, if nobody around here except my friend, Ace, can whup my ass, who do you think can take both of us?”

  My opinion of Bubba grew by the second. This dude knew how to work a crowd. You could have heard that proverbial pin drop—even into sawdust.

  He continued. “The answer is nobody. Ain’t none of you or no bunch of you good enough to take us. Don’t waste your time or teeth or…” He looked at the guy I’d kneed, “Yo’ fam’ly jewels messing with us.”

  He laughed and turned to the bar. “Hojo, give me one of them Kill’an things.” There were nervous laughs all around the room.

  I stood with my back to the bar, figuring Hojo had had enough for the night. I was far more interested in the reaction of the crowd. They busied themselves, but cast glances at Bubba and me. I couldn’t tell if they were friendly or not. The guy I’d dropped with my sharp elbow and a well-placed knee made it to his feet and walked away, bent at the waist. I hoped he didn’t have a date tonight.

  As I surveyed the room, I saw Terri Hart working her way toward the bar. If my luck held, she’d come close enough for me to talk to her. It did, and she did. In fact, she walked straight to me.

  “Why, Muster Edwards, I do declare, y’all jist enough to make a poor country girl’s heart go all a’flutter. Y’all sho’ be one tuff city boy.”

  “Terri, knock it off, will you? I happen to know you attended the University of Texas, and majored in English. Use it. I’ve heard enough people play stupid today.”

  She threw back her head and laughed, a sound like clear spring water tumbling over stones in a streambed, a laugh that sent ripples of pleasure through my chest. Her hair and make-up were different tonight. Except for the hair color and those beautiful eyes, she didn’t look at all like Sheila. I didn’t mention it and didn’t care. She looked even better.

  “Why, Muster Edwards. Are y’all accusin’ little ol’ me of fakin’ an accent?”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Terri Hart, but a lousy actress. That accent wouldn’t fool anyone, not even the boobs in Hollywood. Besides, with a voice as musical as yours, I prefer to hear its natural tones.”

  Terri ducked her head and looked up at me through her long eyelashes. “Okay, I’ll be good. But don’t give away my secret. I have my students to consider.”

  She looked at the spot where the guy I’d kneed had fallen. “You don’t fight fair, do you?”

  “Depends on what you call fair. Way I see it, fair is me winning. Unfair is when anybody else wins. I fight fair.”

  Again she laughed with her head thrown back and her shoulder length red hair floating. “Sounds cockeyed enough to make sense.”

  “Have you had dinner?” I asked. “You must know a nice restaurant where a tourist wouldn’t look out of place. Go with me, and I’ll swear off fighting for the rest of the night.”

  I saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she responded, “Sorry, I’d better not. I’m—”

  “Whoa, I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, at least not tonight. All I’m requesting is a simple dinner for two. You know you can trust a home-town boy just returned from the big city.” I
gave her my best grin.

  “No, well, maybe, ah…”

  “Wonderful, you’re wavering. Here’s the coup de grâce. You pick the restaurant and we can go in separate cars if you want. That way, you can—”

  Her laugh filled my chest again. “Ace Edwards, you’re everything I’ve ever heard about you. Okay, I’ll trust myself in your car. But it’s dinner only, then quickly to bed—separate beds. You in yours and me in mine.”

  “Deal,” I said, sticking out my hand.

  “Deal,” she responded and gave my hand a hearty shake. “There’s a nice restaurant in Ranger where the clientele isn’t as boisterous as this Down Home group. We can go there.”

  I think she was right about the restaurant although I have no idea what I ate. All I did was feast on the phenomena that was Terri Hart. And, as promised, I delivered her to her car at the Down Home at a reasonable hour, then went to my motel alone.

  TWELVE

  My sleepy brain registered the ring, but my body fought moving. I pushed to my left and reached for the phone with my right hand while trying to read my watch. “Hello, Ace Edwards here,” I mumbled.

  “It’s seven o’clock. This is your wake-up call.” A click followed the announcement.

