My thanks to Omegapet-58 for the beta read and suggestions.

Four Days Ago

Perry “Plaid Jacket” Jackson (known to friends and family as PJ) looked appraisingly at his car lot (Plaid Jacket Jackson’s Superior Cars and Trucks) from the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street in front of his dealership. PJ was constantly moving inventory around the lot and playing with different looks. You had to keep the place looking fresh and inviting. As the owner of the largest independent car dealership in Central Texas, PJ had an obligation to his customers and his community to present a positive image. He had learned that from his father, the previous Plaid Jacket Jackson.

PJ knew there were serious cracks in the foundation of his life and that those cracks would have to be dealt with sooner rather than later. PJ hated change as much as the next person and the thought of the changes that he was contemplating making, left him feeling unsettled and morose; two feelings to which he was unaccustomed. To take his mind off the tempest forming on the horizon, PJ reorganized the front sales lot.

Plaid Jacket Jackson’s Superior Cars and Trucks was founded in the late ‘60s by PJ’s grandfather, Peter. After spending a few years trying (and failing) to win over the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people as part of Special Forces A-Team, Peter, had found himself back home in Jackson City, Texas, flush with cash and a limp in his left leg, courtesy of a 7.62mm round from an AK47.

Jackson City was located in Jackson County, about an hour’s drive northwest of Austin, Texas. Founded by PJ’s ancestor, Jeremiah “Buckskin Jacket” Jackson in the 1830s Jackson City had grown into a sleepy little village. Peter had looked around and had seen the future and had decided that, although Jackson City was a sleepy little village now, that would not always be the case. As Austin spread due to the University of Texas and the fact that Austin was the state capital, there would come a time when Jackson City would grow exponentially. Peter had to find a business that would grow as well. He knew cars and he knew killing, and although you could make a living with either one, he figured selling cars was the safer, smarter long-term play. So, he bought an existing car lot; a small dirt lot with “we tote-the-note” and “buy here, pay here” signs in abundance.

Peter’s first upgrade was paving the lot so it was no longer a dirt lot. Peter’s second upgrade was hiring Lara Pulver as a full-time salesman, although she kept referring to herself as a salesperson. Lara was a gorgeous strawberry blonde with long legs and a high, firm bustline. A recent graduate of UT, she was unsure about what she wanted out of life. Although she had taken education classes at UT to become a school teacher, the more time she spent around kids as a student teacher, the less the idea of teaching appealed to her. What she never imagined was that she would be selling used cars. What she imagined even less was that she would marry the owner of a used car lot. Peter was six years older than Lara with a whole lifetime worth of cynicism after his time in Vietnam. But she brought out the absolute best in him and he loved her like he didn’t believe it was possible to love someone else. They were a formidable team.

As time went on, Peter and Lara had a son, a boy they named Philip, followed by a daughter they named Penny. As Philip and Penny grew, so did Jackson City. Art galleries and cafes had sprouted as people discovered Jackson City and it was quickly becoming a bedroom community for the Texas state capital. As Jackson City grew, the car lot did not quite keep pace. Peter knew that although car sales were good, they should have been better.

Peter’s father, Thomas, known as “Field Jacket” Jackson had been an infantry officer during WWII. He had seen action all over Europe and had come back to America with a chest full of medals and a German war bride. There is a strong Germanic culture and influence in Central Texas, so Bette Jackson was made to feel at home in her new land. Both children, Philip and Penny bore their mother’s blonde hair and Germanic looks.

Peter eventually came to realize that working harder at the dealership was not getting him anywhere so he asked his father to meet with him to see if he had any ideas. They met at the Jackson County Country Club, where Field Jacket was not only a member but one of the directors.

Peter explained the situation and asked his father if he had any ideas about how to increase business. Thomas thought for a minute as he leaned back and sipped on his bourbon.

“Take a look around you, son. These are your potential customers. What do you see? Why would they drive to your dealership instead of another one? What would bring them in to see you?”

