The Buck Passes Flynn (7 page)

“You all come back real soon, now.”

“Thank you,” Flynn said. “That would be nice.”

In the parking lot of Bob’s Diner the young men were starting their motorcycles as Flynn and Ducey were getting into their cars.

The motorcyclist who had put away his knife said, “You all need anything?”

“Like what?” asked Flynn.

“Directions? A place to stay?”

“I think we’re all right,” said Flynn. “But thank you anyway.”

“Don’t you need anything around here without hollerin’ for it.”

“I won’t,” said Flynn.

Two of the motorcyclists roared out of the parking lot of Bob’s Diner.

The third—the blusher, straddling his motorcycle—came over to Flynn’s car.

“Have you ever seen a production at the Abbey Theatre?” he asked through the car window.

“I have,” said Flynn, over the noise of the motorcycle.

“What have you seen?”

“Well, I’ve seen a production of Shaw’s
Saint Joan
, as a matter of fact. With Siobhan McKenna.”

“Ooo, boy,” the young man said. “That would be great.”

“It was great, in fact.”

The young motorcyclist said, “I sure would like to see a production at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, Ireland, someday.”

“Tell me,” said Flynn. “Do you write poetry yourself?”

The young man’s face again turned red.

“No,” he said. “I work in an auto-body shop. In Bixby.”

Leaving the parking lot, the motorcycle raised a trail of dust.

“WE’RE here, Mister Flynn.”

Flynn had let himself into the Fraimans’ bungalow, out of the wind, yelling, “Hello? Hello?”

“Come on in.”

Marge Fraiman’s drawl was even slower than usual.

He found the minister and his wife in their bedroom, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, holding hands.

They looked like two small children at the side of the playground, left out of all activities.

Except the reverend’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, wandering in his head.

The Reverend Sandy Fraiman was very drunk.

“There you are,” said Flynn.

Marge Fraiman said, “The devil’s in him, Mister Flynn.”

“I’d say he has about a liter of the devil in him,” said Flynn.

“I’m all right.” The minister brushed a fly that wasn’t there away from his nose.

“He’s backslided,” Marge said. “Somethin’ terrible.”

“I think you can answer my questions better anyway, Mrs. Fraiman,” Flynn said. “You said you were born and raised here.”

“Yes.”

Flynn was looking for a place to sit down.

“Sit anywhere,” Marge said.

There was nothing on which to sit.

Flynn let himself down cross-legged on the bedroom floor near the window.

“Well, now.” The room was stifling. “Just the few odd questions, Mrs. Fraiman.”

The minister, eyes closed, said “Oh-h” and pressed his hand against his stomach.

Marge squeezed her husband’s other hand.

“Mrs. Fraiman, as far as you know—has anyone ever mentioned to you or to any of your friends that there might be oil under Ada?”

“Oh, no. I mean, sure. People used to talk about it. Years ago. This area’s been surveyed time and again, over the years. Exploratory wells drilled. Well, you can still see them standing. At least one on every ranch. It’s been a dream the people have had.”

“And oil was never found?”

“Oh, sure there’s oil.”

“There is oil, you say?”

“Of course there’s oil. People know right where it is and how much there is of it.”

“No oil,” said the minister.

“There’s precious little of it, Mister Flynn. That’s the point. And what there is of it isn’t worth drillin’ up. Too expensive, even at current prices.”

“I see.”

“The companies have always been around here lookin’ for oil. Everybody gets their hopes up. The companies always show the same maps and tell everybody Ada oil just isn’t worth drilling for.”

“But oil companies are able and willing to drill deeper now, aren’t they? Aren’t they willing to spend more money for less oil?”

“They’re still not willin’ to spend a billion dollars for a teaspoonful, Mister Flynn.”

“Answer me this, then: to the best of your knowledge has anyone been around these parts lately doing new surveys, or drilling new exploratory holes?”

“Not for years.”

“Years?”

“Years and years. Not since—let’s see, I was in the seventh grade. What’s that, nearly twenty years ago?”

“Do you think anyone could have been looking for oil around here without your knowing about it?”

