by Stan Hayes
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, maybe he’ll fail the physical.”
“Right,” Jack snorted.
Pete picked up the phone, still half-expecting to hear Jack’s or Linda’s voice in spite of their “no-calls-’til-the-deal’s-made” agreement. “Pete Webber.”
“Mornin’, Mr. Webber, this’s Hank McDonald at TropicAir.”
“Oh, yes. Good morning.”
“Just got a call back from the owner of that Grumman amphibian you looked at a few days back. He’d sell it- for the right price.”
“And that would be?”
“One seventy-five.”
“That include gettin’ me type rated, land and water?”
“Just like we talked about; yes, sir.”
“Who’s the instructor?”
“It’d be his chief pilot. Szymanski, a local guy. Good, solid pilot.”
“I’d like to meet him. Would you ask him to give me a call?”
“Sure thing.”
Easing the Vincent over the curb and between two parked cars, Jack gunned the big V-twin into a break in the traffic and headed east on Main, thinking he’d air it out for a few minutes before heading back to work. As he streaked away from the last traffic light, where Main Street became US1 again, a voice trickled through the helmet’s skirt and into his right ear. “Mind if I tag along, Mr. Curtiss?”
“Nick! What the fuck...”
“Not to worry, I won’t slow you down. Give ’er the gas, Glenn!”
Jack looked back and saw grey-spatted shoes resting on the Vincent’s passenger footpegs. Gripping the gas tank between his knees, he rolled the throttle wide open and watched the needle on the bike’s six-inch speedometer climb quickly to a hundred and twenty. “How’s that, Spats?”
“Just as exhilarating as I thought it’d be, my boy, and I thank you. Speed like this has a far different feel from quantum kinetics.”
6 PRIVATE RICKY
Easing off the throttle just enough to catch the next, and last, traffic light between him and the open highway, he took it to redline in second, holding the throttle open as he shifted to third and giving the bars a backward tug. The front wheel rose some eighteen inches off the ground; Jack held it there with microscopic movements of the twistgrip in a mock salute to Bisque High School as it slid by on his right.
“I could do that,” Nick said into his ear as the front wheel touched pavement again. “Might require a bit of gravitational trickery, though.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. And I learned something else about you.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t weigh a damn thing, do you?”
“Not so’s you’d notice it. You suspected as much all along, didn’t you?”
“Yeah; scooting through those walls the way you do, without doing ’em any damage, got me thinking that way. But I’ve also learned just how little I actually do know about you.”
“Never fear, more’s on the way in that regard. Actually, I wouldn’t have disturbed your illegal and digestive activities, but I thought that you’d like to know that Rick’s home.”
“He is? Damned if you don’t have all the hot news, buddy. When did he get in?”
“About an hour ago; I thought that you’d probably rather go see him than go back to work.”
“How can you stand being right all the time?” Jack asked him, simultaneously laying the bike over in a U-turn to pick up the route to Rick’s.
“I’m sure this reunion can get along fine without my attention,” Nick said as they drew within sight of the house. “Thanks for the ride, hotshoe.” Launching vertically off the Vincent, he was gone. Downshifting, Jack rolled to a spot near the end of the Terrell’s driveway. He’d just pulled the bike onto its center stand, his back to the house, when he heard Rick’s voice, in a pretty fair imitation of Officer Dan “Tub” Brady’s: “You keep on riidin’ like that, bwy, and we’ll be scrapin’ yo’ ass off th’ side of uh cor someday.”
Turning to meet Rick’s approach, Jack grinned as he noted subtle changes in his old friend’s appearance. A season in the National Football League had removed any last trace of boyishness; he couldn’t be sure whether he was seeing it more in his eyes, the fifteen or twenty pounds that he’d put on, or in his movements, but there was no doubt in Jack’s mind that he was looking at a grown man. “How ’bout it, bwy?” he said, his voice reverberating under their back-pounding embrace.
“How ’bout it yo’sef, son,” Rick said as they released each other. “How’d you know I was here? Ain’t had a chance to call yo’ ass yet.”
“A little bird told me.” Well, he used to be one, anyway, Jack thought. “Ain’t no secrets in Bisque, bwy.”
“No shit,” Rick said, glancing involuntarily at the McNeil house next door.
