The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) (12 page)

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.

“I’m still a believer in what you told me along time ago, GD,” said Jack. “Runway behind you’s no help at all.” Passing glasses to Linda and Rick, he winked at them as he raised his own.

Nor is th’ simultaneous runnin’ outa airspeed, altitude and ideas; all very good lessons, and like all wisdom, open to misinterpretation. I had a hifalutin’ wingman one time, little smartass JG from California, used to call me ‘the monsignor of misinterpretation,’ just because every now and then I’d switch off the damn radio insteada listenin’ to th’ damn fool shit- ’scuse me, ladies-  they’d be throwin’ at us. If he’d ever flown with you, I’da had to give up th’ title.”

“Maybe you ought to just share it with the rest of the
Redding
menfolk, GD,” Cordelia, arm loosely about Rick’s waist, said with a memsahib’s smile. “Y’all all hear just exactly what you wanta hear outa what everybody else says. Pap was the best of all at it; matter of fact, I’m not sure he ever heard a damn thing I said to him.”

He heard it, all right, Jack thought; he was just too damn much of a gentleman to comment on it. “Well, GD’s absolutely right about one thing; Linda was the one shootin’ those touch-and-go’s the other day, and she is a pretty fair pilot. Better than that, for the number of hours she’s logged.”

“I heard y’all met in
Miami,” ventured Margie Simmons. Her voice, rather deep for a woman’s, cut through the conversation in a way that was quite out of proportion to its volume. The head teller at Bisque’s First National Bank, she’d developed the knack of being heard, the ever-so-subtle implication being that when she spoke, so did the Bank. “Is that right?”

“Yep,” said Jack, thinking that this solidly-built little brunette, although he’d heard from Buster that she was her husband’s Bisque High classmate, gave the impression of being five or six years older. Any conversation with her, he imagined, would have a little bit of the flavor of a grilling on your latest loan application. “And there she was, mindin’ her own business, havin’ lunch with a friend at the table next door to the one I was usin’ to close the deal on Mose’s old Buick. The buyer and I left, but after seein’ him off, sump’m told me to go back into the restaurant and see if I could strike up a conversation with this strikin’ young lady. Turned out she had nothin’ better to do than haul me back to Bisque on her fine big boat.”

“This was, of course, after I’d heard the rankest of sob-stories,” Linda interjected. “Stranded in a strange town, sold off a family heirloom and so forth. I just had to take pity on the little guy.”

“I always said you’da made a helluva car salesman if you hadn’a gone in th’ beer bidness, ole buddy,” said Floyd Simmons, managing to chuckle at his own wit and down the rest of his drink at the same time. “Linda, I betcha you were real surprised to realize that you wanted to do such a thang.”

“Not all that surprised, Floyd; any boat buyer deserves a shakedown cruise, and this is Jack’s.”

“Oh,” Floyd grunted, one eye on his plummeting estimate of Jack’s salesmanship and one on the fresh drink and that Gene Debs had slipped in front of him. “You’re buyin’ the boat. Thatair’s a expensive riide home, if I ever hearda one. Pretty big boat, too, from what I hear. Whachu gonna do with it, anyway?”

“Well, Floyd, since it’s a sportfisherman, I reckon I’ll fish off of it. But I’m open to ideas.”

“Yeah, and the sport part fits too, I reckon,” Floyd responded with nearly imperceptible nastiness as the laughter died down. “I almost forgot; you’ll be needin’ sump’m to occupy your time heanh ’fo long.”

“‘Less what hap’md to pore ole Ricky hap’ms to him,” speculated Cordelia, venturing an exploratory pinch of Rick’s midsection. “Not that I’m wishin’ that on ya, hon, but it would be interestin’ to see y’all playin’ ball on th’ same team again.”

“Whacha mean? What hap’md to ya, boy?” asked Gene Debs.

“She means that I joined the Army, Mr. Redding. They called me for my draft physical, so I joined up instead.”

“Goddamiteydayum,” Floyd spluttered. “What about th’ Colts? You ain’t playin’ this year?”

“Who ain’t playin’ this year?” asked the just-arrived Buster Redding. Where?”

