Jason wandered up to the register, laying down some lures and a tub of catfish bait he’d found in back. Without a word, Caddy slid it across and paid, this time in cash. The little boy took the sack and wandered out to the concrete platform and watched as Carl loaded down an ancient F-250 that had been Quinn’s before he’d gotten that big official sheriff’s truck.
“I appreciate it, Caddy,” Diane said. “I do. But more time won’t matter. It’s been thirty-seven years.”
Caddy reached out and touched Diane’s wrist and said, “I’ve been praying for you. I told you my story. Quinn has his own. We’re all still here and tougher for it.”
“That’s the Tulls,” Diane said. “On our headstones. We know how to endure.”
“Better to live,” Caddy said, smiling as if reading Diane’s thoughts and walking out the front door, the bell above jingling shut. “Quinn’s waiting to hear from you.”
When Jason Colson returned to Jericho, the mayor offered him the key to the city. But there was a catch, as there would be with someone as slick as Ben Bartlett. He asked if Jason might put on some kind of demonstration, you know, to bring people down from Memphis and see all Tibbehah had to offer. So Jason, never being one to shy away from a dare, asked if he might line up ten Ford Pintos and build a ramp at each end to his specifications. He’d bring along his custom-built Harley XR-750, nearly identical to the one Evel Knievel rode, only instead of an American flag, this one had the Stars and Bars on the gas tanks. Bartlett only asked where and when.
They’d decided to do it on May 16th of 1977 in the center of the Tibbehah County stadium, the town welcoming back its favorite son after Jason had been gone about seven years working out in Hollywood. Most recently he’d joined up with a crazy man from Arkansas named Hal Needham, who’d brought him into a little film called Smokey and the Bandit that looked to perhaps be the biggest picture of the year. In the South at least. It bombed with the Yankees up in New York.
That Saturday morning, Jason wore a Schott Perfecto with his name embroidered on the back, jeans with kneepads, and riding boots. The jump, while tough, wasn’t as hard as some of the work he’d done with cars on Smokey or on Gator or on Billy Jack Goes to Washington. This was all about speed and timing and nerves. He had the nerves and had worked out the speed on a calculator. All the old stuntmen found it funny as hell he carried a calculator in his pocket. But he never did trust the changing wind or his math skills to protect his ass on a jump.
For the past six months, he’d been dating the actress Adrienne Barbeau, living it up in Laurel Canyon. But as much as Adrienne had to offer, she’d seemed to lose interest, and there also was this redhead back home. He’d been thinking of her ever since he’d come home the last time. That was the real reason he’d been coming back and the real reason he was going to fly over the cars that morning, pop some wheelies for the kids, and sign some autographs.
It was a hell of thing to come back and show you weren’t afraid of jack shit.
“You ready, Jason?” asked old Ben Bartlett. “I thought I might give the announcement and maybe you do a few tricks around the stadium. Just try not to burn up the end zone. We just had that resodded.”
“And you give me the key after the jump?”
Bartlett grinned like a goddamn politician. “If you make the jump.”
Who the hell says shit like “If”? Nobody said “If” to Jason Colson. Jason spit, looked up to the stands, and saw the redhead he’d been thinking about sitting there with the fat town sheriff who’d he’d just learned was her goddamn brother. A lot older brother who looked at Jason like he didn’t stand a chance.
“What’s that key open?” Jason said.
Bartlett may have been an opportunist, but he wasn’t stupid. Jason looked up at that redhead, Jean Beckett, who he’d known a good long while but never since she’d become a filled-out, curvy woman. He pointed to her and gave her the thumbs-up.
Damn, that look on her face made it all worth it as he pulled on his helmet, adjusted his elbow pads and kneepads, and gunned the engine. He did two fast laps around the stadium, popping wheelies like a barnyard rooster, and then zipped down to the line he’d calculated for the run. He’d have to hit his top speed, running full-ass-out, when he hit that ramp. But he had to be careful. Start too soon and he’d overshoot the landing. Start too late and he’d be tasting goddamn Pinto for lunch.
He hit the mark and stopped, gunning the engine and staring down the space between the Harley and the ramp. He throttled the engine, its big, guttural sound shaking him and the bike, and making him realize for a split second he’d be just flying through the damn air on a seat with wheels and nothing else but the hand of God under him.
Jason Colson was good with that, toeing into first gear and running that bike faster than a scalded cat. The last thing he heard before hitting that ramp was the crowd yelling with excitement and fear.
And then there was only the open air.
Not that it always worked out, but when Quinn was on day shift, he was usually off at 1800 hours and drinking coffee with Boom at the Southern Star by 1815. Not that Quinn didn’t enjoy decent beer and good whiskey, it was just the town sheriff couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be seen drinking in public in uniform or some might critique his judgment. Coming to the bar was more a nice way to decompress and swap some stories before heading home at dinnertime. Boom, his oldest and best friend, who’d given up the whiskey for a while now, would listen to Quinn complain about the slowness of rebuilding of his mother’s house and how privacy was something he hadn’t had since that twister had torn apart Jericho.
“But there is all that family love, that togetherness and shit,” Boom said.
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “All that shit.”
“Man, you just pissed ’cause you can’t get laid,” Boom said. “You mad ’cause you and Ophelia can’t walk around buck-ass naked and take care of business.”
“And what’s the matter, if that’s the case?”
“You do seem just a little frustrated.”
“How’s that coffee?” Quinn said.
“Terrible as always,” Boom said. “Why do we come here anyway?”
“Because there’s nowhere else for forty miles?”
Boom nodded and toasted him with his mug. All around them people swilled beer and whiskey, a jukebox in the corner playing Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.”
“You hear about that Chinese restaurant coming in?” Boom said. “Some family down from Memphis. I think they’re Vietnamese but thought Chinese food would sell better. One of those buffets.”
“Hell, yeah,” Quinn said. “In Jericho, that’s some fancy grub.”