  I swung my legs around, untangling them from the sheet while mumbling unkind things about my lack of judgment in requesting a wake-up call on Sunday morning. Then I remembered why. Terri. I planned to call and invite her to spend the day with me.

  I had asked the previous evening, but she refused to make a commitment. I warned her I’d call in the morning and keep calling until she agreed. She laughed and said I should do just that.

  Here I was, dragging myself out of bed at seven a.m. so I could call her at eight. I wanted to be shaved and ready to face the day before I spoke with her. I stumbled into the bathroom and cranked on the shower.

  An hour later, I was showered, shaved, dressed, and sipping a cup of coffee I’d made in the miniature pot in the room. The second numbers on my watch counted up to double zero, and the hour number clicked to eight. I punched in her phone number.

  “Good morning, Terri,” I said when she answered. “I hope I didn’t wake you, but if I did, it’s your fault for not committing to me last night.”

  Her chuckle filled my ears. “It’s okay, I’ve been up for a couple of hours. I’d begun to think you weren’t going to call, that you were out doing whatever PIs do on Sunday.”

  “Nope, I’m giving the bad guys a day off. And hearing your voice makes me glad.”

  “Oh, Ace. Do you always wake up with your sense of humor intact, and a compliment for a woman?”

  “Only a beautiful woman whose single kiss can turn a toad into a prince. What’s your decision?”

  Terri chuckled at my attempted witticism. “How do you know? I haven’t kissed you yet, well, not really kissed you. If I did, you’d know the difference.”

  A chill rippled over my body, anticipation at its most dramatic.

  She continued, “You might say I’ve made a decision, but now you have to agree with it.”

  “I’m game. Let’er rip.”

  “After your performance in the bar last night, I thought you might want to go to church this morning. From where I stood, it looked like Someone watched over you.”

  “Church? You go to church?” She had caught me without one of my astute comments. There were many things she could have suggested, and I’d have been more than happy to add a few others, but an invitation to church didn’t rank high on the list. I hesitated, trying to remember when I was last in church. As far as I could remember, it was when I followed a straying husband one Sunday morning a couple of years before.

  That guy’s wife had been flabbergasted when I told her where he’d taken his bimbo. She’d said something to the effect he never went with her. Then she switched into a string of obscenities her pastor would not have appreciated. Last I heard, she named the church as a party in her divorce.

  “Yes, Ace. I go to church. Not as often as I should, but I go. Does that surprise you? Now, would you like to go with me this morning? It is Sunday, you know.” Her tone said she didn’t appreciate my question.

  I thought fast. “Gosh, Terri. All I have with me are jeans and sport shirts, not appropriate for church. If I’d brought something dressier, it’d be great to go with you.” Saying it, I knew my morning would be spent in church if that was my best excuse.

  Terri responded without hesitating, “Who do you think you’re talking to, a Yankee tourist? This is Cisco. Wear your nice boots with those jeans and you’ll fit right in. And your Stetson to complete the outfit.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me.” I laughed, still stalling. “What church do you attend? My folks had very strict standards.” My brain raced but came up with no reason to refuse her.

  Before I could dig myself in deeper, she answered, “I go to the First Baptist of Cisco. It’s not far from you at Ninth and E. You must remember it. It’s the big brick church with the white columns. Please come with me.” Her voice took on a more appealing quality. “I’d love to show you off.”

  The way she said love sealed my fate. I knew she’d won the discussion, and I wanted to go with her.

  “First Baptist, yes, I remember it well. When you said the name, my ear hurt. Mom used to twist it to keep me awake, or keep me from shooting spitballs, or keep me from whispering, or… Well, I wasn’t a very good churchgoer when I was young, but Mom and Dad attended the First Baptist and dragged me along.”

  “Then it’s time you went again.” Terri faked a contrite voice. “I promise not to twist your ear.”

  “Wonderful,” I heard myself say, which surprised me because I still had pictures of us in different settings. “What time should I meet you and where?”

  “I’ll come by the motel about ten-fifteen.”

