Ernest knew that he had to take charge of the situation. He knew his friend was a dim bulb who was unlikely to increase his wattage any time soon. Ernest never let a buddy down, especially not his best friend Buddy.

As he summed things up, Helena wanted Buddy for only two reasons: one, as the only man in the county impervious to her charms, he posed a challenge; and two, Helena’s parents considered him a completely unsuitable suitor.

Those two facts made Buddy irresistible to Big Daddy’s spoiled Baby Girl.

Ernest knew that the second fact was key.

“Facts can be changed,” he assured the older man. “Here’s my idea…”

TO BE CONTINUED…

“Not for sale,” Buddy sighed with relief. Apparently Big Daddy had not come to kill him. He wiped blood off his face with a bloody bandana. “Not for sale.”

Big Daddy was familiar with this bargaining tactic.

“Okay.” He pulled out his checkbook. “But really, how much?”

Buddy was bewildered but Ernest stepped in to help his friend.

“Really, he won’t sell it,” he told Big Daddy earnestly, “but that’s not really what you want, is it? You just need to solve a problem…”

Big Daddy turned a speculative eye on Ernest. He knew Ernest spoke his language, fluent money, and he recognized a devious intelligence not unlike his own.

The two men moved closer to the Caddy to talk while Buddy went back to his butchering.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Big Daddy had a plan.

He drove out to Two Bucks in the Caddy, with his checkbook in the inside pocket of his second-best blue blazer. No point in appearing overdressed.

As soon as the Caddy’s tires scraped the gravel lot, Buddy came out of the boxcar dripping with fresh doe’s blood. Big Daddy gulped, but he was made of sterner stuff than his delicate Baby Girl.

“How much?” he demanded, in lieu of a greeting.

Buddy was nonplussed. “How much what?”

“How much to buy your place?”

Big Daddy believed that money is the answer to any problem.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Helena sat on the pink satin duvet covering her four-poster canopy bed, weeping, melting her Maybelline Black-on-Black Mascara down from seductive Southern belle into horrifying Southern Gothic streaks.

Laura Mercy tried to console her, but consolation was not Laura’s strong point. She was actually trying to sneak a peek inside her galpal’s closet, checking for outfits she might borrow.  

“Well, Hel,” Laura crooned with unfocused concern, “he’s not the only fish in the field.”

“HE’S THE ONE I WANT!” howled Hel, stomping her foot in frustrated fury.

“A lifetime of indulgence and pampering leaves the Southern belle ill-equipped to cope with denial of desire,” Ja’Rasta jotted in her notebook on the dining room table.

TO BE CONTINUED…

                When Ernest finally missed a shot after sinking four striped balls he found out why Dollar Man went barefoot.

The tattooed thug slung his right leg up, placed his filthy foot on the edge of the pool table, held the cue stick with his right hand to guide it between his first two toes, and fired the 2-ball into the corner pocket.

                Ernest also found out that Dollar Man wore nothing under those baggy shorts.

                It was a strategy Ernest had not encountered before, and even his Zen brain could not unsee the appalling sight.

                An hour later the Corolla boomed away carrying Dollar Man and all of Ernest’s cash. He shook his head ruefully as he watched the one working tail light disappear.

                “The One-Armed Bandit,” he sighed in admiration. He considered the lesson well worth the cost.

Ernest was all about strategy.

TO BE CONTINUED….

                That was when The One-Armed Bandit showed up.

                A faded gray Toyota Corolla drove onto the lot, with a backseat full of speakers booming heavy bass. The car was decked out in what Ernest called Redneck Hip-Hop: chain link steering wheel and tag frame, spinner rims worth more than the car itself, a fringe of dusty purple fabric balls hanging from the headliner. The driver stepped out wearing only baggy cutoff jean shorts which coordinated nicely with his ballpoint-pen-blue prison tattoos. A heavy gold-plate chain with a big gold-plate dollar sign dangled among the sparse hairs on his naked, slightly sunken chest. He was barefoot.

                Instead of a left arm he sported an ugly but well-healed scar at the shoulder, tattooed with a skull and spiderwebs.

                “Yo!” he said to Ernest, making some incomprehensible sign with his right hand, “wassup?”

                “Hiya doin,” Ernest gave him his best Georgia-good-ole-boy welcome.

                The newcomer pulled a cue stick out of the Corolla. “I heard there were some hot shooters out here. You one of’em?” He pulled a blue cube out of his pocket and chalked his stick while he held it upright between his knees.

                “My name’s Ernest and yeah, I shoot a little pool,” he said diffidently. His coded warning had no visible effect.

                “You can call me Dollar Man,” the other said while racking the balls. “Dollar a game, just to make it interesting?”