“Ricky here’s goin’ in th’ Army, darlin’,” giving Rick a punctuating squeeze around the waist. “The Colts’ loss’s
Fort
Whoosis’s gain. Huh, Ricky?”

“That’s what they tell me,” Rick said, glancing furtively at Gene Debs. “The recruiting sergeant told me that team sports were critical to maintainin’ the Army’s morale. Said there’d probably be no way to keep me out of Special Services.”

“Well, hell, son,” said Buster, having snared a Manhattan of his own as if by magic, looked up at Rick, a wide grin on his ruddy round face. “Might as well get it out the way ’fore you get any older. Two years ain’t that long, and I spec’ th’ Colts’ll be glad to see you back in ’61. When you leavin’?”

“Pretty soon; gotta be there by the 13th.”

“Where’s that?”

“Fort
Jackson.”

“Well, hell, that’s just up th’ road a ways. Ain’t like you’re shippin’ out ta Ko-REA’re somewheres.”

“Nope. No time soon, anyway.”

Looking around to acknowledge his other guests, Buster drained his
Manhattan
and focused next on Linda. “Hey,” he said, “I’m Buster, and you gotta be Linda. C’deelya told me ’bout you on the phone, while I ’us still in Daytona.” He reached out to clamp the back of Jack’s neck in one beefy hand, giving him a brief, affectionate shake. “‘Preeshate you bringin’ this wild-ass back from down yonder in one piece.”

“Glad to do it, Buster. Glad you’re home in one piece. Must’ve been quite a race down there.”

“Sho’ was. Liike two Dah’lin’tons, back to back. At’air bankin’s HARD on equipment. Blew my pore ol’ race cor all ta pieces, ’at’s fer dam sure. But we be ready nex’ tiime. Got a brand-new cor ’bout ready, don’t we, Flaw-id?”

“Yep,” said Floyd. “Soon’s Jimmy buttons up th’ engine, you’gn wring ’at ol’ Sport Fury out.”

“We been runnin’ ’ese two ol’ 57’s ’til thain’t hardly a ’riginal part left in ’em,” Buster said with a shake of his head. “Couldn’ get but one ’59 outa
Plymouth
’fore Daytona, but we’ll get anothern ’fo too long. And these sumbitches got motor; 361 inches and a 4-barrel cob’rater look like a goddam toilet sittin’ on top of it. We figger it’ll make right at 350 horsepower, time our engine guy’s done. If I’da had it in fronta me Sunday, I coulda drafted ol’ Fireball and gone to the front with ’im.”

“‘Fireball,’” said Linda with a grin. “Good name for a driver. Did he win?”

“Naw; went out a few laps after I did, but he’us faist. Neither one of us qualified that good, so we ’us sittin’ back’air in 45th ’n 46th. When the flag dropped, he hauled ass outa line, ’th me riit behind ’im, but I did’n have what it took to stay with at’air Pony-ac. then I blew up, he blew up, an’ Petty an’ Beauchamp come riit down ta th’ wire at th’ flag. NASCAR finally give th’ win t’Petty Monday.”

“That was close,” Jack observed. “Whatta they have, a photo-finish camera?”

“You mean, like at a hoss track? Naw. That’s what they shoulda had. What they had’us everthang but that. All kinda pictures from everwhere, from all kinda angles. Th’ NASCAR guys took ’em inta
France’s office and stayed ’air for two days, then
France
come out an’ said Petty ’us across th’ line first.”

“So when’s the next race?” asked Linda.

“Nex’ Sunday, up t’other side a’Raleigh. Orange
Speedway.”

“Wow. Doesn’t leave you much time to get ready, does it?”

“Hell, sweetie,” said Cordelia, “it’s like this all damn year, ’til after Thanksgivin’. You’gn see why I don’t make ’em all. Hell, ole Buster wouldn’t have a decent place to come home to if I’us taggin’ along with ’em, week in and week out.”

“Sounds like a full-time job to me,” Linda said. “Doesn’t leave much time for selling cars, does it?”

