The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

  “Thank you, Catherine.” Turning to Mary and Jack, Letitia Baldrige indicated with a flip of her hand and that they should precede her down the deep-blue carpeted hall some twenty feet in the opposite direction, through an arched portico into a large room whose windows overlooked the gray-green East River and beyond it, the Statue of Liberty and Brooklyn, where Jack’s immediate interest was drawn to the incredible bulk of a Forrestal-class aircraft carrier, at anchor in front of the Navy Yard. A massive granite fireplace dominated the room; they took seats on three massive sofas of a matching gray wool that faced it, open-box fashion, surrounding a low, square marble-topped table with five-foot sides. Wide doorways that Jack estimated to be at least ten feet high flanked the fireplace; Clare Boothe Luce entered the room through the one on the left. To Jack, it was as though Miss Liberty had dismounted from her pedestal and walked up the East River to meet them, delaying just long enough to slip on a gold-belted emerald green shift that fit her as well as it would have a girl in her twenties.

  “Hi, Tish! I wouldn’t have kept you waiting, but I needed to satisfy myself that Catherine had the uncrating under control. Hi Mary dear,” she said, shifting her eyes quickly to Jack as she extended her hand. “And you’re Jack Mason. I could’ve picked you out of a lineup, with those green, green eyes. They’re as striking as your mother’s.”

  He blinked, seeing her suddenly as an older Cordelia and jogging his hormonal circuits to attention. Taking her hand, he responded in the way Tish Baldrige had suggested, but a half-octave or so higher than normal. “It’s an honor to meet you, Madam Ambassador.”

  “I’ll bet Tish put you up to that,” she said, her smile turning mischievous as she released his hand. “Your mother calls me Clare, Jack, and I wish you would, too. You were awfully kind to help Tish and Mary out the way you did; Serena and I have way too much work invested in that ageless self of mine to let anything happen to it. You may not be an officer yet, but you’re unquestionably a gentleman.”

  “Thanks, uh- Clare. I’m glad I could help.”

  Upping the smile’s wattage, she continued as though she hadn’t heard. “I do know a bit about the officer caste,” she said. “Besides reporting on the war, I spent a lot of my time in Congress in Military Affairs Committee hearings. Have you looked out the window? The good ship Saratoga’s at anchor off the Brooklyn Navy Yard. She was built there, you know. Hanson Baldwin had quite an article on her in the Sunday Times.”

  “She’s really something, even from this distance. Have you been aboard her?” Jack asked.

  “Regrettably not. But I did go aboard her sister ship, the Forrestal, a couple of years ago. Didn’t I, Tish?”

  “In a big way,” her ex-factotum smiled. “That was quite an end-run you pulled on them, getting the Secretary of the Navy to fly you down in that jet- a Panther, wasn’t it? To Naples; and that fiery orange Fabioni flight suit; Mama Mia!”

  “Good old Tom. The boys really enjoyed it, didn’t they? From the Admiral on down. After he got over sending his aide and the limousine for me, and having them return from Rome empty-handed, that is. Good thing Fabioni got that suit done in time.”

  A discreet knock interrupted her. “Excuse me, Mrs. Luce,” Catherine said from the doorway. “May we bring your bust in, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Catherine, please do.” Turning to her guests, she said, “This day’s been a long time coming; thank you all for your help. This is how the world will remember me.” Catherine advanced on the marble-topped table, a thick robin’s-egg blue bath towel in hand. She spread it, double thickness, on the table and beckoned the porters forward with the reverence of an acolyte. Holding the bust between them, they placed it with solemn resolve in the center of the towel, and withdrew. A minute, then two, went by in silence as the group circled the bust, glasses of Dom Perignon in hand.

  “It’s you, Clare,” said Letitia Baldrige. “Oh, it is definitely you.”

  “In Carrara marble,” said its subject, a note of reverence evident in her voice. “Michelangelo’s favorite, and certainly mine. Jack, your mother’s a genius.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Jack, taking a moment to reply, digesting this surprising new dimension of his mother’s talent. “I do believe she is. Of course, having a subject like you didn’t hurt.”