                His own coded warning registered in Ernest’s brain, where a file labeled Arrogant Opponent opened, but elicited no response beyond a yawn.

                “Make it five dollars,” Ernest drawled, making the break shot and sinking two balls, “and I’ll call you The One-Armed Bandit.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

                Next Ernest scattered a few balls on the table and began practicing bank shots, striking each ball with the cue ball so that the target ball hit the opposite rail and ricocheted back into the pocket nearest Ernest.

                He hit shot after shot, pausing to watch each ball either make the pocket or not, shooting without consciously thinking about the shot. Zen billiards. Each shot, successful or not, fed information into his brain which was then processed and filed as muscle memory, ready to be deployed in a game situation.

                A difficult shot executed casually but successfully delivers a jolt of fear to an opponent’s brain. Ernest knew that the game was often won psychologically even while the 8-ball still lay on the table. When that happened, all that was left was the mopping up.

                Ernest was all about strategy.

TO BE CONTINUED…

                When Ernest got back to Two Bucks he found Buddy happily sleeping it off, still on the ground but now leaning against the stump.

                Perra was gone.

                Ernest let Buddy sleep.

                He racked up the balls on the pool table, broke, and played a game of 8-Ball against hisownself, right hand versus left hand. Left hand lost as usual, but not so far behind this time.

The solo game was Ernest’s way of harnessing his competitive energy to practice left-hand shots. As a result he was becoming a formidable both-hand player, an ability that gives an advantage both on the table and in the opponent’s mind: when a pool shooter suddenly and skillfully switches hands, the opponent’s brain reacts by perceiving the switch hitter as a better player overall… and from there the mental slide is all downhill. Once an internal acknowledgement of dominance is made, however briefly, there is a crack in one’s defenses where defeat can sneak in.

                Ernest was all about strategy.

TO BE CONTINUED…

                Ernest wanted to see where the deer was dropped before he drove his heavy truck across the immaculate Front Lawn, so he walked around the Big House to the Back Garden (Big Daddy loved capital letters; he thought they added a touch of Elegance and had engraved brass plaques placed all around the place which labeled everything in such florid letters that nobody could read them except Ja’Rasta who held an undergraduate degree in Linguistics).

                As he came around the corner of the house Hel and Ja stepped out through the sliding glass doors onto the Terrace (which is aristocracy code for “patio”).

                “Where’s he at?” asked Ernest, rolling up his sleeves and setting his UGA Dawgs cap on a rickety white wrought-iron table.

                “Ja’s boyfriend already came and got it,” said Hel, “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry…” she handed the cap to him.

                “Hey Ja’Rasta,” said Ernest, putting his cap back on, “How your mom and them?” He’d known Ja since elementary school. She gave him his first joint, years ago, pinched from her parents’ sacramental stash.

                “Fair to middlin’, Ernest, you know, just getting’ old,” laughed Ja.

                Ernest stood for a moment, brow wrinkled. Then he turned to leave. “Let me know if you need anything else, Hel.”

                “Okay.” Hel and Ja went back in through the sliding glass doors.

                Ernest drove away, deep in thought.

TO BE CONTINUED…

When the Camaro drove onto the circular flagstone driveway in front of the Big House Ernest’s Silverado was just coming through the brick Front Gates. Hel ran in through the front door, looking for the maid.

                Ja’Rasta was in the Dining Room shining the family silver, a task that all Southern maids turn to when nothing else needs to be done, a task which is never finished as the first piece polished immediately begins to tarnish even as the second piece receives its rubs.

                The dark-skinned African American with a Masters degree in Fine Arts from Columbia University had come back south to care for her elderly parents. There were no jobs requiring MFAs in the County so Ja’Rasta gathered material for her first novel while working as a maid at the Big House. The pay was decent, the food was excellent, and the opportunities to observe genuine white Southern dinosaurs in their natural habitat made the tedious work worthwhile.

                Ja’Rasta perked up her ears when Hel burst into the Dining Room.

                “Ja, ya gotta help me,” panted Hel, “here’s the deal: I told Buddy I’d shot a deer in the Back Garden because I thought he’d come help me move it but Ernest came instead and there’s no deer and they’ll know I lied unless you lie for me, Ja, please tell’im your boyfriend came and took the deer away, please Ja, help me!”

                Ja’Rasta gazed at the young white missus calmly, and not without affection. “What’s in it for me?” she asked.

                Hel didn’t bat an eye. She and Ja saw eye to eye on many subjects including money. “Five hundred dollars,” she offered. “Cold cash, small unmarked bills.”

                Ja’Rasta laughed.

                “If I had a boyfriend,” she smiled ironically as she rose to her full queenly height, “I’m sure he’d love venison.”

TO BE CONTINUED…