“Mister Flynn, if anyone ever comes into any area of Texas—especially Ada—with even a divining rod, I can tell you the news would travel like wildfire. The ranchers would be all over him.”

“Right,” said Flynn. “Next question: have you ever heard of a radioactive-materials dump?”

“What is that?”

“I know,” said the minister. He did not explain. He burped.

Finally, Flynn said, “Thermonuclear plants produce a certain amount of waste material that is radioactive.”

“Oh,” she said.

“The powers-that-be aren’t sure what to do with this waste,” Flynn said.

“Why don’t they turn it into something useful?” she asked.

“I’ll suggest it. Their best idea at the moment is to bury it deep in the ground—especially in a salt deposit.”

“Salt?”

“Yes.”

“Why, wouldn’t that just ruin the salt, too?”

“I guess it would. Anyway,” Flynn continued, “the one or two areas chosen to bury this waste—areas I expect are somewhat like Ada—the people have risen up on their hind legs and yelled
no
.”

“I don’t understand you, Mister Flynn.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned to you or any of your friends, as far as you know, that Ada might be used as a place to bury radioactive wastes?”

“Why, no. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“The devil,” said the minister. “The devil did.”

He began to giggle and cry.

“The people can’t protest,” said Flynn, “if they’re not here to do it.”

“No such thing,” said Marge Fraiman.

“There haven’t been any men around here diggin’ any holes in the ground the last year or two?”

“Surely not. If there were they’d be taken as oil surveyors and we all would have been over them quicker than flies go to a dead man’s eyes.”

“Beguiling expression, that,” said Flynn. “I must remember to use it myself, one day. When it’s appropriate. One other wee question: has any born and bred citizen of Ada, Texas, struck out in the world and done especially well?”

“Well, there was young Dale Hainsfather. Last year, why he had more Boy Scout badges and awards than anybody in Texas. He got a special trip to Dallas for it. All paid for.”

“Mrs. Fraiman, I guess when I say anyone who has ‘done especially well,’ I mean become rich.”

“Rich?”

“Very rich.”

“Why, of course.”

“Who?”

“Tommy Jackson, of course.”

“Who?”

“Why, surely, Mister Flynn, you know who Tommy Jackson is, don’t you?”

“If I do know,” Flynn said, “I forget. If you would refresh my memory?”

“He played for Texas.”

“Played what?”

“Football. Quarterback for Texas. Of course, that was ten, twelve years ago.”

“That Tommy Jackson.”

“Sure. I was sure you’d know. His family moved from here to Austin when he was about twelve years old, but he’s always said that Ada’s his hometown.”

“Did he become rich?”

“Why, he sure did. Even while he was in college, they were givin’ him cars. They gave him a Bonanza. A yellow Bonanza. It was in all the papers, at the time.”

“But did he become rich?”

“He made a lot of money playing football. You’d never believe how much. He’s up North someplace, now. Coach of one of those big state-university football teams.” Marge looked at her husband like a child looking into a bird’s nest to see if there were any chicks. “Sandy would know which university. I understand you can see Tommy on television once in a while. He always says he comes from Ada, Texas, which is real nice of him, I mean, seein’ he left here when he was age twelve and all.”

“I guess I’m asking about someone even richer than Tommy Jackson.”

“Richer than Tommy? They say he lives in a big house, with a swimming pool. There was a piece about him in
Parade
magazine a few years tack.”

“I mean someone who went somewhere, discovered oil, put together a big company, owned an airline, a lot of real estate, banking … something … became a billionaire.”

Marge Fraiman’s eyes had grown wider.

“No, Mister Flynn. I’ve never known of anyone like that.”

“Never even heard of anyone like that?”

“Well, sure, I’ve heard of them. We don’t have a television and don’t believe in cluttering up our minds with magazines and like that. If you can read the Word of the Lord, why read anything else, Sandy
says.” The minister’s head went up and down in agreement. “But I know such people exist. There was that man, Howard Hughes—”

“Right,” said Flynn. “Someone like him.”

“From right here in Ada?”

“That’s the question.”

“Why, no, Mister Flynn. Who’d ever think a thing like that? All that money, and women, and flyin’ around in the face of the Lord? I surely would pray nothin’ like that would happen to anyone from Ada. Not anyone I know.”

