The Bass Wore Scales Read Free Page B

short.
    Bud, in addition to his newly discovered culinary talents, had an encyclopedic knowledge of wines. No one was sure how he came by such proficiency. He explained that it came from extensive reading at the library, but none of us bought that story. He knew too much. It was Bud who put me on to a pinot noir that he described as “bland, yet dishonest; virginal, yet tarty; grudging at first, but evolving into gingerbread. It has a bit of dirty-sock overtone and sharp aftertaste.” I tried it and, to my surprise, he was right. Yep. Bud had the whole package—knowledge, taste buds and most importantly, the lingo. Anyone in St. Germaine who wanted just the right wine for a dinner party came to Bud first. He never duplicated a suggestion and never disappointed.
    “ Did Moosey get hold of you?” Bud asked me, as he came over to the table.
    “ I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”
    “ Well, he’s hot to go fishing. He said you promised him back in February.”
    “ I did indeed,” I said. “If you see him, tell him I haven’t forgotten.”

    * * *

    “ Are you still coming on Tuesday?” asked Billy Hixon, the Senior Warden of St. Barnabas. I recognized his voice as soon as I answered my phone.
    “ Tuesday?” I said, trying to remember what Billy was talking about.
    “ Tuesday afternoon—three o’clock. At St. Barnabas! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”
    “ Give me a hint.”
    “ The Blessing of the Racecar!”
    “ Oh, of course!” I said.
    “ Junior Jameson is bringing the racecar up on Tuesday morning. Maybe you heard that he hasn’t been doing so well. He had it re-painted before the season started, but, so far, having St. Barnabas as the main sponsor of his racing team isn’t garnering him any holy mojo. Those’re his words, not mine.”
    Last year, St. Barnabas came into a lot of money—sixteen million dollars, to be exact. It was an unexpected windfall and after several fairly hostile congregational meetings, it was decided that the church could not decide. That is to say, some wanted to invest the money and live off the interest, never having to take up a collection or worry about a pledge drive ever again. Then, there were those people who felt that financial security of such a degree would be a detriment to the spiritual life of the church. As Father George so eloquently put it in his speech to the congregation, “It is important for the people that are St. Barnabas to know that they are needed, that their gifts and their tithes are what sustain the church and that their talents are appreciated and invaluable.”
    In the end , it was decided that one person, and one person alone should make the decision, and this trustee would be the one who had given the most money to St. Barnabas over the years. We all assumed that the person named would be Malcolm Walker, the richest man in the congregation. Much to everyone’s surprise, the person named as the trustee was none other than Lucille Murdock, an eighty-seven-year-old widow who’d been giving half her pension to the church since 1938.
    To make a long story short, Lucille Murdock finally decided, after much prayerful consideration, that St. Barnabas Episcopal Church would use the money to fund a NASCAR racing team. This decision was helped along, in no small part, by several coversations with her nephew, Junior Jameson, a NASCAR driver who just happened to be looking for a sponsor. In the end, they concluded that putting the church emblem on the top of the racecar would be the perfect “vehicle” (if you will) to spread the Word of the Lord. “After all,” Junior said, “isn’t NASCAR racing the number one spectator sport in the country? And don’t those people need to be exposed to the Gospel?”
    “ I’ll be there,” I said to Billy. “Who’s doing the service?”
    “ Well, Father George doesn’t want to do it and Tony said he’s going to be out of town, so I’m going to try to get the Bishop.”
    “ That sounds