The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) (21 page)

Floyd wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “What about Edgar Cayce, then?” Pronouncing it “case.” “Don’t tell me he’s a fake. Called the day and the hour for
Pearl Harbor...”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, and then that underwater
Bimini Road
down in the
Bahamas. All kinds of stuff.”

“Well, you’ve got me on that, Floyd. I’ll have to read up on old Edgar, but I went all the way through school, from first grade through college, with those girls. They’d get a little rowdy now and then, but the fact is they’re just smart as hell and have healthy imaginations. They got lucky calling plays for a couple of games, but Coach quit believing in that when their luck ran out. Modesty aside, we just had a damn good team that year.”

Floyd brought the car to stop in front of the dealership. He shook his head, a dog with a bone that he wasn’t ready to turn loose. “People say they’re gettin’ rich up there.”

Jack walked around the car and shook hands with Floyd. “If I were you, I’d see about gettin’ ’em into an Imperial, then, before some Yankee sells ’em a Cadillac.”

Waiting for his chance, Jack u-turned into Bisque’s
five o’clock
traffic. Sitting between two long-haul trucks waiting for the light to change, he grinned into the rearview mirror, thinking about Floyd, the twins and Edgar “Case.” I could’ve curled every hair old Floyd has left, he thought, but what fun would there be in that? Better to leave him on the
Bimini Road. As the driver of the truck ahead of him dropped his mount into low gear, Jack decided to follow him through town as far as
Eighth Street, where he turned right, toward the Bisque Lunch Room. Might catch old Lee Webster fueling up between shows, he thought, and God knows who else.

Webster hadn’t arrived yet, but someone whom he was just as glad to see was there. Dick Terrell, Rick’s father, was chuckling at a comment that the proprietor, Ribeye Randall, had just delivered from his side of the bar. Turning toward the sound of the swinging doors, his grin broadened when he recognized the new arrival. “Jack!” Getting to his feet, he threw an arm around Jack’s shoulder, conducting him to the bar stool next to his. “How’re you doing, buddy? It’s really good to see you. Rib, this guy’s gettin’ ready to go fly for the Navy.”

“Hell, I know that,” Randall said over his shoulder from the colored side of the bar, universally known as the Mule Hole, the floor of which was set a foot or so lower than the rest of the bar and accessed by a separate door that gave on to the alley; “the whole damn town knows that. I probly knew it before you did. This here’s a bar, ya know.”

Terrell chuckled. “He talks to me any old damn way because I’m family. How ’bout something to drink for the flyboy, Rib?”

“Oh, yessir, nephew-in-law,” Ribeye grated through clenched teeth. “What’ll it be, bud?”

“Black Label’ll be fine, Rib, thanks.” turning to Terrell, Jack said, “What’s the news from the soldier boy?”

Smiling a father’s smile, Terrell said, “Looks like you guys’ll be fellow officers. “Ol’ Rick’s going straight from basic training to
Officer
Candidate
School.”

Jack made no attempt to conceal his surprise. “That won’t get him back to the Colts for the ’61 season, will it?”

“No, it won’t,” Terrell said, his smile fading but still present. “But Rick’s convinced that it’s what he should do, and you know as well as I do the that once he decides to do something, he goes after it. Wide open.”

“That’s for sure,” Jack said, remembering Rick’s boyhood attempt to join a traveling evangelist’s caravan, convincing the Bishop twins to trail the convoy out of town in the infamous Buick limousine. “Once he gets an idea, he locks down on it like a bulldog.”

“And he took to the Army like a duck to water. He’ll be the honor man in his recruit company; he said he’d have to break a leg for the first guy behind him to catch up. His commitment for active duty’ll be three years after commissioning,” Terrell said,” so they’re not asking him for all that much more time than his original enlistment, a little more than a year. He said he just felt like he’d be able to do more as an officer, and he wanted to make the time count for something.”

“Wonder if he’ll still go to Special Services? That was the reason he enlisted instead of being drafted.”

