The Bass Wore Scales (40 page)

The pipes and drums had been standing behind the bleachers, and now they marched out to the strict click of a drumstick on the edge of one of the drums. “Twelve pipers piping” and “eight drummers drumming” might not have followed the numeric directive set down in the Christmas carol, but they were a fine sight, standing at attention in full Scottish regalia, kilts rustling in the breeze. They lined up at the head of the grave in three neat rows. One of the pipers gave a nod, and with a
whoosh
, the bags filled with air, and an amazing sound uttered forth—the sound of a dozen geese with their necks caught in a washing machine.

“
They’re from the Academy,” I said, gritting my teeth. “They’re still learning.”

“
What are they playing?” shouted Meg. “I can’t tell. Is it
Amazing Grace
?”

“
No,” I said, shaking my head. “
Rocky Top
.”

There’s an old joke—why do bagpipers usually walk while they play? Why, to get away from the noise. The racket was such, that I didn’t hear the dogs at first. Hannah had gone into town and told everyone she saw about her confrontation with the gorilla inside the Piggly Wiggly, and it didn’t take long for the hunters with dogs to bring their scent-hounds over to this side of the mountain.

When the pipes and drums had finished their tune and the last bagpipe had wheezed uncomfortably to a stop, the dogs, that were a good half-mile away when I had first spotted them, were now closing rapidly on the gathering, and, having caught the scent, baying at the top of their lungs. I pulled my surplice and cassock off over my head and reached under the organ bench for my 9mm pistol. It wasn’t there, of course. It was under the bench back at St. Barnabas.

“
Rats!” I said to Meg. “All these organs should come with a pistol under the bench.”

Everyone turned to watch the dogs. I estimated the pack at thirty. There were beagles, coon hounds, some indistinguishable mutts, and several Carolina dogs. The pack ran around the perimeter of the gathering, then turned toward the bleachers and, barking as though their canine lives depended on it, sent the mourners scattering as they clambered over bodies in their fever to reach Kokomo, still sitting with Moosey on the top tier of the grandstand. Moosey screamed in terror.

Kokomo had no such reaction. He stood up, still wearing his black burka—only his eyes visible through the draped fabric—let out a roar and jumped, aiming for the spot that had just been vacated by the people fleeing the hounds. He landed on the second tier of the bleachers and discovered, in his own gorilla way, that the aluminum construction of the bench was no match for his five hundred pounds. The bench crumpled under his weight like a piece of tin foil and the dogs, heading for Moosey, did an about-face as the gorilla soared over their heads, and came racing back down the steps. Kokomo grabbed the nearest dog, a good-sized coon hound that was close enough to snap at him, and flipped it over his shoulder like a rag doll. The unfortunate dog flew half-way up the stands, yelping all the way, and landed on a large man wearing a purple baseball cap with the number 17 embroidered on the front—a NASCAR haberdasher’s tribute to Junior Jameson. The coon hound untangled itself from the startled fan, resumed its barking and headed back down the steps. Now there were shouts coming from the stands, as the shock of seeing a pack of barking hounds racing up the bleachers wore off, and people realized what was happening.

Kokomo took a step, crouched and leapt from the stands across the twelve-foot gap, the makeshift burka not hindering him in the least. He caught hold of the back bumper of Junior’s car that was hanging eight feet above the grave and supported by a single cable. The boom of the crane swung ominously, compensating for the sudden added load of a full-grown gorilla. Jimbo, the operator, had locked the boom, so it didn’t move much, but Kokomo’s jump had added a significant “pendulum” effect. The suspended car swung crazily toward the choir, then back toward the congregation, and I heard gasps and screams coming from both sides.

“
My God!” exclaimed Rebecca, watching Kokomo pull himself up onto the top of the car. “I didn’t know a Muslim woman could jump that high!”

“
I think that, legally, she’s a Baptist,” said Meg. “She’s been dunked, you know.”

“
Oh,” said Rebecca. “That explains it.”

The dogs had run back down the bleachers and were now circling the grave, looking up at Kokomo, and doing a fine job keeping any stray cats away with incessant barking.

Jimbo, meanwhile, not wanting to take a chance on a catastrophic accident, had begun lowering the car toward the hole. It was still swinging side to side and people were scattering well out of its way as it descended. Kokomo was standing on top of the car, one hand grasping the cable, the other hand beating his chest. Just as he gave another roar, the cable gave way and the car dropped the last ten feet and landed with a crash in the bottom of the hole.

Later, Jimbo explained that the cable didn’t break, but rather, the winch on the crane couldn’t handle the added stress produced by the swinging racecar and a five hundred pound gorilla. In such cases, the winch will allow the cable to drop ten feet or so before the automatic brake engages. Since the car was only ten feet above the bottom of the grave, the brake never engaged and the racecar hit the bottom with a tremendous crash.

