In a world gone rotten – murder, honeysuckle, and anklets that lead to oblivion – there is Mr. Jackson. While everyone else is doing their level best to get out of this life a little more than they put in, Mr. Jackson, by all appearances, is the only one devoted to sheer pleasure. While others plot, scheme, and conduct joyless affairs, Jackson is all smiles. He’s got a life to live, and he’s going to do everything possible to reach for the stars. If it’s on someone else’s dime, so much the better. You see, Jackson is from Medford. Medford, Oregon. If they say it, they mean it. And if they mean it, they’ll swear to it. Even if they take a little time to make up their minds.
It’s not easy standing out in a film that flirts with – and nails – perfection every waking second the reels turn, but Porter Hall’s Mr. Jackson does just that. His is but a whisper in an otherwise roaring fire, but so much turns on his appearance. You see, Mr. Jackson was on that train. You know the one. The one-way ticket to nowhere, with a body on the tracks for good measure. As far as the insurance company is concerned, Mr. Jackson is the last one to have seen the dearly departed Mr. Dietrichson alive, and he had a clear view – up close and personal, like – even if it was dark as the devil on the smoking deck. Jackson swears it was a much younger man he saw, but how can he be sure? Testify in court? You bet. Anything you need. Just keep reimbursing my receipts from petty cash.
During Jackson’s visit with Keyes, Neff, and the entire weight of an industry groomed to divide and deny, he is all pluck. It’s the Medford way. Shooting straight, with an eye on candor. But we’re a long way from Medford. City of Angels and all that. Medford fills his cup, but times are tight. Even worse, so are the broads. Takes a big city to work out the kinks. After all, a man needs to relax. Stretch a bit. See the type of lady that long ago left Medford for greener pastures. We’ll call her an osteopath, but that’s just in case the big guy upstairs is listening. Euphemisms by the bushel, because there’s a war on.
Once the subject is broached, Keyes doesn’t need a road map. He’s been at this too long. He can wax poetic on any manner of suicide like he’s reciting his autobiography, so mere winking and nodding isn’t about to trip him up. “Well,” he sighs, with the hard-won wisdom of a cynic, “Just don’t put her on the expense account.” Her. Jackson never stated as much, but why traffic in the superfluous? Keyes has heard a million and one such evasions: therapist, masseuse, cracker of back. Now osteopath? An outlet by any other name. A vacation from the wife. Any port in a storm, uniquely afflicting the male of the species. Your secret is safe with me, but good god, let’s not make Pacific All Risk take the hit.
Sadly, inevitably, everything crashes down, and Jackson’s eyes and ears aren’t needed for any inquest. Neff himself provided the only transcript the authorities are going to need. Back to Medford, old boy, without a further excuse to send wifey-poo’s way. Doing your duty might necessitate a long train ride, but I know damn well your trade only takes you as far as Sacramento. Still, “very good osteopaths” don’t grow on trees, you know. He’ll be back, somehow. Maybe a little time around Neff has changed his perspective, especially once the plot hits the evening paper. An idea shelved for a more convenient time. A time when Mrs. Jackson may just need a policy of her own.
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