“Well, he said that he didn’t want to press that point until he sees how he does in OCS. If for any reason he doesn’t make it through, then he’d just have the remainder of his original two-year enlistment to serve, and whatever post he might go to would probably be quick to pick up an NFL flanker. The major who recruited him for OCS also said that as a professional athlete, he’d be the perfect candidate for Ranger school, so I think he just wants to keep his options open at this point, which is probably a good idea.”

“Sure. He’s obviously taking all this pretty seriously.”

“Well, aren’t you?” Terrell asked him. “How long are you going to be on active duty in the Navy?”

“About five years. Three and a half after I get my wings.”

“Yeah, I’d say you’re both pretty serious, and I’m damn proud of you. When’re you due to report?”

“June 13th.”

“Hangin’ around here till then?”

“No, sir. Thought I’d run up to
New York
and see my folks.”

Terrell mock-slapped the side of his head. “Yeah, you better do that, sure enough. Reason I asked, Rick says he’ll probably have a few days’ leave on his way down to OCS in
Fort
Benning. Be a shame if you guys didn’t get together.”

“You’re not kidding. When’ll he be here?”

“He doesn’t have orders yet, but he’s guessing the middle of May. Think you’ll be back by then? When’re you leaving?”

“Pretty soon. Four-five days, maybe. I’ll make it a point to be back.”

“Oh, that’ll be great. Why don’t you give us a call around the first of the month? He certainly should have orders by then.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Terrell.” Jack glanced up at the ancient Steinerbru clock on the far wall. “Time for another one? On me. Hey, Rib!”

14 MILADY’S BUST

Jack was on the road to
New York
at sun-up, Bisque receding behind him in streaks of tenacious morning fog. More than any other time that he’d served there as an adult, he ended this one feeling that he’d be spending very little of the rest of his life there. He’d invited Nick to join him, but his ectoplasmic descendant demurred, saying he’d join him in
New York. Jack filled this welcome solitude with the onrush of US1, giving the Cunningham its head, gear-shifting at every opportunity, exulting with its engine’s ready run up and down the decibel scale. He’d delayed the call to his mother until last night, reducing the chance of second-guessing phone calls from her on the nature of the trip, potential hazards, and the wisdom, or lack thereof, in his decision to drive there. He would, she said, need to call her at his overnight stop, which would probably be somewhere in
Virginia, by which time she’d have gotten Hap to check on off-street parking for him.

Serena Mason paused briefly at the full-length mirror before answering the door. Her five-foot-seven reflection registered grudging satisfaction at the effect of Repp-silk pullover tucked into denim jeans that were snug but not unseemly for the job at hand. A quick peek through the spy-hole confirmed the identity of her rangy son. Opening the multiple locks that are de rigueur for
New York
apartments, she swung the door wide. “Get in here, boy,” she admonished, wrapping her arms around him before he could, entangling their feet with the shoulder-strap of the weatherbeaten canvas bag sitting beside him on the threshold.

“Hey, Mama,” Jack said, returning her emotion. “Great to see you.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes yourself, Stretch. Come on in and set a spell.”

“Soon as I make a head call.” He dropped the bag just inside the door. “Which way?”

“Last door on the right. Where’d you get the godawful bag?”

“It’s Gene Debs’s,” Jack said,, disappearing into the bathroom.

“Sorry the garage’s so far away, Honey, but Hap said that it was the best he could do on short notice,” Serena said over her shoulder from the stove as she turned strips of bacon for the “light supper” she’d promised him when he called from the garage, up on East 36th Street. “What kind of a building is it in?”

“Looked pretty decent on short acquaintance,” Jack answered from the ottoman in the living room/studio as he took off his shoes. “White brick. Your a-cut-above-average
East Side
apartment building. Be sure and thank Hap for me; it’s not all that far away and it’s definitely off the street. They’re gonna wash it, of which it’s in dire need. Didn’t want to show ’er to you with 800 miles of road dirt getting in the way.”

“Oh, no; I want to see this little rascal at its best.” she said, pushing a long-neck Schafer toward him through the breakfast bar gap. “Buster called me after you left, just to tell me about it. Said to make sure you didn’t tear it up, because it was ‘real rare.’ I think he wants to make you an offer on it when you get back. What’re you going to do with it while you’re in the Navy, anyway?”