Peter had looked around the dining room. At that time, coats and ties were still required in the dining rooms of private clubs. It was the seventies and garish plaids and loud colors were the rule rather than the exception, when it came to men’s suits and sport coats; especially at a golf country club. It also seemed to Peter that most of the clothes worn by the members of the country club were made from some sort of petroleum by-product instead of natural fibers. As Peter looked around the dining room, he had a flash of inspiration. He knew what Jacket to wear.

“You’ve given me an idea, Dad,” Peter said. “I’ll let you know how it pans out.”

And Plaid Jacket Jackson’s Superior Cars and Trucks was born. Taking a cue from a character named Herb Tarlek on a popular 1970s sitcom who claimed he purchased his clothes at a golf pro shop in Lexington, Kentucky, Peter soon began garishly dressing as a caricature of a used car salesman. Using himself in the ads and marketing and wearing the most outlandish sport coats he could find; Plaid Jacket Jackson became an icon in Central Texas. His commercials were funny and ridiculous. Peter was not afraid to poke fun at himself and refused to take himself or his commercials seriously.

And business exploded.

As his son Philip got older and began to take an interest in the business, Peter began to get sick. It wasn’t long before he found out the cause of his sickness. The limp wasn’t the only thing he brought back from Vietnam; Peter had been exposed to Agent Orange while in-country. As Peter became sicker, he began to turn the business over to Philip who with his mother, Lara’s assistance was able to carry on with business as usual and without missing a step.

Penny married during her senior year in high school after being impregnated by her boyfriend, a starting linebacker for the Jackson City High School Jaguars named Brett who also happened to be her fourth cousin. After five years of marriage and a six-year break between kids, they would go on to have a total of three children before Penny’s husband left to pick up a six-pack of beer, never to return. Penny barely noticed that her husband was gone, and truthfully, the only person who did miss him was his father Tig Jacket Jackson, and that was only because Brett was a genius at laying down a bead weld in the family-owned machine shop.

Philip was also married by then, with two small children while also trying to manage a car dealership. Philip had married a local girl, Wendy Taylor. Her pretty, girl-next-girl looks and ability to reflect back to people how she wanted them to perceive her, hid a narcissistic personality with an overpowering need to seek approval from men.

Wendy had left her position as an English teacher at Jeremiah Jackson Junior High when their first child was born; first, a girl they (at Wendy’s insistence) named Candee followed three years later by a son they named Perry, who they called PJ. Wendy had instilled a love of literature in her son PJ, but her daughter had received her restlessness and eyes that would glance and linger a second too long on men who would then be drawn to her as moths to a flame.

Philip discovered his wife Wendy’s fourth affair on the same day that his father, Peter succumbed to the cancer wrought by Agent Orange. He had tried; God knows he had tried to help her work through her demons, but this was too much. Sharkskin Jacket Jackson had prepared divorce papers after Wendy’s third affair, so she was served with divorce papers the day after Peter’s funeral—a funeral from which she was banned.

Wendy’s attorney was generally considered to be the second-best divorce lawyer in Texas; the best divorce lawyer was Daniel “Sharkskin Jacket” Jackson of the law firm of Bonham, McLeod, and Garcia in Austin. B-Mc-G was not only the oldest law firm in Texas; it was the most respected and Sharkskin Jacket Jackson was the head of their family law department, in addition to being a Jackson.

Peter had put the dealership and the family farm into a trust so neither was considered in the divorce of Philip. Wendy walked away with what she brought into the marriage, plus the house in which she and Philip lived. She also got the mortgage on the house, an award for which she expressed anger and bitterness rather than gratitude for not being homeless. Assuming the mortgage meant refinancing the loan in her name only, which meant getting a job; yet another grievance that Wendy held against her ex-husband. She was rehired to teach English at Jeremiah Jackson Middle School and settled into a life of bitterness and promiscuity.

When asked by the judge, PJ said that he wanted to live with his father. His sister, Candee, older than PJ by three years, chose to live with her mother and would have very little to do with her brother or her father from that point on. She witnessed first-hand the parade of men through her mother’s bedroom and after her eighteenth birthday, it was not unusual for the headboards of both mother and daughter to be banging against the walls of their bedroom in cadence.

