Curtis was strumming his electric guitar softly and murmuring a blues like song, without words that could be distinguished, seeming to sing to himself in his own language. The Crown Vic stopped, idling off to the side of the road next to the rec center, Turner’s Station off to the right beyond that, the gas station behind them, a convenience across Sollers to the left, and straight ahead, Waters Edge, a dead end for this car as far as he knew.

The Major spoke without turning, “Curtis, where do I find my dark Yankee?”

Curtis spoke clearly, “Ahead, down da turn ‘roun at Bullneck Road, juz beyon da laz stop, ‘fore da pier, dere a basketball court. ‘Least one ov dem hoppers from Turners ‘ill be over dere shootin’ hoops wit dem whideboys. Only problem is dey won’ be no fat nigga, but slim hoppers, quick ta run.”

“Basketball?” wondered the Major.

The Sergeant answered, “An idle pursuit, a game in which a rubber balls is bounced and then thrown into a hoop, mostly in a womanly fashion.”

The Major sneered, “A thieves’ game aye. Curtis, I will talk to the whites and you will comfort the Negroes, with an eye on he who you reckon has the most lively mind.”

“Sir,” objected Curtis, “you sayin’ you loogin’ fo a smart nigga?”

“Yes, Curtis, I am, and you will fix him for me with a nod of your head. Star, what ever buck Curtis nods to as a likely one, you will catch and hold for me.”

“Yes Sir, and to the car?”

The Major was warmly serious, “When we crawl from this danged buggy, we will leave it. When we do so, Nat, pass our duds and gear to Sergeant Crook, who shall stand by. Curtis, keep to that brick guitar, I find it to my liking, like steely song.”

Crook put the car in drive and the white Crown Vic, which Nat would miss if not for the dead men in the trunk, crept quietly down the road towards its end.

…

Water’s Edge Park was a lovely scene. A small, low, old looking sailboat was anchored out in Bear Creek beyond the pier. Crook, his hands full of old time bad ass gear, seemed relived that it was there. The lower span of the Key Bridge arched out into the distance, like a great steel and concrete monster. Crook whistled and nodded to Nat, “The main span of that feat of civic engineering comes down end of March, 2024. A cargo ship accident...so they will say.”

Curtis, slinging his guitar and looking at the bridge, quipped, “Big brain crackers don’ know shid!”

Nat gawked and Crook assured him, “Now, Son, that you are a timejacker, you will be privy, as one of our illustrious fraternity, to all manner of cool and not entirely useless knowledge.”

Curtis, sparing a hard glare at the four men playing basketball on the court to their left, as if they had done him some harm, asked, “If y’all master mines cain’ build a bridge dat lasts, how y’all bridge God’s good time?”

Crook winked at Curtis and Nat, then nodded to the Major, who was beginning to stride towards the court and said, “By following Major Shayne Pitt to the very gates of Babble for a look see at Jacob’s Ladder! On me, Men.”

The man had such comic effect in his visage, and such a serious cadence to his step, that Curtis was knocked the rest of the way out of his pimp persona, shook his head, grinned, and began to strut along next to Nat behind Crook, “Boy, we walkin’ inta somb bad shid grinnin’!”

Nat had his Sergeant’s empty .45 in his waste band. Curtis had his guitar slung, Crook carrying a stack of clothes and six guns, all trailing the Major, his long arms swung from too broad shoulders, his looted uniform split now in the seat and across the shoulders, his long viking hair in part caught in the torn jacket.

‘Is my dream fabric beginning to tear like that suit? Are there really dead bodies in the trunk of the car behind me? Will I wake soon?’

The four basketball players stopped and regarded them as the line walked to the gap in the fence onto the asphalt pen.

The ball stopped bouncing.

Before the gate the Major stopped and tore his jacket off in frustration, stopping, before casting it in the grass, then hung it with some mild reverence in his manner.

The men on the lot were two skinny black fellas from Turners and two big white boys from Waters Edge.

Crook stopped at the gate and stepped aside, saluting the Major with one hand as the stack of gear quivered in the other, “Company Halt! Officer on Deck. At attention!”

Crook said this winking at Nat, nodding for him to get to the gate. Nat got to the gate and Curtis circled around the fence, wolfing in a gravel tone voice, “Long ways from Turner’s aincha, hoppers?”

The Major, stood, cracked his knuckles, spat and nodded to Curtis, “Cut me out a likely buck.”

The taller of the two blacks said, “What da fuck?!”

The shorter cursed Curtis, “Ole ass, funky bitch—ged on back ta yo bus stop!”

Curtis sneered, “Dat any way ta rap ta yo daddy? Ha baby nigga—we gotz a reckonin’ up in here!”

Looking at the Major the big white boy with the ball, perhaps a college quarterback, bounced the ball and threw it at the Major’s face, a vicious nose breaking liner. The Major caught the ball in one open hand, like a claw machine, then tossed it back to Nat, who caught it in both hands.

The Major was now stripping off the dress shirt which had torn under the jacket, perhaps from snapping the Army major’s neck in the trunk. The tall black guy was terrified. The smarter white guy spoke up, kind of worried for such a big buff young man—definately both college athletes, “Sir, did you want to play? Have we insulted you in some way?”

The Major spat as he cast off his shirt to stand in his wife beater, “No offense tendered or taken. I simply came for what is rightfully mine.”

The bigger white boy grew angry and stalked forward, “And that would be?”

The Major opened one big hand towards Curtis and the shorter, smarter black guy, “Your niցցers have insulted my niցցer, who is an elder of his kind.”

The bigger white boy’s eyes bugged as the smarter one, probably the corner back, blurted, “What kind of racist bullshit is that?”

The Major sighed, “Son, you seem a gentlemanly, well-heeled sort of Yankee. Direct your best buck, whichever be the most likely and lively of mind, to accompany Curtis, who, whatever might be said about his manner and attire, is a good niցցer, and the affair shall be settled.”

Continued in Buck Jones: #5.B Nat Star—Timejacker!