The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) by Stan Hayes Read Free Book Online Page B

people.”
    “Some white people.”
    “What about the blacks?”
    “Whatever pond, lake or river that they don’t get run out of, is pretty much the story. See why I want to get the fuck outa here?”
    “Yes,” she said, “I believe I do.”
    “A lot of people in this little burg’re gonna have to die off before anybody with skin much darker’n mine’s gonna have more’n a snowball’s chance in hell of living a decent life here,” Jack grated as they drove past the park’s softball fields, glancing at the father-and-son pepper game that, besides golf, appeared to be the park’s sole activity that late afternoon. “Now, just hold on for a coupla minutes and I’ll show you where Ralph Williams lives.”
    Returning to the intersection of the park’s entry and exit roads, Jack drove the Buick off the paved surface and onto the extension of the exit road, a reasonably well-graded dirt road that looked to Linda as though it had regular use. “Where’s this take us?”
    “Among other places, past the county’s biggest employer, other than the textile mills. Hamm Foods. Ralph and his mother live right across the road from it.”
    The road angled off slightly to the right as they topped a small rise, and Linda saw the corner post of a high cyclone fence, one side of which paralleled the road as it led down to the paved entry to a gatehouse. A collection of buildings, all but one of them one-story structures and some little more than sheds, stretched out for some distance beyond it. “That’s Hamm Foods,” Jack said with a wave of his hand in its direction, “And that’s Chez Williams over there on the left, fourth one down.” The house looked to be in somewhat better shape than its neighbors, with a fairly recent coat of white paint, bright green shutters and a walkway of a row of octagonal paving tiles, each cut into the bank to provide a level walkway up to a wider expanse of the same tiles that led to the front porch. Sparse fescue, awaiting spring’s greening cue, straggled down the bank toward the shallow ditch that separated it from the road. “That’s his car.” A shiny black 1957 Chevrolet BelAir hardtop sat gathering dust in front of the house.
    “Want to stop in for a minute?” she asked him.
    “Naah, not a good idea. The neighbors’d give his mama hell for weeks if Whitey paid a visit.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Unfortunately not. Like a lot of other things, segregation works both ways.”
    “Well that just sucks,” she fumed.
    “Yes it does. If the young ones, the good ones anyway, get a chance to get out of here, they take it and never come back. Like Ralph’s little brother, Ziggy.”
    “The ex-Marine,” she said.
    “That’s the one. The only Korean War vet from Bisque to win the Silver Star. Hell. Far as I know, he’s the only Bisque vet, from any war, to win one. And nobody ever won anything more important, that I know of. But you’ll never hear anyone of the white persuasion say a word about it.”
    “I remember you and Mose talking about him when you first showed up down in Coconut Grove. Mose liked him a lot.”
    “Me too. You might say we grew up together. Sort of. He’s three-four years older than me. We oughta run over to Atlanta one day and look his ass up.”
    “D’you suppose his neighbors’ll give him hell if we do?”
    “Could be, if, as Ralph says, ‘he hangin’ out wif dem uppity black power niggas.’ Be nice to see him, anyway, him bein’ a budding recording artist and all.”
    “That would be interesting,” she said. “Think we could do it without gettin’ into trouble?”
    Jack glanced over at her, grinning. “Well, most anything interesting’s bound to involve a little trouble. I’ll ask Ralph to get hold of him and see how he wants to handle it.”
    “If he wants to handle it.”
    “Oh, hell. It’s Ziggy. And we’re homefolks. At least I am. It’s goin’ on three years since we’ve seen each other. We’ll work sump’m