It could have been anyone on a long list of felons, convicts, bartenders, muffler installers, and mechanics whose sperm slipped by Candee’s overworked and underpowered IUD, who suddenly found herself pregnant. Candee thought that she could use the pregnancy to trap Raiford Mahl into marrying her. Raiford was the tall, handsome, former star tight-end of the Jackson High School Jaguars. Raiford was also the oldest son of a family of criminals, each named after a correctional facility. Raiford was a car thief, who shortly after the birth of Candee’s son Billy, was sentenced to ten years for running a chop shop. It would not be the first such sentence for Raiford.

To Philip’s consternation, his son PJ evinced little interest in working at a car dealership. He had inherited a love of reading from his mother and could usually be found at either the Jackson County Public Library or in his room reading a book. He took AP English in high school which led him to major in Literary Studies at the University of Texas followed by graduate school for an M.F.A., and then ultimately, his Ph.D. where he wrote his doctoral dissertation on “The Feminist Misogynist: Re-thinking Hemingway’s Approach to Hetero-normal Relationships.” PJ often chuckled to himself at the process of obtaining his doctorate. The batshit crazy liberals at UT Austin loved his theses. As the author, he thought his dissertation was absolute bullshit, akin to writing a nonsense rock song that inexplicably goes to number one on the charts. But it got him a doctorate and a job teaching Lit at Central Texas State University, where his biggest concern was whether or not he would make his one-o’clock tee time.

During PJ’s third year of teaching, Philip (now known as Plaid Jacket since the demise of his father, Peter) suffered a stroke after lipping a ten-inch putt on the eighth hole at Jackson County Country Club. At first, his golf buddies thought that Philip was joking around about missing a gimme putt, but the laughter soon turned to panic as he fell face-first onto the well-manicured Bermuda green.

PJ took a leave of absence from CTSU to assist with his father’s care and the management of the dealership, a task for which he was woefully unprepared. Candee had shown little concern about her father’s health and Wendy, his ex-wife had stated that she hoped he died sooner rather than later. It soon became evident that his father would not be returning to the dealership anytime soon, if ever. PJ had to give himself a crash course in running the dealership and with the help of his grandmother, Lara, was able to take over management of the car lot. Lara had not missed a step since her days of working at the car lot full-time with her late husband, Peter. She still read trade magazines and newsletters and kept up with the latest technology. Between the two of them, PJ and his grandmother made an effective management team as it began to dawn on PJ that his father might never come back to working full time. Although his father slowly began to recover, it was obvious that he would never again be able to wear the plaid jacket. PJ resigned from his position on the faculty of CTSU and became the third Plaid Jacket Jackson in the dealership’s history.

It was on a day when PJ shot a 93- his worst score ever- at the Johnson County Country Club when he met a beautiful red-haired coed in the club’s dining room. He was smitten immediately and she seemed to be smitten with him as well. Carol Dunbar was born and raised on a hardscrabble farm outside of Stamps, Arkansas. Her mother had run away with a farm implement salesman named Burton “Red” Fisher and had left her dirt-poor farmer husband to raise Carol and her equally red-haired brother by himself. Neither one of Carol’s parents possessed the gene for red hair.

At a slim 5’4’ and 115 pounds, Carol had been a cheerleader and star volleyball player in high school. She was good enough that she was offered a scholarship to play for both Texas and Arkansas. She wanted to get as far from Arkansas as possible, so Austin it was. Carol was working as a server in the dining room at JCCC and her vivacious, fun-loving personality immediately drew PJ to her. It was not long before they were dating exclusively.

PJ and Carol were married within a year of her graduating from college and she was immediately hired to teach English at Jackson City High School. PJ’s father, Philip was not a fan of Carol, but PJ could not be dissuaded. Philip had thought about demanding that Carol sign a prenup before the marriage, but upon consulting with Sharkskin Jacket, had decided that the trust sufficiently protected the family assets.

PJ was standing in front of his dealership when a rental car entered the lot, parked, and a tall, lithe, auburn-haired beauty exited the driver’s side. She was dressed in jeans, a navy Ralph Lauren Polo t-shirt, and Tory Burch flats. PJ had never before seen the woman in town so strolled over to introduce himself and welcome her to Plaid Jacket Jackson’s Superior Cars and Trucks.