“Seen her lately?”
“Not since Christmas, and damn little then. Met up with her in Atlanta one night. ’Fraid there ain’t much left between us, buddy.”
The McNeil’s daughter, Trisha, and Rick had carried on a stormy love affair that began before high school. It had ended, at least temporarily, when she’d named him as the father of her unborn child, who turned out to be nonexistent. The rancor of that experience, which included the identification of the “actual” father, Trisha’s longtime “real” boyfriend, Preston Rogers, created enmity between the nextdoor-neighbor families that had gradually subsided into a strained politeness, which didn’t include the McNeil’s permission for Trisha to see Rick. “Sorry to hear that, man,” Jack said.
“Not much to be done about it, I guess. Probably for the best anyway, considerin’ where I’ll be for the next coupla years.”
“Might be,” Jack concurred. “Any idea when they’ll actually call you?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a real good idea. My orders say 13 March at Fort Jackson.”
“ORDERS? Whachamean, orders? Your Mom said you were coming over to get your physical.”
“Habn’t had the chance to tell you yet; I enlisted in Baltimore last week.”
“Enlisted? Why the hell’d ya do that?”
“I just had to make an end run around these Bisque bastards and their prissy-ass draft board. I could just see ’em, laughin’ and rubbin’ their hands together, sayin’ ‘This’ll throw a monkey wrench into that smartass’s football career.’ I was be damned if I’d give ’em the satisfaction. Plus, Coach Ewbank has a friend who’s in charge of Army recruiting in the Baltimore area. After basic, they’re gonna send me straight to special services at one of the bases close to Baltimore. I’ll play ball for the base team, stay in shape and go back to the Colts stronger than ever. Might even be ready to challenge ol’ Ray Berry for a starter’s job. That part of it’s a stretch, I know, but I think it’s a pretty good solution under the circumstances.”
“Hm. No, that doesn’t sound bad at all,” Jack agreed. “Halfway makes me wish I could go with you. That’d be sump’m, wouldn’t it? You and I playing ball again on the same team, after all these years.”
Rick smiled broadly at the thought. “That really would be sump’m, all right. Want me to call and see if we can work it?”
Jack returned the smile, which tightened into a near-grimace as he thought about his own near future. “Bad timing for me, buddy; I gotta deal with gettin’ out of the beer bidness before I can see my way clear to do anything. I’ll have to deal with the draft sooner or later, one way or another, but not ’til I get this situation off my hands. At least I hope not.”
“Yeah, that whole thing’s been a headache for you, hasn’t it? Well, at least it’s a headache with a silver lining. Or is it gold?” He laughed, slapping Jack on the ass and putting an arm around his shoulders. “Git on in this house, bwy; I got a beer in here with your name on it.”
It was close to five o’clock when Jack pulled out of the Terrell’s driveway, hopeful of making it back to Chez Mose before the fast-lowering clouds released their rain. He made it most of the way, rolling through the
gate as big drops began pelting his goggles and helmet. Looking ahead, he saw the broad white expense of Cordelia’s Chrysler sharing the carport with the Buick. There was just enough space between the cars for him to pull through and park ahead of the station wagon. He entered the house, brushing stray drops of water off his jacket, and answered the “Hey!” that came from the den with one of his own. He walked in to find Linda and Cordelia seated on opposite ends of the couch, looking as comfortable with each other as if they’d shared a lifetime of experience. “Hey, Cordelia,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to call the shop to see how Buster did yesterday. How’d it go?”
“Blew up ’fore he got started good,” she observed dispassionately, taking a sip from what looked like the twin to Linda’s beer stein of Scotch and soda. “He ’us runnin’ good, too, fifteenth or sixteenth, sump’m like that. Good thang th’ new car’ll be ready ’fore long.”
“Damn! That’s a shame. When d’you think the new one’ll be ready?”
“They’re sayin’ for Lakewood. Hey! Why don’chall c’mon over to Atlanta with me? We’ll getcha pit passes and everthang.”
“When is it?”
“Later on next month sometime. I’ll check and letcha know. Y’all’ll still be here, woncha?”
“Don’t know for sure...”
Cordelia interrupted him in midsentence. “Hey! Don’t you be thinkin’ about haulin’ this girl outa town ’fore I hardly get ta know ’er. What th’ hell’s the hurry, anyway? You sellin’ out tomorrow?”