Flynn stared at her a moment, and then said, “Amen.”

“No one like that from Ada, Mister Flynn. I pray the Lord my husband’s ministry has been better than that.”

“You mentioned that Mrs. Lewis had a son who ran off and became rich?”

“Oh, that. That’s just a story about the pig woman. I never laid eyes on any son of hers.”

“It could have been long ago. Before you were born.”

“Well, it would have been. Of course. Old Mrs. Lewis, why, she’s a hundred years old if she’s a minute and a half.”

“You don’t know anything definite about her son?”

“Definite? I don’t even know she had a son. People love to make up stories about poor unfortunate critters like that. I mean, here she is, out livin’ in that gully with her pigs, givin’ herself airs, dressin’ up in face makeup and spangly glass to pour slop out to the pigs, so everyone goes around sayin’ she has a son rich as Croesus livin’ in a mansion on Park Avenue, New York. Just ’cause everyone’s always said it doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“I suppose not,” said Flynn.

“No. It’s just a small town’s way of feelin’ sorry for her, you know? The poor crazy old woman. No one in this town ever’s gotten free and had any money,
Mister Flynn. No one, except Tommy Jackson, of course. Why would you ask such a thing, anyway?”

Flynn said, “I think you should know—and I think you should tell your husband when you can—that I believe every man, woman, and child in Ada, Texas, received a package just like yours—with one hundred thousand dollars cash money in it.”

“I can’t believe that, Mister Flynn.”

“Mrs. Lewis received such a package.”

“Mister Flynn, there are some things that are to be believed, and some things that are not to be believed. I told you about the earthquake—”

“Satan walked the land,” the Reverend Sandy Fraiman said.

Flynn rose from the floor. His knees were stiff.

Still holding her husband’s hand, Marge Fraiman said, “I won’t walk out with you, Mister Flynn, if you don’t mind.”

Flynn said, “May I ask what you and your husband are going to do?”

“I’ll just sit with him,” she said, “until it’s time to pray.”

“And then what will you do?”

“Why, I said: we’ll pray.”

“Mrs. Fraiman, you and your husband can’t sit here in an empty town. It’s been three months you’ve been alone. I have some experience with what that does to people.”

“We have the Lord, Mister Flynn.”

“Ach, well. Since Eden, Mrs. Fraiman, it’s been a good idea to have some other people around. Can’t you at least move into Bixby or Austin? You can keep your eye on Ada just as well from there.”

“Why, Mister Flynn, that’s a right good idea.”

“It is?”

“It surely is. I thank you for it.”

“Just an idea, Mrs. Fraiman.”

“We never thought of it. We never did. I do thank
you for takin’ thought for us. That’s right Christian of you.”

Just as Flynn was leaving the bungalow, going back into the hot, blowing air, he heard Marge Fraiman call out, “You be sure and come back, you hear? Right soon!”

Like most audiences at a live performance, the people in the enormous Las Vegas lounge watching the comic Jimmy Silverstein on the huge stage with his hand-mike, listening to him, were eager to be pleased, even at three o’clock in the morning.

Flynn sipped his Perrier and lime.

“Get an education,” my mother said. “With an education you won’t have to be up at three o’clock in the morning, tiptoeing around the city, quietly collecting other people’s garbage.”

You heard me right: quietly collecting other people’s garbage
.

“Get an education,” my father said. “With an education you won’t have to be up at two o’clock in the morning pulling on your pants to come to work at the bakery
.”

I should have listened
!

Flynn had driven from Ada to the Dallas-Fort
Worth airport and then flown to Las Vegas. He had checked into Caesar’s Palace, then checked into Casino Royale. He slept, ate, bought a lightweight suit, four shirts, some underwear, socks, a small suitcase, spent hours in his room reviewing the material sent him from N.N., called the Pittsburgh number with several Information Requests, ate and slept again.

The material sent him from N.N. included the names, ages, photos, Social Security numbers, and biographical sketches of everyone who had worked in Air Force Intelligence Section, anything to do with either East Frampton, Massachusetts, or Ada, Texas.

What are you people doing in Las Vegas, anyway
?