“Hi, welcome to Plaid Jacket Jackson’s. I’m PJ, the owner. I don’t believe I’ve seen you around town.”

“This is my first time in Jackson City. I have a job interview tomorrow and I’m checking out your town. It’s charming.”

“Most of it,” said PJ, as thoughts of his wife and their problems came unbidden to him. “We have a great downtown and with the Colorado River flowing right past the edge of downtown, there’s a lot of restaurants and galleries in the area. It’s a pretty cool place to live. Who are you interviewing with, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. It’s with the county school board.”

PJ nodded his head at hearing that. “I knew that they had one more interview scheduled before they made up their mind so that must be you. I’m on the City Council and I’m a county commissioner so I hear things,” PJ explained.

“I’m Róisín Baker,” she said as she gave PJ a firm handshake, pronouncing her name as Ro-sheen.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone with that name,” PJ said. Róisín’s makeup was lightly and tastefully applied. She was stunningly attractive with green eyes offset by her auburn hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose. She appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties.

“And by the grace of God you never will again,” she laughed. “It’s an awful name to burden a child with when you live anywhere other than Ireland. Please call me Rose.”

“Perry Jackson, known as PJ.”

“Ahh ... Jackson ... I get it now. Your family is the Jackson in Jackson City and Jackson County?” she asked.

PJ acknowledged her question affirmatively as they chatted about the town as he walked Róisín around the car lot. She explained that she was currently one of the assistant superintendents of schools for the Chicago School District and since she both lived and worked downtown, did not own a car. She was browsing car lots to see what was available along with the prices since she had not owned a car in several years.

PJ, well aware of the school superintendent position’s salary was leading her toward the BMWs and Mercedes’ when she changed course and headed toward a Lincoln SUV.

“If I ever decide that I’m not spending enough of my salary on car repair and maintenance then I’ll look at some of that over-engineered German crap,” she said.

PJ looked at her gobsmacked. In his experience, every woman wanted to be seen in a high-end German car, not some American SUV, even if it was a Lincoln. His wife, Carol had insisted that he find a Porsche Cayenne for her.

“My father came to the US right out of Trinity College in Dublin with a degree in mechanical engineering in one hand and a job offer from Ford in the other,” she explained. “He worked at Ford Main in Dearborn for thirty years before retiring to an over 55 golf community outside of Dallas. That’s another reason I’m interviewing here; it would be a four-hour drive to see my folks at Franklin Farm. Even if I didn’t hate flying, lugging your suitcase to the Blue Line, then taking the train to O’Hare, then security, and then sitting around waiting to board...” She had shaken her head at the thought. A four-hour drive was an ideal buffer for parents.

As they were walking back to her rental, PJ told her about her competition for the job and some of the issues that would be facing the new school superintendent. “The leading candidate is Elmer Hudson. He’s the principal of the high school but he’s been filling in at the Super’s position since Ben Fowler, the previous Super, retired. Elmer seems to be doing a decent job and he has a few friends on the school board. My wife, Carol, has been acting principal at the high school while Elmer fills in as superintendent. The school board hasn’t been too impressed with anyone they’ve interviewed so far.”

“You’re saying I’m probably wasting my time even interviewing.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I have a feeling that some changes are on the horizon. The school board has called a public meeting in a few days so that (acting) school superintendent Hudson can address the town about some proposed changes to school policy. I’m pretty sure these changes or going to affect a lot of people. Go to the interview and knock their socks off. You just never know what’s going to happen in life.”

Rose said that she would let him know how the interview went before she left town. PJ stared wistfully as she exited the parking lot in her rental. He had felt something and wondered if she had felt it as well. He sighed and turned to see what changes he could make to freshen up the car lot.

As PJ looked at the selection of convertibles, trying to decide if they should be moved to the front of the sales lot, his nephew, Billy approached him.

“Hey, PJ. I’ve looked over that auction Corvette and you got it for a steal. It doesn’t need anything except an oil change. I’m going to have Benny change it and then I told him he could knock off for the day. It’s his anniversary and I told him to take the rest of the day and tomorrow off to spend with Anita.”

