The Bass Wore Scales (23 page)

Meg looked horrified.

“
Then,” I continued, “a boutique in Beverly Hills purchases it, puts a stud on the back and Britney Spears wanders in and purchases you to ornament her belly-button. Or worse! And if that wasn’t humiliation enough, she decides to feature you in her new video,
Brokeback Booty.”

“
That slut!”

“
There you go,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It could easily happen. Better the worms should get you than Britney Spears.”

“
You’re not kidding!”

* * *

“
Hi, Wormy,” I said as we walked up, not noticing that he was talking on his cell phone. He was sitting in a folding chair at his card table, papers scattered across the top, a half-f cup of coffee holding them down. He waved at us and motioned for us to pull up the two folding chairs opposite his own.

“
Be right with you folks,” he said, his thumb discreetly over the mouthpiece of his phone. Then he got up and walked a few steps away from the table. Meg and I sat down.

“
How’s your cell service?” Meg asked me. “Mine was okay all winter, but now it’s spotty at best. I may have to switch carriers.”

“
I don’t think you’ll do much better with another carrier,” I said. “The reception in winter’s better up here because there aren’t any leaves on the trees. In summer, we have to do the best we can. They’re putting up towers as quick as shopping malls though, so it won’t be too long before we’re covered coast-to-coast.”

“
How’re y’all doing?” said Wormy, coming back to the table and sticking out his hand. “Woodrow DuPont’s the name. Eternal rest is my game. I’d like to welcome you to the sales office of Woodrow DuPont’s Bellefontaine Cemetery.”

“
We already know you,” said Meg, hesitation clouding her voice. “Remember?”

“
Sure,” said Wormy. “I’se just practicin’. He smiled his best salesman smile. “Y’all need a buryin’ plot?”

“
Maybe,” I said. “If the price was right. What do you have in a XXL?”

“
Hmm,” said Wormy, studying a plot of the farm. “I’ve got these two nice plots here in section D.” He spun the paper around and pointed to a couple of numbers in the lower right corner. “These is right nice.”

“
I don’t know,” I said. “I’d want to make sure we’re buried in the right section. You know, with
our
type of people.”

“
Hayden!” hissed Meg. “What are you saying? I’m so embarrassed!”

“
That’s all right m’am,” said Wormy. He looked back at me. “I knows exactly what you mean.” He made a show of looking right and left before leaning in and speaking in a hushed voice.

“
This here section—Section D—that’s for white folks only.”

Meg was horrified.

“
White folks?” I said. “No, you misunderstand. I want a plot in the No-Smoking section.”

“
No-Smoking?”

“
Oh, yeah,” I said. “Make no mistake—I do enjoy the occassional cigar. But if I’m going to be dead and underneath the ground, I sure don’t want to be in the Smoking section, if you know what I mean.”

“
I see,” said Wormy, thoughtfully. He sat back in his chair and nodded. “I see. I hadn’t given no thought to a No-Smokin’ section, but now that you mention it, I can see the advantages.”

“
So, you can accommodate us?” I asked.

“
I feels sure that I can.” Wormy was smiling again. “Now let me tell you about our special music program.”

“
You have an special music program?” asked Meg. “Do tell.”

“
This is getting better and better,” I said.

“
Here’s how it works,” said Wormy. “It’s called
Eternizak.
We’ve got cable run out there, and we’ve subscribed to a music service. When y’all buys a plot, we puts in a wire from the main building and when you’re buried, we stick a speaker right in your casket. All we have to do is drill a little hole, feed the wire through, and seal it back up with silicone.”

“
Very nice,” I said and looked over at Meg. She was speechless.

“
We’ve got about two hundred channels of music. We can pipe any kind of music into your casket for as long as you want. And it’s only $19 a month.”

“
So I can listen to Palestrina for all eternity? Or at least until my credit card expires?”

“
I never heard of that group, but I guess so. Sure!”

“
Here’s an idea,” I said. “Let’s just say that my friend Pete was killed in a horrible toaster-related accident…”

Wormy nodded, now wearing his serious, bereavement face.

“
Toaster-related?” said Meg.
“Toaster-related?”

“
It could happen. He’s always sticking a butter knife into that thing. It’s going to kill him some day. Anyway…” I turned my attention back to Wormy. “Let’s say that he was buried out at your place. Could I offer to pay for his
Eternizak
?”

“
Why, sure. That’d be a nice gesture.”

“
So I could arrange, let’s just say for example, for
Eternizak
to play
The Carpenters Greatest Hits
for a few years? Then switch to accordion music? Maybe some Lawrence Welk polkas?”