  She turned to smile at him once again, the blue eyes now betraying a note of frank appraisal. “Thank you, Jack.” Unsure of what he was acknowledging, he returned her gaze. After a moment, she looked over his shoulder in response to Catherine’s silent appearance at the door nearest the windows. “Yes, Catherine?”

  “May I serve the champagne, Mrs. Luce?”

  “Yes, please do.” She turned to the Tiffany ladies, taking Jack’s elbow as she spoke. “I thought that an extra glass of champagne before lunch would be in order.”

  “I’ll be right back,” his hostess said after seeing the Tiffany ladies out. In her absence, Catherine appeared, opened a second bottle of Dom Perignon and poured two fresh glasses. Jack took one and moved back to the window to look downriver at the Saratoga, as massive and still as any of the large buildings that surrounded it. He was still looking, wishing for binoculars, when she returned. “That could be your home away from home one of these days,” she said.

  “Could be,” Jack said, turning to face her.

  She beckoned him to the sofa with a sweeping wave of her glass. “Serena’s so kind,” she said as he sat down next to her. “I asked her if she could do without you for a while longer, and she said that she’d do her best.” She’d congratulated the artist at length on her latest work, telling her that she wanted to move the bust around to see where it might be displayed to best advantage. She could have a porter do it, of course, but she felt that she’d be more comfortable if Jack helped her, his being family. “It’s almost like having you here,” she’d said.

  “Mom’s a great kidder. You know she’s tickled to death that I could help get the bust into your hands. Don’t worry about taking me away from her; We’re driving up to the Cape for a few days while I’m here.”

  Clare Boothe Luce’s blue eyes sparkled; she clasped her hands in glee. “Bravo! That’s exactly what she needs; fresh air, a change of scenery and the ministrations of a loving son. Getting this bust done was hard enough on me, and all I did was sit for it. When are you planning to leave?”

  “No idea; I’d say sooner rather than later. I’d only planned to stay a couple of weeks, including a day or two with my Dad, then hustle on back home and get ready to report in at Pensacola.”

  “Hm. Then by all means you should expedite and get that girl out of town. No reservations anywhere as yet, have you? I’ll ask Tish to call Serena to see if she has any particular places in mind. She’ll set up an itinerary and make the necessary reservations, and that’ll get you on your way without having to take time to do it yourselves. And by the way- I know that you have money, but the trip’s on me, and I won’t listen to any arguments to the contrary.”

  The famous Luce determination put a broad smile on Jack’s face. “Makes me wonder how much you do know about me, after all those sittings. Well, at least let me earn my keep. Where does the bust go first?”

  She tossed her head, returning his smile with ironic topspin. “Just leave it there. I cooked up that bit of fiction to spend a little time alone with you. It’s been a rare treat. I knew that it would be.” She stood, extending her hand to him, her light tug bringing him to his feet. She took his elbow, looking up at him. “By the way, congratulations on your election to Phi Beta Kappa. And a history major. It’s a wonder they didn’t drag you straight into graduate school.”

  “Thanks. I may do that, after the Navy. I spent some time in Miami before coming up here, and took a quick tour of the University of Miami campus. Five years is a long time to look ahead, of course.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said, her voice acquiring a husky edge that he hadn’t heard before. “For God’s sake, just enjoy it, and be glad that you won’t have to wo
rk for a living. My Harry made his dough the hard way, and it’s left him a fucking mess.” She paused for a heartbeat, her eyes not leaving his, recovering. Quickly, confidently, she pulled him to her, kissing him, lips parted, inviting his exploration. As he did, she moved one hand to cradle the outline of his swollen cock. Chuckling, she said, “You’re quite a guy, Jack Mason.”

  “Touché, Madame Ambassador,” Jack replied with huskiness of his own.

  They lay between silk sheets, Jack’s mind stampeding in pursuit of understanding the way the day had unfolded, her tousled blond head on his chest, as he breathed in her scent and sex. “This is like being back on Crotch Island,” she said, her lips brushing his nipple.

  “Back where?” Jack asked, enjoying the feeling nearly as much as he was enjoying the incredibility of who was providing it.

