Time and Chance (11 page)

Authors: G L Rockey

“I'll-be-right-in,”
she said in one word.

I knew that ‘I'll-be-right-in’
in one word meant something was up. I looked at my beige cement block walls and
matching beige carpeting. Then I turned and studied the large black and white
poster of a stern faced Beethoven that hung on the wall behind my desk. The
caption read
I did it in Nashville.

“So did I.”

I walked to a set of
green drapes that were closed over the window that overlooked the newsroom. I
parted the drapes. Sam, still on the phone, looked distressed.

I went back to my desk
and pressed the remote control that turned on my nineteen inch Sony TV. The TV,
along with a video recorder/player, sat on a gray metal stand next the window.
I muted the sound.

Joy breezed in and
dropped an eight inch stack of opened mail in my in basket. “Lot of junk
stuff,” she said and paused.

I detected body
language that indicated she was going to go into the ‘I'll-be-right-in’ stuff.

She stood at the
corner of my desk. “Berry is in one of his brat tizzies … been down here once,
called twice, and you just heard all the pages.”

I sat in my green
swivel chair and glanced at the bottom left drawer. A fifth of Jack Daniels
slept there. “What seemed to be his problem?”

“He wanted you, had a
copy of that blasted talent contract he wants Luther to sign.”

I emptied my ashtray
into the waste can and lit a Salem. “And?”

“He wanted to know if
Luther had signed it yet.”

I knew Luther hadn't
signed it. We had discussed it. He was having a problem with the non-compete
clause, he told me, nothing personal but he was having a lawyer look at it.

I said, “What did you
tell Berry?”

“I told him to go play
in traffic.” She smiled tentatively, “Not really.” More body language.

“What?”

“Luther told me last
week he was having a lawyer look at his contract … something about the non-compete
clause, didn't seem fair.” She looked at me. “He said he talked to you about
it.”

I nodded.

“We never had
contracts around here with Berry's father.” She straightened my in-basket,
“Lamar was a gentleman, never going around slamming doors and fregging this and
fragging that, you know, like Berry does.”

I nodded.

She shifted her tiny
hips, “After this morning's ruckus, Galbo giving Luther the day off … I bet
Luther doesn't sign anything.”

I nodded.

“Berry said for you to
see him the minute you got in, slammed the door, knocked my Lookout Mountain
print off the wall.”

“Did it break?”

“Glass did. I should
ask him to pay for it.”

“You should.”

“Lots of luck.” She
paused then, “And oh, Galbo called, stuck somewhere in traffic, didn't even
know where he was, asked for you, I told him you weren't in, he told me to
switch him over to the news room. I did. Then Berry calls, wants to know if I
had seen Joe. Why would I see Joe? Like I'm supposed to keep track of Joe
Galbo, well, and then Luther calls….”

“Did Joe happen to say
who was going to do the weather tonight?”

“Well, no.”

Taking my cup, I stood
and walked back past Joy's desk to Proctor and heated my coffee.

She followed and sat at
her desk. “I'm sorry for venting, it's just….”

Her phone console
warbled around B flat. We looked at the flashing white button that is my
extension. Pouring coffee in my orange TV12 mug, I said, “I'm not in.”

Joy picked up. “News
Department, Mr. Carr's office.”

She rolled her eyes.
“No, Mr. Frazer, he is not in yet.” Pause. “I don't know sir, he may be in the
building but he's not in his office.” Pause. “Yes sir, I will.”

She hung up. “Guess
who?”

“I'm going.”

Joy's phone warbled
again. She answered: “News Department, Mr. Carr's office.” She listened for a
moment then cupped her hand over the speaker. “You know a Peggy Moore?”

I felt a slight
sinking, like you do when driving, you've had a couple too many, and you see
flashing red and blue lights in your rear view mirror. I shook my head, no.

Joy spoke into the
phone: “I'm sorry he's not in … no … all right, goodbye.” She hung up and
looked at me like she had caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.

“Beats me.” I stepped
into the hallway.

Joy said, “If Luther
calls, what should I tell him?”

“I'll talk to him
later.”

“Who do you want to do
the weather tonight?”

“Maybe Galbo will do
it.”

She frowned. “You
should comb your hair.”

“Thanks.”

“What if Ms. Moore
calls back?”

“Take a message, I'll
call her back.” I started to leave.

“Oh, and Sago Yu has
been in a couple of times, looking for you.”

“I'll see him in the
newsroom.”

I walked down the hall
thinking
I don't want to think
. Then, as usual, when you don't want to
think, thinking takes over. I pinched my wrist.
Yep, you're here
.

Approaching the
newsroom, I noticed, sitting at her desk, beige telephone receiver to her ear,
Executive Producer, Shari Fry waving to me. The intensity of the waving
indicated trouble.

Not in the mood for
trouble, I went to the small glassed-in room where various media displayed a
blitz of information that told a mixed story of flooding in Tennessee, bold
moves by China, major unrest in the Middle East, terrorist threat level
elevated, nuclear proliferation and there, a quote by Senator Betty Craig of
Pennsylvania: “In the nuclear age, if, in the fervor to win, humanity is lost,
it would appear to be more noble to lose … winning is simply not everything,
surly not the only thing … if winning is a path to the ultimate ending, it isn't
anything. But then, I'm not a fan of football … sometimes, in the age of nukes,
the guy who blinks first is the more intelligent.”

