The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) (20 page)

Nick released a short bark of laughter. “Don’t suppose you could ever rule that out a hundred percent.”

13 SEEING AS HOW…

Nick’s latest information reverberating throughout his brain, Jack gave the Cunningham its head for the half-mile between the house that he still thought of as Chez Mose and the Bisque city limits sign, where State Road 291 becomes
South Lee Street. Easing off the throttle, he gave the engine’s braking a hand with a couple of quick stabs at the car’s Alfin drums, quickly scrubbing off speed as he approached the
Main Street
intersection. Wait’ll Buster sees this, he thought, turning right and heading toward Bisque Chrysler-Plymouth.

Pulling into the already-open door of the dealership’s service department, he slipped the transmission into neutral and gunned the engine; several faces that were inquiring into the innards of other cars turned his way, and stayed there, held by the compact curves of blue and white aluminum that surrounded the unmistakable sound of V-8 muscle. The face belonging to Floyd Simpson morphed from motorhead envy to I’m-in-charge-here as it approached, feet picking up tempo as Simpson recognized Jack, who had gotten out of the car.

“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, young man,” he said as they shook hands.

“Didn’t expect to be back so soon, Floyd; sometimes things just work out that way.”

Floyd’s make-points-with-the-rich-nephew smile took on a salacious gleam that canceled out the intended effect. “Where’d this wagon come from? Didn’t trade that Miz- ah-”

“Green.”

“Oh, yeah, Miz Green, Linda Green. You-”

“Didn’t trade her in on this here car. She wasn’t mine to trade. But if she’d been-” Jack shook his head and smiled, eliciting a guffaw from Floyd.

“You’re sump’m-anuther-else, Jackie. Where the hell’d you find a Cunningham, anyhow?”

“Right near where they made ’em; up north of
Miami.”

Floyd quickly resumed his business face, alerting Jack to Buster’s presence somewhere nearby. His uncle revealed his location with a momentary vise-like squeeze of Jack’s left elbow. Wincing, he turned toward the illumination of Buster’s perpetual smile, returning it with one of his own. “We don’t take no outlaw trade-ins here,” Buster said.

“I just thought I’d take a chance and see if y’all could manage an oil change and lube on something this high-class,” Jack said. “You’ll notice that’s a Hemi under the hood.”

“In that lil’ ol’ thang?”

“Just as sure as there’s one in that 300 over there,” Jack said with a quick jerk of his head toward a massive white Chrysler elevated on a nearby grease rack.

Buster grinned knowingly. “Hell, son, I know what a goddam Cunningham is. We let ol’ Briggs keep a coupla C4Rs here overnight a few years back. But ’at 300 ain’t no Hemi. It’s a ’60 model; 413 Cross-Ram Wedge; makes 375 hoss on a bad day. Big motor; it’d plumb flatten out th’ front end on ’at lil’ skeeter. It yores?”

“Bought and paid for. Reckon I can make it to
New York?”

“Reckon so, seein’ as how it gotcha this far. We’ll get Randy to check ’er out, though, just ta make sure. How many miles she got on ’er?”

“Just rolled over 8500 a little ways back.”

“Shee-it. Damn near new. you better take care of this thang; don’t know how many of ’em they made, but couldn’ta been many. Miit do riit well if you take a notion to sell ’er.”

“Guess I might; but if she still feels as good to me after the New York run as she does right now, I’ll probably hang on to ’er for awhile.”

Buster laughed. “Probly won’t hurtcha pickin-up-pussy percentage, either. Speakin’ of that, I bleeve I see ’at 300’s owner comin’ through the front door. One of ’em, anyway. Never could tell them girls apart.”

Jack looked into the showroom. One of the Bishop twins, intercepted by Floyd, leaned against a new Town and Country wagon, long legs crossed at the ankles, letting him have his say. “Only way I could ever tell was by the voice,” he said. I’ll go say hey to her and see which one. Wonder what they’re doin’ home?”

“Jus’ checkin’ on their mama, I ’spect,” Buster said, glancing up at the still-airborne 300. “I better go see if Kenny’s about done with it.”