“Nope,” Jack chuckled. “It’ll be a little while yet.”
“Well, then! Lakewood ain’t but three-four weeks from now, and Buster’d love t’have y’all in th’ infield . ’Til then, you’gn get your business done an’ I’ll have somebidy to mess around with.”
All Jack could think about was Mose; Pete, he corrected himself. They’d agreed that they wouldn’t communicate by phone, or otherwise for that matter, until the sale was closed or less some emergency cropped up. All he could think about was getting the hell out of Bisque as soon as he could wrap things up. That would, however, probably take most if not all of March, and this way he wouldn’t have to be concerned about Linda’s getting bored. “Well, since you ask us so nicely... whad’dya think, Linda?”
Shooting him a fleetingly questioning look, she said, “Sure; sounds like fun to me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Cordelia said, extending her stein. “Just as soon’s you top me up, Jackie-boy.”
“Rick’s home,” Jack said as he collected both their glasses and headed for the kitchen.
“He is?” Cordelia exclaimed. Seasoned Cordelia-watchers would recognize her body’s split-second relaxation and the middle-distance focus of her eyes as immediate precursors of sexual arousal. “Have you seen ’im?”
“Just came from there; rode past the house on my way back from lunch and saw his car in the driveway.”
“How’s he doin’?” In an aside to Linda, she said, “Bisque’s first pro football player; he’s just darlin’!” then to Rick: “How long’s he stayin’?”
Raising his voice to be heard from the kitchen, Jack said, “A few days; he just joined the Army.”
“Jackie! No! That poor thing; they drafted him?”
“Nope; they were going to, but he beat ’em to the punch and enlisted, up in Baltimore. Looks like he’ll be playin’ ball for Fort Whoosis for the next couple years.”
“Ain’t that a shame! Well,” she said, only half-bothering to mask the prurient subtext that had started to run at light-speed inside her head. “That’s one more good reason to party, ain’t it? Give the boy a good send-off. Hey! Let’s take ’im to Lakewood with us!”
“He’ll be gone by then,” Jack said as he returned with three steins of Scotch. “He’s got to be at Fort Jackson on the thirteenth.”
“My goodness.” Cordelia’s subtext shifted smoothly into overdrive. “Well. Buster’ll be home tomorrow; he’ll need a day to get things under control at the shop. Why don’chall come over for cocktails and some supper Wednesday night? And bring Ricky.”
“I’ll see what he’s doin’ and let you know. I’m sure he’d like to hear what Buster has to say about running at Daytona,” Jack said, malicious enjoyment at putting the two men’s names in close proximity evident in his grin. As much a part of Bisque folklore as Cordelia’s promiscuity had become, Jack was at pains to express this mild form of disapproval at the thought of her putting a notch in her bedpost with his best friend’s name on it. In an immediate afterthought, he conceded the likelihood that Rick would harbor damn little hesitation in helping her carve it.
“Honey, wouldja mind goin’ ahead and callin’ ’im while Linda and I fix us a sandwich? I invited myself to supper ’fore you got here. He might find himself sump’m else to do if you wait ’til tomorrow.”
Backing the wagon into the turnaround in the next morning’s rainy semidarkness, Jack resigned himself to the return of normal February weather, which was, on the whole, the worst this part of the country had to offer in a typical year. Won’t mind seeing the last of this shit, he thought as he rolled down the driveway and past the gate. Leaving it open so Cordelia wouldn’t have to deal with it, he headed into town, driving with the extra care of the hung over. Cordelia had passed out midway through her Underwood’s Deviled Ham on rye; they’d put her to bed in the guest bedroom and, flushed with the success of that maneuver, made the mistake of celebrating with Stingers, rendering themselves comatose soon after.
He was thinking about Cordelia’s still-spectacular body, which they’d seen in its entirety while getting her into bed. She was a year or two past forty, but in every bit as good shape as Linda, and that was no small achievement. Simultaneously wondering if she worked out to stay that way and envying Rick’s probable enjoyment of her bias toward professional athletes, his hangover-horniness evaporated with Nick’s sudden occupancy of the passenger seat. “Morning, Jack,” he said, shifting in the seat to face him as he draped an arm over the seat back. “Sorry to startle you; we’ve gotta decide on a way for me to announce myself. I’m just not comfortable using the Goshawk’s shriek in this dignified persona.”