Thinking, Craig will
never get reelected, scanning other news items, I smelled Sea Breeze lotion and
Sago Yu stepped next to me.

I said, “Morning
Chief.”

“Morning Kemosabe.”

I sipped some coffee
and noted Sago wore a white V-neck shirt, his orange TV12 rain slicker, tan
slacks, and white Reeboks.

I said, “You look
spiffy.”

“Thanks.”

“Joy said you were
looking for me?”

“We need to talk, S-Stuff.”

“How about lunch?”

“That would be nice.”

“I gotta go see
Sally.” So you’ll know, Sally is another nickname the TV12 staff had assigned
to Berry.

Sago smiled, “I
heard.”

“What?”

“He's been down here a
couple times this morning.”

We left the press
cubicle and I walked to the middle of the newsroom where producer Shari Fry—tall
winsome lady, sun-bleached brown hair, ponytail, long sleeve blue shirt, jeans,
brown penny loafers—approached me.

She said, “Jack, that
was second banana on the phone.”

“Second banana?”

“Jack.”

“Where is Mr. Galbo
now?”

“Still stuck in
traffic somewhere.”

“He called to tell you
that?”

Frustrated, “He
ordered me to move the noon weather cast to the first segment of today's noon
news. I was going to lead with a weather story but not the entire weather
cast.”

“If he calls back,
tell him okay, then don't do it. If he doesn't call back, ditto. He'll never
know the difference.” I turned to leave.

She said, “And what
about the stuff on the preacher guy and his congregation picketing Snakebite
Walker's joints?”

“What about it?”

“Berry said to kill
the stories.”

“What stories?”

“Me either.”

Leaving the newsroom,
heading for Otis, the station elevator, I was thinking
anger is easy
.
Rage, with age, fades. Then I thought:
that's a song.

Then I remembered
Joy's comment about my hair. I made a quick stop at the men's room, set my
coffee mug on the stainless steel shelf above the sink, turned on the cold
water and splashed my face. I shook my head, patted my face with a paper towel,
looked in the mirror, and ran a comb through my hair. I leaned closer. Person
in there seemed like a stranger. “Not good, Carr, not good.” I loosened my tie
and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. In doing so I detected a faint odor
on my fingertips—ginger marmalade.

Through a tiny speaker
in the ceiling: “
Jack Carr, front office! Carr, front office, immediately!”

Berry again. I shot
two squirts of lime Binaca in my mouth, grabbed my mug and walked to Otis for a
trip up to reality.

CHAPTER 11

Real Time

10:02:15 A.M. CDT

Peggy Moore lit the
last of ten cylindrical candles that encircled her oval bathtub, turned off the
water, dropped her robe to the floor, and eased herself into the steaming
water. The candle's exotic scent filled the air and lavender bubbles feathered
her skin.

Immersed in warm water
to her chin, her cell phone trilled. Peggy answered. Stella. Peggy told her she
had never before, in her whole life, felt so full. It almost hurt it felt so
good. She was intoxicated even now.

Stella hung up.

Peggy touched herself
and smiled.

The phone trilled
again. Snakebite. He reminded her to pick him up at the airport, 3:00 P.M. She
told him she would, but she'd have to skedaddle: meeting with Berry Frazer at
6:30.

“You know about what,”
she said, “my new weather show.”

Snakebite wanted to go
to the meeting. She told him that wouldn't be such a good idea. The meeting was
going to be at The Berry Inn, he hated that place, and there was going to be
other TV12 people there. Besides, it would be all business, a long night, he
would get bored. She would fill him in later.

CHAPTER 12

Jack’s Time

Otis stopped at the
second floor, opened, and, stepping out, I paused to take in, on the opposite
wall, about the size of a 46 inch HDTV flat screen, an oil painting. The
painting was of Nashville's replica of the Parthenon. Peaceful lines, harmony,
the original housed Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Hmm.

After a minute,
composed, I headed down the thick gray carpeted hall toward Berry's office
suite. CBS personalities and Hollywood star portraits, similar to the first
floor, hung on these walls too.

Arriving at the
entrance to Berry's office, I observed Berry's secretary, Judy— that short
sandy hair, pixie style, smoke-blue eyes, a thin five foot six. She typed away
like a bullet train on her black computer keypad.

She glanced up at me.

I blew her a kiss and
nodded to Berry's door.

She nodded yes and
kept typing like she didn't want to get involved.

I gave her a thumbs
up, peeked in the door, and noticed Berry studying a picture of himself and
some guy on a yacht. I hated to disturb him. I knew how much he liked to look
at that picture.

Engrossed, not seeing
me, his nose an inch from the yacht photo, I did a quick inventory of his
stuffed animal heads to see if there might be a spot for a new one.

Nope, not yet.

Enough not disturbing,
I tapped on the door and stepped into the office. “You want to see me?”

He did a little
surprise jump like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing,
eyeballed me for a good five second, then said, “You're late.”

“We're all late, one
way or another.”

“Bullshit.”

“Traffic is jaked. I-65,
backed up all the way to Birmingham, rain rain rain. Joe's caught in it too.”

“I don't give a rat's
ass about the rain.”

I noticed he was
frowning at my slacks.

I touched my fly. “Is
my fly down?”

“You sleep in those
slacks?”

I shrugged. “My valet
forgot to press them.”

“Bullshit.”

He studied me some
more. “Look at that shirt. You better get your act together, Carr.”

He turned, strutted to
his desk, and sat.

Looking at his paisley
tie, I said, “Nice tie.”