From our vantage point on the stage, the entire choir leaned forward and tried to look down into the hole, but all we could see was the top of Kokomo’s head. The crash caught the dogs by surprise, and when it happened, they backed a few paces, startled and seemingly confused—unsure of how to proceed. Then they returned in full force, buoyed by a pack mentality, and deciding, as a group, to attack en masse. The first dog to jump was an extra large Carolina dog, an aggressive breed that reminded me of an Australian dingo. He leapt at Kokomo with a growl that we could hear from the stage. Kokomo slapped him aside with a roar, and the dog skidded, yelping, off the roof. The rest of the pack hesitated for a spilt second and then followed the Carolina dog into the pit. Most of them didn’t make it to the roof of the car, landing instead in the fresh dirt. The ones that did land on the roof were quickly batted away. A couple of the beagles landed on the hood and tried to scramble up to where Kokomo was waiting, but fared no better than their brothers. In a few seconds, the whole pack was at the bottom of the grave, baying like mad, with just enough room to make their way noisily around the car.

When the racecar landed at the bottom of Junior’s final resting place, it was the sound-man’s cue to push the “play” button on the CD player hooked up to Junior’s car radio. Music blasted from the amp, sub-woofer and four extra speakers that Wormy had placed in Junior’s car. The
Eternizak
song listed in the program was
The Show Must Go On
by Queen, but the soundman must have pushed the wrong button. The song was still by Queen, but this track was a different song. Blasting out of the stereo with enough sound to make the remaining windows rattle, came the unmistakable words:

Another one bites the dust,

Another one bites the dust,

And another one gone and another one gone,

Another one bites the dust.

“
That’s an unfortunate choice of songs,” Georgia said. “I thought Billy said they were playing that other one.”

“
Hey!” said Meg, pointing up toward the sky. “What’s that?” I hadn’t heard anything because of all the racket, but now, looking skyward, I saw a bright yellow biplane coming in about a hundred feet above the ground.

“
It’s Five-Dollar Frank,” I said.

“
What’s he doing?”

“
I have no idea.”

Five-Dollar Frank dropped down another fifty feet, skimmed the crowd, waggled his wings and dumped a box of paper out of his plane. Several thousand leaflets came floating down on the congregation and most people, including the choir, reached up and grabbed one.

“
It’s an ad!” exclaimed Fred. “For Woodrow DuPont’s Bellefontaine Cemetery. Look here! We can get a plot for twenty percent off!”

Five-Dollar Frank swung around again and circled the crowd one more time, dropping another box of leaflets.

“
You know,” I said. “If I had hired Frank to drop leaflets advertising my cemetery, I would have had him take that banner off the back of his plane.” Sure enough, as soon as Frank made his last turn, the banner that had been secured at the beginning of his flight, came loose and opened behind the yellow plane, proclaiming in large white letters, “WE GOT WORMS!”

Kokomo ripped off his burka—in reality, a black blanket with a hole cut in the middle—dropped it on the top of the car and then, with a mighty leap, cleared the edge of the pit and landed beside one of the bagpipers, who promptly fainted.

“
He’s out!” cried Bev. “And look. The dogs are trapped.”

Another one bites the dust, another one bites the dust,
sang Queen.

The roar of the plane was suddenly joined by the sound of the hunters’ ATVs. They’d been following the pack of dogs, but had been a couple of miles behind them, tracking them with radio collars. Now they roared up to the edge of the funeral and turned off their engines, not sure how to proceed. Right behind the leader, driving a Kawasaki Mule—a four-seater—were Hannah, Amelia, and Grace.

“
There he goes!” hollered Hannah, pointing in Kokomo’s direction, but Kokomo had already made it to the near woods and had disappeared into the trees. All three ladies jumped out of the ATV, pulled out their pistols and emptied their guns into the forest on the off chance that one of their shots might hit the gorilla. The other hunters looked startled at this breach of hunting etiquette and, when the guns clicked on empty chambers, jumped on the three grandmothers, wrestled them to the ground, and disarmed them.

“
You know,” said Meg. “As funerals go, this one’s a doozy!”

* * *

It took a good half hour before the tumult subsided and one of the hunters could get a ladder down into the pit to rescue the dogs. They had to be carried out, one at a time, and were put on leashes, much to their dismay. The crowd hadn’t left. The family and friends were still on the dais, and Brother Hog was now fanning Kimmy Jo with his program. I looked up to where Moosey had been sitting, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Finally Gaylen got up and walked over to the microphone. “Let us pray,” she said.

“
O God, whose blessed Son was laid in a sepulcher in the garden: Bless, we pray, this grave, and grant that Junior Jameson, whose body is to be buried here may dwell with Christ in paradise, and may come to your heavenly kingdom; through your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“
Amen,” echoed the crowd.

I took my cue and played the introduction to
Amazing Grace
, then heard the bagpipes squawk into action as everyone began singing.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining as the sun,

We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

Than when we’d first begun.

We finished, and a sudden silence fell over the field. Five-Dollar Frank had flown off, the dogs had calmed down, and the hunters were politely waiting for the service to end before resuming the chase. It seemed that even the birds had decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Or, and this was more likely, they had flown off terrified. Then, in the stillness of the moment, I saw something fly through the air and catch a glint in the afternoon sun. With a startling clank, it landed in the grave and banged off the hood of the car. The clanking sound was followed by another. And another. In three seconds, the air was full of lug nuts, each of them tossed by a mourner into the grave of their fallen hero.