Buster smiled at her ignorance of automobile industry verities as he picked up another
Manhattan. “There’s an old sayin’ in th’ cor bidness; ‘Win on Sunday, sell on Monday.’ I figger I’m sellin’ Chryslers an’ Plymouths all th’ time, everwher I go, even when I don’t win. People drivin’ Chrysler products gotta have somebidy to root for, otherwise they wonder what th’ hell’s goin’ on at th’ factory. Most buyers’re pretty law-yul to th’ brand they’re drivin’, and it takes a lot to make ’em change. But you let a factory be missin’ at th’ track for more’n a week or two, and th’ people who’re drivin’ the brands’a cors that’re winnin’re sayin’ shit like ‘Wher’n th’ hell’s yore cor, boy? Caint ’at factory come up with nothin’ that’ll run?’ You know, raggin’ th’ hell out of ’em, and after while some of ’em starts thinkin, ‘Well, hell, if they don’t think no more’a my bidness than ’at, I reckon I’d better look around.’ And th’ longer you’re gone, the worse it gets. So I’m out’tair showin’ th’ flag ever week, and as far as riitin’ deals here in Bisque, ’at’s Flaw-id’s job, his and them two buddies ’a his that better be riitin’ some deals real soon.”

“‘Em two ol’ buddies’ve swapped salesman of the month back and forth over at Bisque Chevrolet for th’ past three years,” Floyd shot back. “You’gn take riitin’ deals completely offa yore worry list.” Winking thanks to Gene Debs, he picked up the fresh
Manhattan
that had appeared in front of him.

Stepping behind the bar, Buster placed a hand in the crook of his big brother’s elbow. “Set down fer a little bit, GD; makin’ drinks fer this crowd’ll wear y’out.” Bending down behind the bar, he came up with a large glass pitcher, broke the seal on a fresh bottle of Seagram’s Crown Royal and emptied it into the pitcher. “Them damn things’re disappearin’ so faist th’ bartender cain’t keep up. Le’s try a little wholesale production.”

“You jus’ pay attention to maintainin’ th’ quality, bwy,” Gene Debs responded as he slipped into a bar stool at the unoccupied end of the bar, “or I’ll have to take m’job back.” He extended a hand to Rick, who stood closest to him. “Reckon we’ll designate this here gatherin’ as your unofficial farewell party, Ricky; wish I’dve had a chance to sell you on th’ Navy, but since it’s too late for that-” he paused to take a sip from the first of Buster’s bulk-made Manhattans- “I’ll just say ‘Good luck, dogface.’ Y’all come on up here and get a fresh drink so we can toast this here soldier baw-ey.”

As the chorus of well-wishing died down, Rick said, “Thanks, everybody; Mr. Redding, all I can say is that if I’d taken the time to think about it, I’dve gone looking for a Navy recruiter, because I’d really like to see a little bit more of the world than the Army’s probably going to be showing me over the next couple of years. And if your fellow Navy men are anything a’tall like you, sir, this dogface would’ve been proud to’ve been one.” raising his glass, Rick said, “Here’s to the Navy!”

Glasses were raised around the bar. “The Navy!”

“Hell, bwy,” said a misty-eyed Gene Debs. “You better call me GD, or I’ll hafta kick your aiess.”

“And speakin’ of asses,” Cordelia said sotto voce to Rick, “Yours woulda been mighty cute in them little white sailor pants.”

“Not near as cute as yours in them little black ‘uns,” Rick said, accompanying his sotto voce response with a solid squeeze to her right cheek.

“Just you wait,” she said, “‘Til you see it.”

Following two or three more rounds from Buster’s pitcher, Cordelia deployed a buffet of slaw dogs, chicken salad sandwiches and brownies that Jack immediately recognized as having come from Mrs. Bartow’s stall at the curb market, a gastronomic cue that he was sure had come from his mother, in support of Cordelia’s vestigial kitchen skills. Linda could hardly suppress her fascination. “Coleslaw? On frankfurters? Did she dream that up?”

“You’ve had sauerkraut on one, haven’t you?” asked Jack. “This’s just cabbage without benefit of pickling. Very traditional in these parts. And you better call ‘em hot dogs, or nobody’ll know what you’re talkin’ about. I’m sure we can promote you a ‘non-slaw’ dog, if you’ll be happier with it.”