  “Crotch Island. A place where I summered some years ago, between husbands, off the Maine coast. You could only reach it by seaplane or boat, and no telephones. You remind me of one of my visitors that summer, a young man who’d just started at Vanity Fair, a beautiful young man about your age. And I was still in my twenties, if only barely so. He’d already proven himself to be a fine writer, even at that early stage. You’d know his name, I’m sure. I told myself I was going there to write, but my continuous stream of visitors took me away from it. If the island’s name wasn’t justified before that summer, it certainly was by the time I left. You brought me a deep, deep breath of that wildness today. When’s your birthday?”

  “First of November.”

  “Ah, The classic Scorpio dick; I thought it was just a myth. Even so, I’d never have expected that you’d be such an exquisite lover. Sooner or later you’ll hear about men who’ve shared my bed. When you do, I hope you won’t be too prideful in knowing that you trumped them all, and almost none of them were bums.”

  “Well…”

  “Deep subject, Jumbo. Want a nap before toddling downtown?”

  “I have more to do with you, Madam, before I toddle.”

  “I hoped you’d say that.”

  16 DRAMA QUEEN

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Miz Terrell; it’s Jack. “

  “Oh, Jack! How’re you doing, honey? When did you get back?”

  “Well, I’m not quite there yet. I’ve got to see my lawyer in Atlanta on Monday. It completely slipped my mind, but they called my old office, and they caught up with me at Mom’s just before I left. When did Rick get in?”

  “Day before yesterday. Don’t worry, he’s not leaving until Sunday week. Want to talk to him?”

  “If you please, ma’am. Good talking with you.”

  “Jack!”

  “Greetings, dogface.”

  “Stick your dogface where the sun don’t shine, swabby. I’ll have serious date of rank on yo’ ass by the time they pin bars on it.”

  “Well, doughboy, the Navy’s the senior service, and they prefer to pin ’em on a wee bit farther up on the body. Can’t wait to see yours, though. Hey, listen. I didn’t tell your mom, but I’m already in Atlanta, in a modest little suite at the Biltmore. Man, you can’t even tell the floozies from the non-floozies. Come on up here tomorrow and let’s blow the weekend out.”

  “You know, sailor, I believe I can just about handle that. Tell the ladies to sit tight. Well, sit, anyway. And I will be asking for the military discount.”

  “You’re all class, yardbird. Suite 645.” Slipping the phone into its cradle, he said, “Hi-yo R&R.”

  “And about time, too,” said Nick.

  “I especially enjoyed Nantucket,” Nick mused, supine on the bed nearest the sitting room door. “You’ve really given that old gal the fever.”

  “It’s mutual,” Jack said, decapping a Heineken. “You watched us, didn’t you?” He raised his empty hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me; that really would make a difference. I know you must, at least now and then, because in your shoes I damn sure would. I just don’t want to know exactly when.”

  Nick took the trouble to look miffed. “Not that I recall telling you that I didn’t, or wouldn’t, but one needs to be in the mood for that sort of thing. It’s a lot more intriguing if one, or both, of the participants is notable in some other area of life, and from my point of view that renders you both eligible. She really is something, isn’t she? Chartering that seaplane just to deliver the granddaddy of all picnics and give you a quick screwing.”

  “Well, since she got that house overlooking the harbor for us, I suspect she had it in mind all along. I don’t know her all that well, but one thing I’m pretty sure of is that she leaves very little to chance.”

  “The more of her history you learn,” Nick said as he adjusted one leg of his plus-fours, “The truer you’ll realize that insight to be. That house has a great layout for assignations; a bedroom on each corner, with an outside door to each. Too bad y’all had to settle for the hood of the car. I’ll bet it’s been a long time since she’s done that.”

  “No bet. 1932, she said, on the clamshell fender of a Deusenberg, with Bernard Baruch, ‘in the sandy, sandy soil of South Carolina’. You know what she wanted to do when we got back to New York?”

  “You mean the LSD?”

  Jack laughed in spite of himself. “Goddammit, you were watching! Shit! Yeah, LSD. What the hell is that, anyway?”