“
Of course,” said Wormy. “No problem at all.”

“
You
wouldn’t!”
said Meg.

“
Wormy,” I said, standing up and thrusting out my hand. “You are a genius. I’ll be in touch!”

“
Thanks! Here. You folks take a brochure and a map. I’ll let you know about that No-Smokin’ section right soon.”

“
I’d appreciate it, Wormy. Thanks.”

“
By the way,” said Wormy. “Y’all know that Noylene and me is gettin’ hitched?”

“
We heard,” said Meg. “Congratulations.”

* * *

“
What’s all the racket?” asked Nancy, looking out the front window of the Police Department.

“
I guess it’s Junior Jameson back for another blessing,” I said. “Billy told me he was going to swing by on his way to Darlington.”

“
Should I head out there? It looks like quite a crowd.”

“
It wouldn’t hurt. I’ll go with you.”

The crowd was gathering. Even though Junior was stopping just long enough to get the car blessed and refilled with Holy Water, his fans had heard he was on the way, and some had driven all the way up from South Carolina just to get a glimpse of the service.

“
If he keeps winning, or is even close,” Nancy said grimly, “this is only going to get worse. I sort of preferred a nice, quiet little town.”

“
Wait a minute,” I said, looking across the park lawn. “Those aren’t NASCAR fans.”

“
Oh Lord, what now?” said Nancy.

We studied the fifty or so people at the far end of the park. They were gathering separately from the racecar fans. Then I saw a placard come up in the hand of a familiar face.

“
Oh, no,” I said. “This isn’t going to be good.”

Dr. P.A. Pelicane had found out about the Blessing of the Racecar, rallied her forces, and was leading them across the park. I heard the shouting and saw the rest of the signs go up.

“
Free Kokomo now! Free Kokomo now!” the crowd chanted.

I looked up at Gaylen Weatherall in her cassock, standing at the top of the steps with Junior Jameson. She hadn’t begun the blessing, and they both stared at the group coming toward them, trying to make some sense of it. The rest of the two hundred people, who had come to cheer Junior’s car on to greater glory, also turned to watch the approaching mob. They were joined by one CNN camera and a news crew from Darlington that had been sent to get footage of the blessing of Car 17. As long as Junior was winning, the news crews would be in attendance, and Dr. Pelicane had figured out that publicity would be Kokomo’s best ally.

“
Free Kokomo now! Shoot Baptists, not gorillas!” shouted the crowd, echoing the slogans on their signs waving above their heads.

“
What’re we going to do?” asked Nancy.

“
Well, I’m not sure that fifty animal rights activists are going to be able to take two hundred NASCAR fans. And that’s if the fight is fair.”

“
I’ve never known a NASCAR fan to fight fair,” Nancy said.

“
You go tell Gaylen what’s happening. I’ll talk to Dr. Pelicane.”

* * *

“
Hang on,” I said, standing in front of the crowd with my hand out, my badge clearly visible. “This is a private religious service.”

“
Out of our way!” said a man in the front of the pack. “You can’t stop us from demonstrating in a public park.”

“
Do you have a permit?” I asked.

“
Don’t need one,” said the front man. “I checked your local ordinances. I’m a lawyer.”

I tried a different tact. “If you interrupt them, those NASCAR fans will beat you half to death,” I said. “You guys aren’t PETA are you?”

“
Yeah, what’s it
to
you?” shouted a pimply-faced young man wearing a tie-died t-shirt, jeans and sandals. “You gonna arrest us?”

“
No, just hang on a minute,” I said. “The news people will still be here when the car leaves. You can talk to them then.”

“
Shoot Baptists, not gorillas!” shouted the pimply man into my face. “Free Kokomo now!” The rest of the protesters took up the mantra, and they marched past me. I turned and watched them head toward the steps of St. Barnabas.

“
What’s going on?” said a voice behind me. I turned around and saw Moosey standing there, watching the crowd.

“
They’re trying to save Kokomo,” I said, “because he killed that minister by accident.”

“
Are you going to arrest them?”

“
I guess I will as soon as someone actually breaks the law. I’m going to have to arrest a whole bunch of people. Listen, Moosey, you go on over to the other side of the park and find somewhere to watch. I don’t want you getting hurt.” Moosey nodded.

* * *

I followed the mob across the park, jogging my way around the outside of the phalanx. I could see Nancy, and she was talking to Gaylen and Junior. They were nodding at her. Gaylen, apparently deciding to get the blessing over and done with, carried her branch and the bowl of water down the steps and walked up to the car. I arrived at the front steps just as the protesters came up behind the NASCAR fans.

“
Free Kokomo now!” the group shouted.