Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 07 by O Little Town of Maggody Page A
Authors: O Little Town of Maggody
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Welcome). A colossal depiction of bungled plastic surgery looked down at him, but after he’d squinted at it, Ripley realized it was meant to be Matt.
He turned the opposite way, but there was no reprieve. At the high school, a droopy paper banner proclaimed that the Maggody Marauders welcomed Matt Montana. Across from it was a drive-in, and although he couldn’t make out the small lettering on the hand-painted menu, he had a fairly reasonable guess as to les spécialités du maison. Back on the main road, he continued past Matt Montana’s Christmas Craft Boutique and a funny-looking metal building called the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. He was wondering why its name hadn’t been changed to Matt’s Chapel when he saw the portable sign on the lawn. The Good Lord apparently had endorsed this rest stop on the highway to heaven. Ripley wouldn’t have been surprised to see Matt Montana’s Eternal Garden out back, dotted with headstones from Matt’s Discount Marble Mart (Personalized While U Wait).
Surely, he thought as he drove by Aunt Adele’s Launderette and pulled into the parking lot of Matt Montana’s Hometown Bar & Grill, which existed in conjunction with Matt’s Motel (NO V CAN Y, alas), the town had established diplomatic ties with Hannibal, Missouri. There was only one thing they’d overlooked, but he was not going to be the hark-the-herald of bad tidings. Geoffry would see to that when the time came.
He opened the barroom door and went in warily. Strings of twinkly Christmas lights looped across the ceiling and along the walls; the room looked as if it were under siege by lightning bugs. The jukebox was blaring, and the SRO crowd was belting out the chorus of the hometown boy’s number one hit.
He made his way around the dance floor, where couples twostepped enthusiastically on each other’s toes, and took a stool at the end of the bar. He would have to identify himself eventually, but he was reluctant to do so at the top of his lungs, which would be the only way to make himself heard over this welter of aboriginal sounds and smells. Oh, to be in Oxford—Oxford, Mississippi, that is—drinking bourbon and deconstructing tales of streetcars named Desire and counties named Yoknapatawpha. If Faulkner were to write about Stump County, it wouldn’t be stream of consciousness. This was miles downstream from any discernible consciousness.
“What’ll it be?” Ripley smiled at the grandmotherly bartender. “A Manhattan, please.”
“I went up there once, and you better believe me when I say nobody’d name a drink after that place. If they did, it’d have scum on the surface and stink like bus fumes. How ‘bout a Matt Montana Moonshine Special? It’s beer, on account of that’s mostly all I sell in the way of spirits, but it comes in a quart jar just like the real stuff. I ordered ‘em from the same place Raz gets his.” She noticed his puzzlement and explained, “Raz Buchanon’s our local moonshiner. I don’t allow him in here because he’s forever chawing tobacco, spitting, scratching his privates, and dragging along his pedigreed sow. Her name’s Marjorie.
“Buchanon?” Ripley said, startled. It was the last name of his local contact, but she certainly hadn’t sounded like the wife of a moonshiner who moonlighted as a mayor.
“I suppose it could be her last name,” said Ruby Bee, finding this man more than a little bit peculiar. He was a customer, however, so she gave him an encouraging look and said, “So, how ‘bout that Moonshine Special?”
A woman with implausibly red hair swooped in and claimed the stool next to his. “Afternoon,” she said to Ripley with a neighborly nod, clutched the edge of the bar and said, “You ain’t gonna believe what I just saw, Ruby Bee. I’m almost afraid to tell you, but if I don’t, somebody else will sure as God made little green apples.”
“Estelle, what on earth are you carrying on about? I got a roomful roomful of
He turned the opposite way, but there was no reprieve. At the high school, a droopy paper banner proclaimed that the Maggody Marauders welcomed Matt Montana. Across from it was a drive-in, and although he couldn’t make out the small lettering on the hand-painted menu, he had a fairly reasonable guess as to les spécialités du maison. Back on the main road, he continued past Matt Montana’s Christmas Craft Boutique and a funny-looking metal building called the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. He was wondering why its name hadn’t been changed to Matt’s Chapel when he saw the portable sign on the lawn. The Good Lord apparently had endorsed this rest stop on the highway to heaven. Ripley wouldn’t have been surprised to see Matt Montana’s Eternal Garden out back, dotted with headstones from Matt’s Discount Marble Mart (Personalized While U Wait).
Surely, he thought as he drove by Aunt Adele’s Launderette and pulled into the parking lot of Matt Montana’s Hometown Bar & Grill, which existed in conjunction with Matt’s Motel (NO V CAN Y, alas), the town had established diplomatic ties with Hannibal, Missouri. There was only one thing they’d overlooked, but he was not going to be the hark-the-herald of bad tidings. Geoffry would see to that when the time came.
He opened the barroom door and went in warily. Strings of twinkly Christmas lights looped across the ceiling and along the walls; the room looked as if it were under siege by lightning bugs. The jukebox was blaring, and the SRO crowd was belting out the chorus of the hometown boy’s number one hit.
He made his way around the dance floor, where couples twostepped enthusiastically on each other’s toes, and took a stool at the end of the bar. He would have to identify himself eventually, but he was reluctant to do so at the top of his lungs, which would be the only way to make himself heard over this welter of aboriginal sounds and smells. Oh, to be in Oxford—Oxford, Mississippi, that is—drinking bourbon and deconstructing tales of streetcars named Desire and counties named Yoknapatawpha. If Faulkner were to write about Stump County, it wouldn’t be stream of consciousness. This was miles downstream from any discernible consciousness.
“What’ll it be?” Ripley smiled at the grandmotherly bartender. “A Manhattan, please.”
“I went up there once, and you better believe me when I say nobody’d name a drink after that place. If they did, it’d have scum on the surface and stink like bus fumes. How ‘bout a Matt Montana Moonshine Special? It’s beer, on account of that’s mostly all I sell in the way of spirits, but it comes in a quart jar just like the real stuff. I ordered ‘em from the same place Raz gets his.” She noticed his puzzlement and explained, “Raz Buchanon’s our local moonshiner. I don’t allow him in here because he’s forever chawing tobacco, spitting, scratching his privates, and dragging along his pedigreed sow. Her name’s Marjorie.
“Buchanon?” Ripley said, startled. It was the last name of his local contact, but she certainly hadn’t sounded like the wife of a moonshiner who moonlighted as a mayor.
“I suppose it could be her last name,” said Ruby Bee, finding this man more than a little bit peculiar. He was a customer, however, so she gave him an encouraging look and said, “So, how ‘bout that Moonshine Special?”
A woman with implausibly red hair swooped in and claimed the stool next to his. “Afternoon,” she said to Ripley with a neighborly nod, clutched the edge of the bar and said, “You ain’t gonna believe what I just saw, Ruby Bee. I’m almost afraid to tell you, but if I don’t, somebody else will sure as God made little green apples.”
“Estelle, what on earth are you carrying on about? I got a roomful roomful of
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