The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) by Stan Hayes Page A

up to Memphis sometime around now to talk to a record producer about doin’ an album. Him and the band he’s been singin’ with. Guess I woulda heard from him when he got back, though. He probably habm’t gone yet.”
    “I thought I might take Linda over to Atlanta sometime before we head back south, and I’d like to drop in on him while we’re there. Mind letting me have his number? I’ll give him a call before we leave. If you happen to talk to him, tell him I’ll be calling. I can’t wait to hear ol’ Ziggy belt out a few tunes.”
    “Oh, yeah, he’d be tickled to death to see y’all. I got a few of his cards in the back; I’ll gitcha one.”
     
    Looking up from behind the counter, Reba smiled as she saw the Vincent pull up out front, exhaust rattling the café’s plate glass as Jack parked it on the sidewalk near the door between the hotel and the café’s niche in the southeast corner. An image of Mose flashed through her mind, recalling the many times that he’d parked it there. She felt the ripple of a fresh premonition of loss, a wave still forming offshore awaiting its appointed time to crash onto her soul’s beleaguered beach; first Mose, then Mr. Redding, then Ríni, and soon he’ll be gone, too. This little town’s losin’ the little bit of class it has faster than it can replace it. “Mornin’, Jackie,” she said as he slid onto a stool near the door.
    “Hi, Reba; how’s it going?”
    She took a deep breath, making the red REBA sitting high on her right breast rise, then fall a fraction of an inch. “Pretty good for Monday, honey. Ain’t you freezin’ on that thang?”
    “Nah. Feels good. And speaking of that, what’s good today?”
    “You know durn right well we don’t have nothin’ but good around here, boy, but you look like you could do with summa Nelson’s roast chicken.”
    Jack grinned as he completed the order; “Collards, field peas and mashed potatoes.”
    “Coffee?”
    “Large Coke.”
    Looking toward the front of the cafe, he saw Lynne Browne and a couple of Browne & Browne salesladies at the table nearest the register. She returned his wave with a raised index finger, a promise- or a threat- of conversation when she and the ladies finished their lunch. Acknowledging the finger with a nod, he turned toward the flapping of the kitchen’s swinging doors, through which came Nelson Lord, preceded by half a roast chicken.
    “How ‘bout it, lager-boy?” said Lord, setting the plate on the counter, the latest in a long line of masterpieces on which the Bisque Café’s not-inconsiderable reputation was founded.
    Bringing his face close to the crinkly-brown skin of his entree, Jack inhaled deeply. “Perfect, Nels; only perfect. We gotta get the state to put up one of those landmark signs about you out front.”
    “Shit,” snorted Lord. Still the image of Steve Cochran, b-movie charmer, Jack thought; thickened up a bit from years of eating his own cooking, but the black-Irish intensity hadn’t cooled down a single degree. “You better get my ass promoted to General first. Generals and politicians the only ones that get put on them roadside monstrosities, and I ain’t no goddamn politician.”
    No, Jack thought, you certainly aren’t that. Genius, cradle-robber, cuckolder, incremental suicide-  some, probably all, of those, but no politician. Good thing for Reba that you aren’t. Seeing that Lord wasn’t about to move until he’d tasted the bird, Jack plunged his knife into the breast and sliced off a chunk of moist fragrance. “Jesus, man,” he said, chewing. “Don’t you let some pissed-off husband shoot yo’ ass. This is th’ best yardbird on th’ planet.”
    “Done been tried, boy,” he said, moving aside as Reba approached, laden with vegetables. “No sale. Guess I’m just too much in demand.” Turning as he reached the kitchen door, he said, “Why’ncha bring that lady by for supper? Kielbasa, kraut’n rosti.” And another chance for me