“Guess I’ll drive it; after all, a naval officer’s got to get around, like everybody else.”

“But I thought they wouldn’t let you have a car while you’re in training.”

“That’s just for the 16 weeks of preflight, when we’re not allowed to have a car on the base. After that, Ensign Jack and his little Cunningham will be inseparable. You’ll understand once I take you for a ride.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind running up to the Cape for a day or two, once this Luce bust’s off my hands,” she said, indicating a sturdy crate standing near the front door. “The Tiffany people’re picking it up tomorrow to show it to her, and once she OKs it I’m going to need a few days off. It’d be fun, just the two of us, particularly since I won’t be seeing you for awhile.”

“Sure,” Jack said, scrutinizing the crate. “Clare Boothe Luce, huh? Pretty high cotton for a Bisque girl. Guess Hap had a hand in getting the two of you together.”

“Well, since I do show exclusively in his gallery,” she said, betraying a trace of exasperation, “he’s had a lot to do with my exposure to the art world of
New York, and there’s no doubt that he’ll continue to be successful in doing that. In Clare’s case, though, the commission to do this bust came from meeting her last year at one of their parties. They probably have a hundred or more in any given year; you know who her husband is, don’t you?”

“Sure; Henry Luce. Time, Life and Fortune.”

“With more money than God. Come and get it, bub!”

They sat down to bacon, eggs and croissants and she continued. “You’d think that after all she’s done, in publishing, politics and just being Clare Boothe Luce, she’d be happy as hell, but it seems she and Harry work overtime making each other miserable. A mutual friend who worked with her at Vogue, and who got Hap and me onto the guest list for the Luce party, says they’ve both had multiple affairs almost since the honeymoon. Now it seems that he’s found someone he wants to marry. She’d found out about this woman recently, and while I can’t say for sure that’s what put her in the market for a bust of herself, I’d give long odds that that, along with resigning the ambassadorship to Brazil just days after Congress had confirmed her, had a lot to do with it. Our friend says that she’s the queen of the snap decision. A day or two after the party, Thomas Hoving’s assistant- he’s president of Tiffany’s- called Hap and asked if we could join him and Clare for lunch in the Tiffany dining room. Turns out that besides wanting to have her bust done, she’s underwriting 500 quarter-scale reproductions by Tiffany’s, either in crystal or china. We made the deal over champagne and Crepes Suzette; a $35,000 fee and a $70 royalty on each reproduction.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he did the arithmetic. “$70,000, if they sell out the reproductions. That’s quite a deal, Mom; congratulations!” He raised his beer, inclining it toward her in salute.

“Thanks, sweetie; the beer business kept your math sharp, huh? And the money’s really frosting on the cake. Once Tiffany’s PR and advertising cranks up, I’ll be head and shoulders above my peers, at least for a while.”

“You forgot to say ‘no pun intended’,” Jack said, grinning as he buttered a croissant.

“That’s because one was. So tell me about
Miami.”

“I thought I did.”

“You told me you that you’d sold Moses’ old Buick to a buyer in
Miami, and that you were driving it down there. I haven’t heard anything at all, at least from you, about the fancy lady buyer bringing you back to Bisque on her boat, or your jumping back on board and returning to
Miami
with her.”

“Shoot,” Jack said, “I figured you’d get all that from Cordelia. Which you obviously did.”

“Of course. But you know Cordelia’s point of view’s always somewhat unique. In this case, her rundown of your and Miss Green’s-  or is it Mrs. Green? Oh, forget I said that. Anyway, she left out all of the prurient details she’s famous for; said she liked her, and couldn’t imagine anything romantic going on between the two of you, given the age difference. But I know Cordelia, and I know you, and as chivalrous as you always are, that’s a lot of boat-riding for a platonic relationship.” She halted herself momentarily with an upraised hand. “Sorry, bub; guess I should’ve waited to see what you had to tell me about it. But, goddammit, I didn’t.” He hadn’t seen what he used to think of as her ironic smile for a long time. “Wanta talk about the weather?”