The New York by Bill Branger

didn’t hold out his hand while I settled my bones on a straight chair in his office. He just sat there, belly sprawled out in that squeaky swivel chair, going back and forth. On the walls, he had a picture of himself with former governor Anne Richards and another with present governor Jeb Bush. I wonder if he switched them around depending on whether he was selling a Republican or a yellow dog Democrat.
    â€œI had me some bidness to clean up in New York,” I said I said “bid-ness” because Jack likes to think talking funny is a sign of sincerity. If he was from Georgia, you wouldn’t have been able to understand a word he said because Georgia people are hanging in there with their accents, no matter how much television they watch. Texas does yawls and all, but every passing year, another kid loses his critters and druthers. We all are going to end up talking like they do in Omaha on the 800 telephone line.
    â€œYou all ready to start, Ry?”
    â€œWell, Jack, that’s it. I got me a contract for another year.”
    â€œIs that a fact? Seen in the
Chronicle
it was, that your crazy Jew boss in New York is gonna dismantle the team. How come is it he isn’t dismantling you ‘long with those others?”
    â€œNot a Jew, Bremenhaven,” I said. “German.”
    â€œSame difference,” said Jack Wade. “Why is that? I mean, you getting a new contract? I thought you thought you was at the end of the trail, pard-ner.”
    â€œTurns out I wasn’t,” I said. I might owe explanations to Charlene, but I’d be goddamned if I would owe one to Jack Wade.
    â€œWell.” He cleared his throat. “Just as well, pardner. Just as well. I don’t think I could’ve used you now,”
    That went through me like a butcher knife in a watermelon. I said, “Why’s that?”
    â€œI didn’t know about your tax problem,” Jack said, leaning back in his swivel chair.
    â€œI got no tax problem “
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou got no tax problem.”
    â€œWhy you think I got a tax problem?”
    â€œWhy I think that is that when the tax man come by a day ago and sat down with me and we close the door, the Yankee son of a bitch I thought was looking me over was looking you over. He wanted to know what I paid you last winter both over and under the counter and that the gummint appreciated my cooperation. Then he toF me not to tell no one, just keep it under my hat.”
    â€œLike you’re doing,” I said.
    â€œWell, shit, it’s a free country. Besides, he shook me up so much I was over at Ernie’s before noon and Ernie says that when the gummint comes lookin’ for someone, you best not have nothin’ to do with that someone. And besides, you never did call me from New York City, I don’t know what you been doin’ up there. And then I seen Charlene on Post Street and tol’ her about the gummint and you and your tax trouble and she just buttoned up like she was frozen and walked away. I offered to buy her a drink for old times.”
    â€œAnd she didn’t take it.”
    â€œNot that I recall,” Jack said. It was as certain as Jack ever is about what happens in late afternoon, let alone at night.
    â€œWell, Jack, I’ll tell you one thing. I ain’t got no tax problem with the gummint,”
    â€œLet me give you a word of advice, Ryan. If the gummint says you got a tax problem with them, you got a problem.”
    â€œI ain’t.”
    â€œI don’t care,” Jack said. “I just don’t want to get involved in it. I got a bidness to run and I can’t have a baseball player as my P.R. man who is wanted for fraud or something by the U.S. gummint. It might attract a certain clientele but it would drive just as many away.”
    When I left Jack, I didn’t even say good-bye. I was plain mad — angry — and