  “Wonderful, I’ll have brunch waiting and we can dine in my room.”

  “Nice try, but no go,” Terri replied. “If I go into your room, you might not let me out, and we’d miss church. The way you’ve been behaving, I think you need church first.”

  My hopes soared. “Does that mean we can have lunch in my room after church?”

  “No, not then either. You’re far too virile and attractive for a po’ ol’ country girl like me to be in your room on an empty stomach.” She paused. “Promise me dinner, who knows? Now, I have to get dressed, and you need to shower and shave. Make sure you shave close enough to last all day. I hate beard burn.”

  “I already shaved,” I said but the phone went dead in my hand as I sat there dazed, replaying her last remarks in my mind. I rose from the edge of the bed, poured myself another cup of coffee and sat to watch the seconds tick away.

  Terri called from the motel office at ten-fifteen sharp as I pulled on my boots.

  “Okay, I’ll come right up. Are you sure you don’t want to come to my room to pick me up?”

  “You have two minutes, then I’m on my way to church, with or without you.” She sounded like she meant it.

  I scrambled out of the room, grabbing my Stetson on the run, forgetting my Beretta as usual. When I walked into the office, she looked at her watch and tapped her foot. All I could do was stare at her. She was so beautiful she took my breath away. She wore a pale blue, knee-length dress that reached from her throat to her knees. It accented her deep blue eyes and made them appear huge. She was the very essence of a virtuous church-going, Texas lady school-teacher. I think that’s when I discovered I was in love with this woman, deeply, irreversibly in love. I was stunned. Since my marital experience, I’d thought I was in love once, but nothing like the feelings that now made me weak.

  “Did I make it?” I asked.

  “Mr. Edwards,” she lectured. “According to my Sunday-only-watch, you made it with only ten seconds to spare. Because you have met the deadline, I will allow you to escort me to church.” Her mouth was set in a straight line, her lips pouty, and her eyes smiling.

  The desk clerk look
ed from me to her, then back to me.

  I bowed from the waist and said, “Your chariot awaits, milady. Shall we go henceforth from this place and find a pastor to bless our pairing? Should we cross a dragon in our journeys, have no fear, for I shall slay it with my mighty penknife and present its head as a trophy.” I took her elbow and steered her toward the door.

  “Ooh, I love dragon heads,” she said, slipping her arm through mine.

  The desk clerk followed our every step, a look of confusion on his face.

  The church was more modern than I remembered, but the message from the pulpit was the same. The pastor was against sin. I felt like he spoke to me. After all, my life had not been perfect in every way—enjoyable, but not perfect. I was glad I’d forgotten the Beretta. It would have been out of place here. I’d have felt worse if Terri hadn’t held my hand, and given it an occasional squeeze.

  In the Southern Baptist tradition, after the service the pastor stood at the door shaking hands with the congregation and making small talk as they departed. When I came to him, he said, “It’s good to have you back, Ace. I heard you were in town. I hope you’ll come back more often.”

  I looked at his wizened face and realized he was Pastor Dinwiddie who had been the pastor of the church when I was a kid. Before I could say anything, he turned to Terri. “Ah, Terri. It’s always nice to have you in the congregation. Your beauty and your voice add so much. Please come back soon.”

  As we walked away, Pastor Dinwiddie called to me. “Ace, if you visit your parents, please give them my best and thank your mother again for her fried chicken.”

  We drove away from the church and I said, “I know lunch awaits us, but where? That service made me hungry enough to eat a horse, or some good fried chicken.”

  “Head toward Eastland. I know a nice place that serves an excellent Sunday brunch. Now, you’ve been holding out on me. What did the pastor mean by his remark about fried chicken.”

  I grinned as memories flooded in. “Like I said when you called, Mom and Dad attended the First Baptist of Cisco. Pastor Dinwiddie, who was new to town and much younger then, ate a lot of Sunday dinners at our house, mostly fried chicken. My mother was known throughout the area as the best chicken fryer around.”