“Whatever you think’s best, Billy. You’re in charge back there.”

PJ smiled inwardly as he thought of Billy being in charge. It seemed like it was yesterday when his sister, Candee approached him about a job for her ex-con son. He had not spoken a word to Candee in months, and her first words to him were a demand that he give her son a job.

Twenty-Four Months Ago:

“Do you have a job for him or not? He needs something to keep him busy until he goes to prison.”

PJ looked at his sister in surprise. “He’s going back to prison? I thought he just got out.” A couple of weeks after he graduated high school, his nephew Billy had been busted with weed in his car. Although Billy denied the baggie was his, the DA charged Billy with possession with intent to distribute. It was a horse-shit charge and PJ believed Billy’s defense: the weed belonged to someone else. However, the prosecutor was a spurned ex-lover of Wendy Jackson, Billy’s grandmother, and chose to punish her by sending her grandson to jail. The DA should have chosen as his revenge target something that Wendy actually gave two shits about; she didn’t even bother to appear at Billy’s trial.

Candee looked at her son in disgust. Average height and thin, with blonde hair just starting to grow out after his prison buzzcut, he was sitting with his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His arms were crossed across his chest and he stared morosely at the floor.

“The little fuck up will do something to get arrested again and get himself thrown back in prison. He can’t help himself. He’s just like his father, and I don’t care what that asshole Raiford Mahl says; he’s Billy’s daddy.”

“What do you want to do, Billy? PJ asked. “I can use another mechanic if you’re interested. Buddy Hawkins is getting too old to stay hunched over a car engine for any length of time. He’s been working part-time in sales for the last couple of months and wants to move out of the shop and into sales full-time next year. I’m willing to give you a shot if you think you’re up to it.”

Billy shrugged his shoulder. “I guess,” he said with little enthusiasm for the idea.

“You have to ask me, Billy. I’m not going to beg you to work for me. I expect a full day’s work and I’ll pay you a decent wage. But you have to ask me for the job. If you’re not man enough to ask me for a job, then I have no use for you.” PJ stood to signal the meeting was over, as Candee looked angrily at first her brother, and then her son, the little fuck up.

Billy looked up at PJ with a hint of anger. It was the most emotion from Billy that PJ could remember seeing.

“Fine,” Billy snapped. “Can I please have a job?”

“Sure thing Billy,” PJ replied cheerfully. “Be at the service department at 8:00 AM tomorrow. I’ll have Buddy Hawkins show you the ropes.”

Billy’s first day of work went exactly as PJ expected. He was an angry young man who had just been released from prison after serving eighteen months for a crime for which he was probably innocent. He was sullen and any time Buddy gave him directions Billy either ignored him or performed the actions at a snail’s pace.

PJ called Buddy into his office at the end of the day and poured a bourbon for each of them.

“Tell me the truth, Buddy, is he going to be worth a shit? If he has potential and you can work with him, I’d like to give him a fair shake. But if you think he’s a lost cause, I’ll cut him loose and deal with my sister.”

Buddy took a large gulp of his bourbon and relished the burn as it went down his throat. “I know some of the kid’s story. Raised by a shitty mom and even worse grandmother and mostly ignored or yelled at for being male. No self-confidence and bullied all through school ... On top of that, he was sentenced to two years for possession of weed that probably belonged to one of those asshats he hung around with. By the way, no offense meant about your sister and mom.”

PJ waved away the apology; there was no offense to be taken if anyone talked bad about his sister or mother. Billy’s mother, Candee, was a shitty mom and his grandmother, Wendy was an even shittier grandmother. Billy had barely graduated from high school, and almost immediately upon graduating, had been arrested for possession with intent. It was only a small amount of weed, so the punishment could have been worse but still, Billy was sentenced to two years at the Ellis unit of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. PJ viewed it as an opportunity for Billy to get his act together. Candee Jackson (who PJ privately thought of as “Whore Jacket” Jackson) viewed the sentence as an opportunity for Billy to spend some quality time with his daddy (or at least one of the candidates) who was also being housed by the TDCJ.