The girl’s disconcertedness disappeared from her face as she recognized Jack. “Hey, stranger,” she said with the sultry smile that Jack remembered both sisters using to good advantage.

“Hey, Diana,” he said, embracing her as Southerners tend to do after as much as a day’s separation. “How’ve y’all been?”

“Pretty good; better now, you devil. We figured we’d miss you this trip. Sump’m about some woman and a boat.”

“Sold our old car to her.” Diana and Dolores, her twin, had owned Moses’ 1940 Buick limousine, their father, Big Boy Bishop, buying it after Moses traded it in for a new Estate Wagon. Jack bought it from them with the first money that came to him from Moses’ estate. He then turned the top local talent loose on the old car, restoring it to far-better-than-new condition as a reunion present to Moses-now-Peter. “She gave me a ride back from
Miami
on her boat. Seems like some people around here thought there was more to it than that.”

Diana’s olive skin darkened a shade before the smile returned. “But no, right? Trust you not to have your head turned by a pretty face. You leaving your car? Mr. Simpson says they’re just finishing up on ours, so I can drop you someplace if you’d like.”

“Well, I was about to ask him if he had anything around that I could drive ...”

“Why don’t you go ahead with Ms. Bishop, Jackie?” said Floyd. “Randy won’t be that long with yours, and he can drive out and pick you up when it’s ready. I’ll give you a call to make sure you’re home before he comes.”

“That’d be great, Floyd. Miss Bishop and I have some catching up to do anyway; plus, I’d like to see how that big wedgehead performs, and she’s just the driver to show me.”

Diana left-turned the big Chrysler out of the dealership, then made another left on Lee without consulting Jack. “You didn’t have anything better to do this afternoon than give me a genteel fucking, did you?”

“Certainly not. How’d you guess?”

“I felt myself getting wet when you started talking about a big wedgehead,” she said, brushing raven hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Then I realized you were just car-talking Mr. Simpson. But you got me wet anyway, so don’t let’s waste it.”

“D’you want to pick up Dolores?”

“Nope. We’ve gotten away from double-headers. Not that she wouldn’t like to, with you, but I saw you first.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” she observed as she threw her leg across him, waist-high, and sighed. “You know, I’ve waited a damn long time to be in this big bed.”

“Really.”

“Really. Dolores and I drove out here when we were seniors in high school and did everything we could to get Mr. Kubielski to bust our cherries.”

Jack laughed. “Oh, Yeah, I remember. He bit one of y’all on the ass.”

“Yeah. Me. Told us busting our cherries’d hurt a lot more than that. His way of telling us he wasn’t interested, even after we’d drawn all those little red ink valentine hearts on our butts. You know, I got a pretty strong feeling about him the minute I saw you, kind of like the feelings from back in the old days. A lot of his stuff must still be around here.”

“Yeah, some,” Jack said. “I really hate to get rid of anything of his.”

“I can see why not; he was quite a guy. If he’d hung around just a little bit longer, we might’ve gotten to know all about him. Screwing him would’ve really helped.” her head shook in a minispasm as she refocused on Jack. You’ve picked up a couple of tricks since the last time we got together.”

“Well, it has been a while; didn’t see much of y’all senior year, and then you were off to the big city, seemed like overnight. You worked up a nice bag of tricks at
Georgia, so I guess I’m just catching up.”

“Gettin’ up my butt like that. They don’t even do that in
New York.”

He almost said “It was a
New York
girl who taught me,” but instead asked her, “Did you like it?”

Touching her nose to his, she said, “Sure did. We’ve come a long way since we talked you and Ricky into standing in for Mr. Kubielski and busting our cherries before we went to
Georgia, haven’t we? Wish I could hang around for Chapter 2, but I better run on out to the house. We’re headed back tomorrow; when’re you coming?”

“Well, since Chapter 2’s out…”

Reaching back between her legs, she cupped his scrotum in her hand and squeezed.

“Ow!”

“Don’t get smart with me, asshole. You know what I mean.”