  “Short for lysergic acid diethylamide. Primitive, but cute. Couple of Swiss guys stumbled on it back in the ’30s, in quest of a better headache pill. What they got was a snappy little hallucinogen; intensifies sense perceptions, produces hallucinations, mood changes, and distorts time. Bet you’d like to know how she happens to have something like that in her fancy little purse.”

  “So you’ve been a busy boy. Well, go ahead and spill it.”

  “You may be the first historian in the family, bub, but you’re by no means the only one. But even if most of what’s history to me is still in the future for you, the story on the Luces and LSD is in your recent past, beginning a few months ago. Seems as though her old man had gotten to know a guy by the name of Sidney Cohen, an MD who splits his time between UCLA, the Veterans Administration and the CIA. The latter provided the Luce connection. Before you know it, Dr. Sid’s a guest at the Luce home in Phoenix, doling out the little blue pills to Harry, Clare and a writer by the name of Isherwood.”

  “She told me about the doctor, but left out the CIA part. Anyway, she loves it; said ‘It even makes Harry human; once he went out on the patio, conducting an imaginary orchestra, tone-deaf as he is, and returned bearing a long-haired cactus that I liked and he hated, rhapsodizing over its beauty.’ So what do you think? Should I do it?”

  Swinging his legs to the floor, Nick sat up, leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and looked at Jack with fond good humor. “Time travelers don’t do ‘should,’ buddy. Union rules. But if it’s any help, I can tell you this. You will.”

  Rick’s brown eyes surprised Jack with a new glint of agate that stood up to their exchange of broad grins and a hug. He was even leaner than Jack expected, but his civilian clothes, a London Fog windbreaker over a long-sleeved wool polo shirt and worsted khaki slacks, were fresh-bought and fit him well. Looking around, he said, “High cotton, boss.”

  “Shit, bubba, nothing’s too good for the defenders of democracy, right? See anything you liked on your way up?”

  “Just one, in a maid’s uniform. You hiding some around here somewhere?”

  “Stashed ’em in the bar. If those don’t suit you, there are a couple reasonable-looking dives up the street that we can check out. We’ve got lots of time; no need to head out to West End until around 10. How about reaching back behind you there and pulling us a couple of suds out of the reefer? Let’s see if we can start gettin’ me into a military mood.”

  “OK, but let me get one thing straight before I dazzle you with tales of life as a paid killer. West End’s where Ziggy’s gonna be singing?”

  “Yup. He’s billed as Reggie Williams now, by the way. Place calle
d La Carrousel, out Hunter Street, maybe a mile from Rich’s. Strictly jazz, day in and day out. Colored owned and operated, but they welcome de white folks, long as they behave. According to his brother Ralph, Ziggy and some other local talent fill in when they don’t have a nationally-known act booked. I’ve been there a couple of times, but never when he’s been there.”

  “It’s gonna be great seeing that crazy fucker. How long’s he been out of the Marines, anyway?”

  “Long enough to graduate from Morris Brown, launch a singing career, and get involved with that Alabama preacher, Martin Luther King, in the desegregation movement.”

  “Jesus. That’s some resumé, added onto that Silver Star he picked up in Korea. Hope he doesn’t get his nose bloodied in that desegregation business. On second thought, it would probably bother him less than it would most people.”

  “No doubt about that,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “How’s your beer holding up?” Rick twisted his wrist, inverting the Budweiser can. Retrieving two fresh ones from the refrigerator, Jack tossed one to Rick, who speared it single-handed. Pausing at the picture window overlooking Peachtree Street, Jack gazed with mild interest at the gathering northbound traffic. “Ralph says he’s dead serious about it. You remember Ralph, the big brother.”

  “Sure. Their mother, too, from the welcome-home party that Mose threw for Ziggy when he got back from Korea. He still working at the warehouse?”

  “Still running it, you mean. Yeah, he is, and outworking any two white guys in the joint, which is why Mose put him in that job in the first place. Anyway, he tells me that Ziggy’s joined King’s outfit, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Ziggy told him that he felt like this was going to be the one big thing in his life, and that he’s prepared to make whatever sacrifices that he has to make as a- and he used the word- disciple- of Martin Luther King. Apparently King’ll be moving to Atlanta before long, so Ziggy’s career as a jazz singer may be a short one.”