“‘Hey, Jack!’ would beat the hell out of nothing,” I’m in a weakened state, or hadn’t you picked that up?”
“Indeed I had, my boy; the aphorism ‘be careful what you wish for’ comes to mind. You’ve had a busy twenty-four hours, so I’m not surprised that you allowed Mr. Ballantine to take over last night. Unfortunately, you didn’t fulfill my ultimate fantasy in your inebriated state.”
“Which was?”
“To screw your aunt, of course, with or without your girlfriend’s connivance, before Rick beats you in there.”
“You are a mind-reader, I’ll give you that.”
“That, and much more. But given the state of my corporeality, I’ve gotta derive such sexual satisfaction as I can from watching you work. Still hope it’ll work out, sooner or later.”
“And gimme a ‘Hey, Jack’ next time, if it’s not to goddamn much trouble!” Nick’s departure was so swift, however, that Jack wasn’t sure that he got it. But then, he thought, how much had the son of a bitch missed?
The cafe was steamy, laden with breakfast scents, and at seven-thirty already full of Bisquites girding themselves for a day of commerce. Sliding onto his customary stool, he put his head in his hands and awaited Reba’s arrival. “Good mornin’, honey; looks like you’us up late last niit.”
“Bingo; can you spare a couple aspirin with the coffee?”
“Sure thing; now that I get a good look at you, I think I better get you a dose of what Nelson takes when he comes in a-lookin’ like this.”
“God, don’t tell me I’m finally in Nels’s league! What the hell is it?”
“Just a lil’ ol’ mountain oyster, honey. It’ll fix ya riit up.”
7 DRAFTIN’ OL’ FIREBALL
“Get in here, y’all,” said a grinning Cordelia, predictably voluptuo
us in snug-fitting black knit slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse of what Linda recognized as fine silk. “Hey, honey.” This to Linda, accompanied by a brush-kiss on the cheek, while her eyes stayed on Rick. “Y’all’re already a drink behind. Jack, wouldja mind just throwin’ y’all’s coats in there on th’ dinin’ room table? Hi, Ricky,” she said, extending her hand to him with characteristic directness. “Hab’m seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Hey, Miz Redding. It’s been quite a while, sure enough,” Rick said, gazing in frank admiration at the fit of her blouse as she continued holding his hand.
“Cordelia, please, darlin’. I ain’t gonna be Miz Redding for another twenny-thirty years, I hope. Well, let’s see what we can do about catchin’ me up on what you been doin’. Y’all head on back; Floyd and Margie’re already here, and Gene Debs.” In what Linda hoped was conscious parody of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett, she slipped her arm inside Rick’s. “We’re right behind ya.”
Of several changes that Buster and Cordelia had made to the interior of what Jack continued to think of as his grandfather’s house, the most notable was a large, window-filled room that extended into the backyard, in which they’d installed an elaborate mahogany bar, its back bar portion dominated by a two-foot model of a blue-and-white NASCAR Chrysler 300, Mercury Outboards and the number 300 emblazoned on its side. His uncle Gene Debs stood behind the bar, pouring what appeared to be Manhattans into the glasses of an attentive, youngish couple who sat on two of several matching barstools. The stools, Jack noted, had both backs and arms. All they need now, he thought, are seatbelts. Seeing the new arrivals, Gene Debs pointed a finger at them, his standard method of greeting. Jack returned it, saying “Hey, GD; Margie, Floyd. Y’all remember Rick Terrell, and this is Linda Green.”
“And besides bein’ a fine-lookin’ woman,” Gene Debs told Margie and Floyd Simmons, “which is plenty by itself, she’s a pretty fair pilot, if them touch-and-go’s she’us shootin’ the other day’re any indication. I know it’us her and not you, Jackson, ’cause she’us droppin’ it in at a sensible spot on th’ runway. I can always tell it’s you when I see propwash strippin’ leaves off th’ trees.” Setting up three additional Manhattan glasses, he filled them with brown liquid one after the other with an expert’s hand, a deft wrist motion cutting off the flow as the third one filled.