As it turned out, Raiford Mahl had little interest in spending any time with someone who may or may not be his whelp. Raiford knew that in addition to himself, there was also a good possibility that the kid’s daddy could be any one of his brothers; Angola, Joliet, or Brushy Mountain Mahl. Hell, as far as that goes, throw their daddy Alcatraz Mahl into the mix too. Candee Jackson, for all her family’s history in Jackson County, was as much of a Texas dirty leg as her mother. It was not until Raiford saw the hapless Billy wandering about the yard with his oversized prison-issued slip-on tennis shoes flapping around like clown shoes, that he decided to stick his oar in the water. Maybe Billy was his kid, maybe he wasn’t, but in either case, he wasn’t going to let the kid be some asshole inmate’s June Bug.

When Raiford observed another inmate chin-check Billy by punching him in the jaw to see if he would fight, Raiford sent his cellmate to fetch the boy over.

Under Raiford’s protection, Billy was not beaten, sodomized, or otherwise assaulted during his two-year term (which turned into eighteen months with six months off for good behavior.) Raiford had even called in a couple of markers and got Billy into classes for automotive repair; a much more marketable skill than either high-volume institutional cooking or high-volume institutional laundering.

Although they never bonded in the way that Candee hoped, Raiford adopted an almost paternalistic attitude toward Billy. The shy, naïve young man was protected and never developed the hardened shell and deeply rooted cynicism that was the inevitable result of doing time.

“I think at heart he’s a good kid,” Buddy continued, “I’ll work with him and keep you in the loop about his progress. I don’t want a fuck up in the shop any more than you do.”

PJ nodded at Buddy’s assessment. “Thanks, Buddy. Keep an eye on him. The poor kid had been crapped on all his life and Candee would throw a shit-fit if I tried to do anything for him while he was growing up. Now, she comes to me as a last resort.” PJ shook his head at the thought of his sister. They were almost complete strangers.

“Absolutely not,” Carol said. “I am not going to have that convict living over our garage.”

PJ had broached the idea of Billy moving into the loft space over their garage. The farm had a two-car attached garage but it also had a three-car detached garage which contained PJ’s workshop and exercise equipment. PJ had converted the space above the garage into an apartment a couple of years ago with the idea that once they had children, it would provide additional space for holiday guests.

“Billy’s a good kid. He’s starting to settle in at the shop and now that he’s got a steady income, Candee and his grandmother want to start charging him rent. They’re trying to take advantage of him and I’m trying to help him.” This was a hill that PJ was willing to die on. The Jackson family also owned a house on the edge of downtown in which Philip lived with his second wife; a pretty widow of Mexican heritage named Bonita, who had been Philip’s physical therapist after his stroke.

Carol threw up her hands. “You do what you want; you’re going to anyway. Just don’t expect me to welcome the little jailbird with open arms.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Buddy said. They were once again sitting in PJ’s office sipping on tumblers of bourbon.

“Tell me the whole story,” PJ said.

“Well, you know that old Jeep Cherokee that Donnie Slater dropped off to see if we could fix?”

PJ wagged his hand. He was vaguely familiar with the story but could not remember the specifics.

“Donnie bought that Jeep off your grandfather about thirty years ago, so it’s seen some hard use. Donnie complained that it would stall out at intermittent times. Donnie has had six shops look at it, including the Jeep dealer in Austin but no one could find the problem. Every shop could duplicate the complaint once or twice, but the damned thing always started right back up. No one could figure it out, including me.” Buddy took a sip from his bourbon and leaned back in the visitor’s chair in PJ’s office with a self-satisfied smirk. “It took your nephew all of two minutes to diagnose the problem.”

“Which was...” PJ prompted.

“Donnie had replaced the battery himself a few months ago. AutoZone was out of the correct battery, but they gave him one that they said was the same length and width as his old one. And it was. The problem is, that it was about an inch and a half taller. That wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem except that ol’ Donnie also has a busted left-side motor mount along with the hood insulation being worn through in a few places. When Donnie would hit the accelerator, the engine would rock up, causing the battery posts to come into contact with the steel hood, causing the computer to shut down.”