chance to call the shop to see how Buster did yesterday. How’d it go?”
“Blew up ’fore he got started good,” she observed dispassionately, taking a sip from what looked like the twin to Linda’s beer stein of Scotch and soda. “He ’us runnin’ good, too, fifteenth or sixteenth, sump’m like that. Good thang th’ new car’ll be ready ’fore long.”
“Damn! That’s a shame. When d’you think the new one’ll be ready?”
“They’re sayin’ for Lakewood. Hey! Why don’chall c’mon over to Atlanta with me? We’ll getcha pit passes and everthang.”
“When is it?”
“Later on next month sometime. I’ll check and letcha know. Y’all’ll still be here, woncha?”
“Don’t know for sure...”
Cordelia interrupted him in midsentence. “Hey! Don’t you be thinkin’ about haulin’ this girl outa town ’fore I hardly get ta know ’er. What th’ hell’s the hurry, anyway? You sellin’ out tomorrow?”
“Nope,” Jack chuckled. “It’ll be a little while yet.”
“Well, then! Lakewood ain’t but three-four weeks from now, and Buster’d love t’have y’all in th’ infield . ’Til then, you’gn get your business done an’ I’ll have somebidy to mess around with.”
All Jack could think about was Mose; Pete, he corrected himself. They’d agreed that they wouldn’t communicate by phone, or otherwise for that matter, until the sale was closed or less some emergency cropped up. All he could think about was getting the hell out of Bisque as soon as he could wrap things up. That would, however, probably take most if not all of March, and this way he wouldn’t have to be concerned about Linda’s getting bored. “Well, since you ask us so nicely... whad’dya think, Linda?”
Shooting him a fleetingly questioning look, she said, “Sure; sounds like fun to me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Cordelia said, extending her stein. “Just as soon’s you top me up, Jackie-boy.”
“Rick’s home,” Jack said as he collected both their glasses and headed for the kitchen.
“He is?” Cordelia exclaimed. Seasoned Cordelia-watchers would recognize her body’s split-second relaxation and the middle-distance focus of her eyes as immediate precursors of sexual arousal. “Have you seen ’im?”
“Just came from there; rode past the house on my way back from lunch and saw his car in the driveway.”
“How’s he doin’?” In an aside to Linda, she said, “Bisque’s first pro football player; he’s just darlin’!” then to Rick: “How long’s he stayin’?”
Raising his voice to be heard from the kitchen, Jack said, “A few days; he just joined the Army.”
“Jackie! No! That poor thing; they drafted him?”
“Nope; they were going to, but he beat ’em to the punch and enlisted, up in Baltimore. Looks like he’ll be playin’ ball for Fort Whoosis for the next couple years.”
“Ain’t that a shame! Well,” she said, only half-bothering to mask the prurient subtext that had started to run at light-speed inside her head. “That’s one more good reason to party, ain’t it? Give the boy a good send-off. Hey! Let’s take ’im to Lakewood with us!”
“He’ll be gone by then,” Jack said as he returned with three steins of Scotch. “He’s got to be at Fort Jackson on the thirteenth.”
“My goodness.” Cordelia’s subtext shifted smoothly into overdrive. “Well. Buster’ll be home tomorrow; he’ll need a day to get things under control at the shop. Why don’chall come over for cocktails and some supper Wednesday night? And bring Ricky.”
“I’ll see what he’s doin’ and let you know. I’m sure he’d like to hear what Buster has to say about running at Daytona,” Jack said, malicious enjoyment at putting the two men’s names in close proximity evident in his grin. As much a part of Bisque folklore as Cordelia’s promiscuity had become, Jack was at pains to express this mild form of disapproval at the thought of her putting a notch in
“Blew up ’fore he got started good,” she observed dispassionately, taking a sip from what looked like the twin to Linda’s beer stein of Scotch and soda. “He ’us runnin’ good, too, fifteenth or sixteenth, sump’m like that. Good thang th’ new car’ll be ready ’fore long.”
“Damn! That’s a shame. When d’you think the new one’ll be ready?”
“They’re sayin’ for Lakewood. Hey! Why don’chall c’mon over to Atlanta with me? We’ll getcha pit passes and everthang.”
“When is it?”
“Later on next month sometime. I’ll check and letcha know. Y’all’ll still be here, woncha?”
“Don’t know for sure...”
Cordelia interrupted him in midsentence. “Hey! Don’t you be thinkin’ about haulin’ this girl outa town ’fore I hardly get ta know ’er. What th’ hell’s the hurry, anyway? You sellin’ out tomorrow?”
“Nope,” Jack chuckled. “It’ll be a little while yet.”
“Well, then! Lakewood ain’t but three-four weeks from now, and Buster’d love t’have y’all in th’ infield . ’Til then, you’gn get your business done an’ I’ll have somebidy to mess around with.”
All Jack could think about was Mose; Pete, he corrected himself. They’d agreed that they wouldn’t communicate by phone, or otherwise for that matter, until the sale was closed or less some emergency cropped up. All he could think about was getting the hell out of Bisque as soon as he could wrap things up. That would, however, probably take most if not all of March, and this way he wouldn’t have to be concerned about Linda’s getting bored. “Well, since you ask us so nicely... whad’dya think, Linda?”
Shooting him a fleetingly questioning look, she said, “Sure; sounds like fun to me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Cordelia said, extending her stein. “Just as soon’s you top me up, Jackie-boy.”
“Rick’s home,” Jack said as he collected both their glasses and headed for the kitchen.
“He is?” Cordelia exclaimed. Seasoned Cordelia-watchers would recognize her body’s split-second relaxation and the middle-distance focus of her eyes as immediate precursors of sexual arousal. “Have you seen ’im?”
“Just came from there; rode past the house on my way back from lunch and saw his car in the driveway.”
“How’s he doin’?” In an aside to Linda, she said, “Bisque’s first pro football player; he’s just darlin’!” then to Rick: “How long’s he stayin’?”
Raising his voice to be heard from the kitchen, Jack said, “A few days; he just joined the Army.”
“Jackie! No! That poor thing; they drafted him?”
“Nope; they were going to, but he beat ’em to the punch and enlisted, up in Baltimore. Looks like he’ll be playin’ ball for Fort Whoosis for the next couple years.”
“Ain’t that a shame! Well,” she said, only half-bothering to mask the prurient subtext that had started to run at light-speed inside her head. “That’s one more good reason to party, ain’t it? Give the boy a good send-off. Hey! Let’s take ’im to Lakewood with us!”
“He’ll be gone by then,” Jack said as he returned with three steins of Scotch. “He’s got to be at Fort Jackson on the thirteenth.”
“My goodness.” Cordelia’s subtext shifted smoothly into overdrive. “Well. Buster’ll be home tomorrow; he’ll need a day to get things under control at the shop. Why don’chall come over for cocktails and some supper Wednesday night? And bring Ricky.”
“I’ll see what he’s doin’ and let you know. I’m sure he’d like to hear what Buster has to say about running at Daytona,” Jack said, malicious enjoyment at putting the two men’s names in close proximity evident in his grin. As much a part of Bisque folklore as Cordelia’s promiscuity had become, Jack was at pains to express this mild form of disapproval at the thought of her putting a notch in
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