A reminder, this, that Diana and her sister were still afflicted with Tourette’s Syndrome. He had a momentary flashback to his first experience of violence with her, when at the age of 15 she’d sucker-punched a second-string tackle who’d made the mistake of interrupting their 2-up ride on Jack’s Whizzer motorbike. Before it was over, she’d put both him and the guy who’d put him up to it on the ground, bawling like babies. “Just kidding, sweetie; thought I’d drive up over the weekend.”

“Gonna stay with your mom?”

“Yeah, and my Dad.”

“Well, plan on spending a couple of days with us, okay? It’ll be fun, pub-crawling with home folks.”

“As long as you have room for me; I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

He felt Diana’s deep chuckle throughout his body. “Our place’s plenty big, and you can sleep anyplace that suits you. Besides, you owe Dolores one.”

“You’re going to tell her that you finally made it into the big bed?”

“Honey, you know damn well she knows already. You Just be ready for Chapter 2.”

Diana had been gone for less than an hour when Floyd Simmons called. “Your hotrod’s ready, bud,” he said. “I thought I’d drive it out myself, if that’s all right with you.”

“Sure. You coming right out?”

“Be there in 10 minutes.”

“Quicker than that, if you leave right now.”

Turning the key in its deadbolt lock, Jack stepped away from the kitchen door and onto the terrace. The
Bermuda
lawn was just starting to green up as the days grew longer. He looked down at the pond, reflecting on the hour that he’d just spent screwing Diana Bishop. It was as welcome as it was unexpected, he thought; shouldn’t take long to get back to Mom. I’m sure that she and Cordelia are still running up a sizable long distance bill, and Buster’ll certainly pass along the events of the day. Getting with Diana was a good thing in more ways than one; ever since Cordelia and Linda dropped their drawers in unison for Rick, it’s been in the back of my mind to take a shot at her myself. Wonder if she’d chat with Mom in any detail about that? I doubt I could do it, though, not because of Mom but because of Buster; God knows he’s been cuckolded enough, and it’s a long way from over with, too, unless he finally gets a bellyful and shoots her ass.

He was weighing the likelihood of that happening when the distinctive bark of the Cunningham’s exhaust cut through his musing. Motioning to Floyd to stay in the driver’s seat, he slipped in on the passenger side. “You were right,” Floyd said through an ear-to-ear grin. “The run out here takes no time at all in this thing. Better watch out, or some Yankee lawman’ll be lockin’ your ass up.”

Jack waited for him to get the car turned around and headed back down the driveway before he said, “Now, Floyd, you know I’m a careful driver. Besides, I’m in no hurry to get to
New York; I just want to arrive there in style.”

“Well, if New Yorkers keep score the same way we do, I imagine you’ll do OK.”

“I guess so, at least with car lovers. But there are a lot of people in
New York City
that can’t even drive a car. And don’t want to.”

“I’ve heard that,” Floyd said. “I’ve only been up there once, and the damn streets were fulla cars.”

“Just about always, at least in
Manhattan, except for Sunday mornings. I expect this baby’ll stay parked most of the time I’m there.”

“How long you figuring to stay, anyway?”

“Oh, a couple weeks; maybe three.”

“Buster was tellin’ me that your mom and dad both live there; guess that’ll give you time to get all your visitin’ done,” Floyd said as he snuck a glance in Jack’s direction.

“Yeah, and I have to put a little time aside for the Bishop twins, too,” Jack said in as flat a tone as he could muster. “Mustn’t high-hat th’ home folks.”

It appeared to Jack that Floyd had just the one grin, which he offered up again. “Oh, certainly not. How long’ve they been up there now?”

“Sump’m over a year, I guess.”

“Say,” ventured Floyd, sotto voce. “Can those girls really see into the future? You know people still talk about them readin’ the other team’s plays when they were cheerleaders. There anything to that?”

“Oh hell, Floyd, you know how folks around here love to talk shit. Nobody can do that, except in science fiction. Their daddy showed them about trading commodities when they were growing up, and it looks like they inherited his talent for it. They just headed for where the high-stakes game is.”