The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) Read Free Page A

Jack and me, and it looks like she thinks she can do as she pleases. Way too much like her mother. But we can sort it out. Hell, we’ve got to.
     
    They slept late, waking to a clear, cool morning. Throwing a leg over Jack’s prone form, she felt his butt cheeks contract once, twice, three times. “You sending me a message, boy?”
    “Mm-hmm.”
    “And what might that be?”
    He turned his head toward her, opening one eye. “Need a little taste,” he grunted.
    “Taste of what? Brunswick Stew?”
    “If that’s what that little thing’s tastin’ like this mornin’.”
    It was after eleven when they woke up again. “You could at least fix a girl some coffee,” she said into the nape of his neck.
    Reaching behind him, he squeezed her butt. “Ooo-kay. Settle for instant?”
    “Shit no- I saw that Chemex on the counter.”
    Jack disarmed the alarm system and they took their coffee outside, exhaling vapor clouds as they walked up the hill behind the house to the horse barn that Mose had converted to workout space and garage. Opening the door, Jack reached up without looking, throwing the main power switch, then flipping the half-dozen light switches below it. A regulation-size boxing ring, heavy bag, speed-bag, weight bench, wall pulleys, an assortment of barbells and dumbbells occupied the right side of the floodlit space. Arrayed in line on the left side, in front of a towering red Snap-On toolbox, were five motorcycles: A Vincent Black Shadow, a Harley-Davidson 80 cubic-inch sidecar rig, a 1940 Indian Four, a single-cylinder BMW R27 and a BSA Gold Star Clubman. “Welcome to Chez Jock,” said Jack, grinning broadly.
    “Jesus. As much as you’ve both talked about it, I’m still amazed. ‘Chez Jock,’ huh?”
    “That’s what the local newscaster Lee Webster, Mose’s old drinking buddy, started calling it. Actually, he first named the whole place ‘Chez Mose.’ As time went on, he named the house ‘Chez Cock’ and the barn ‘Chez Jock.’”
    “Leaving very little to the imagination,” she observed. “I’ve yet to see much of this little burg, but I’m already imagining what a commotion ol’ Mose let loose around here.” She walked over to the motorcycles, stopping at the Vincent. “The Vincent,” she read the gilt scroll on the gas tank. “Looks like it’s doing a hundred standing still.” She blew on the tank. “Needs a good dusting. Why don’t you cover ’em up?”
    “Probably should. Usually they don’t sit long enough to gather much dust. We’ll have to get covers for ’em anyway when we ship ’em south.”
    “You ARE going to teach me to ride before you ship ’em.”
    Jack’s grin reappeared, wider than ever. “Thought you’d never ask.”
    They walked the rest of the three-acre property, working their way around to the front of the house. Sitting in the swing that Jack had hung from a large Poplar tree that overlooked the lake, they watched ducks and geese compete for occupancy of the swimmers’ raft. “Hard to imagine you’d ever want to leave here,” Linda said to him. “Seems like a pretty good place to call home.”
    “Yeah, there are lots worse places than Bisque to spend your life, but Mose was the best part of Bisque for me. Before he got here, I felt like I’d been kidnapped, first from New York and then from Los Alamos. Pretty soon, in every way that counted, he got to be both mother and father to me.”
    Turning to look at the sidecar rig, she said, “He was good at that.”
    “Same with you, right? Well, now that he’s gone, there’s not that much left to get excited about. The quicker I get out of here, the better.”
    She smiled. “It seemed like there was never a problem that he couldn’t handle. Of course I left before he did, but when he’d gone, I felt exactly the same way about Baltimore. Nobody left but my juicehead mother, and she was beyond help, even his. Guess it’s natural to want to put the old hometown behind you when you get out