Time and Chance (15 page)

“God help us.”

“He's busy.” I
continued note making.

“I can't believe
that.”

“God's busy?”

“Peggy Moore.”

“Believe it.” I leaned
back, put my feet on my desk, thinking what Jay would think if he knew about my
weekend with Mr. Moore. No, don't. Maybe Jay wouldn't mind if I brought Jack
Daniels out. “Want a drink?”

He smiled. “No,
thanks.” Then he said, “Is it something you eat or something you learn?”

“All of the above and
goose liver helps.”

“Survival.”

“Something like that.”
I lit a Salem, studied Jay, and given what Berry had said about him, said, “Why
don't you get out … I know a few people, I'll help you find another job.”

“Judy too?”

I had a hunch about
those two. “Are you two….”

“Don't say anything.”

“Wow, good for you.”

“What about you,
getting out?” Jay said.

“I'm having too much
fun.”

“I guess we all have
to pay the rent.”

I really did hate that
line.

He stood and said,
“Well, back to the grindstone, thanks for the time.” He opened the door, left,
and Joy entered with a burst of energy. “Jack, Joe Galbo was….”

“I heard. Bravo.”

“Let him fire me, I
don't care, I won't take his horse shit.”

“Joy!”

“He just called again.
He wants you out of his parking slot immediately and he wants you to call him
immediately.”

“In which order?”

“Jack, land's sake,
it's like monkey island at the zoo around here this morning.”

“This morning?”

“I know.” She paused.
“What's wrong with Jay?”

“Just a rotten day.”

Joy walked back to the
door. “You want this closed?”

“Yes, please.”

She closed the door. I
went for the bottom drawer, poured a good belt of Jack Daniels in my coffee,
put the bottle back, and took a long eye-closing drink. Better already. I
pressed Joe Galbo's number.

After one ring, Joe
answered, “Galbo.”

I waited a good five
seconds just for fun.

“Galbo,” he said
again.

I said, “Joe, you
called, Jack.”

“Whatthefuckyoudoingparkinginmyspace?”
came out of my phone like fifty caliber machine gun bullets.

I had pretty much
mastered Galboese so I said, “Geez Joe, when I got here your space was empty,
figured you might not be coming in….”

”Fuck that, doesn't
matter! That's my space twenty four hours a day, rain or shine, I'm here or
not, period.”

“Oh, okay, sorry,
where did you park?”

“Next to that foreign
piece of junk of yours.”

“Want to move cars
now?”

“No. Get up here. We
have to talk about things, Charlie Chan lickety-split, right away.”

“I'll be up in a few
minutes.”

“Not a few minutes,
now.”

I threw the phone in
its cradle, took a gulp of my now lukewarm coffee royale and whispered, “It
helps.”

I leaned back, closed
my eyes, and went back to that once-upon-a-time, a warm evening, the orchestra
turning itself … Vanderbilt campus … warm June evening … fresh cut grass …
through Terri's fingers, a Steinway responds to her fingers and the night air
fills with Mozart … standing, I hear myself cheering, “Bravo! From the
beginning, take this mother from the beginning … but there is no beginning and
this is not new …
Da Capo
!”

“Jack, are you all
right?” I looked, my office door open, Joy stood in the door way.

“Perfect.”

“Do you want to take a
long distance call from a Tom Leary, says he's with Associated Press. Something
about the flooding.” She looked over her glasses. “Are you sure you're all
right?”

Crossed over for a
moment, I clung there, but then I was here, back in the muck, between times, in
a ten by twelve office, waiting. Waiting for what?

I sat up and said,
“What?”

“Long distance,
Associated Press, the flooding….”

”Take a message, tell
him it's nothing, I gotta see Joe Galbo.”

CHAPTER 15

Real Time

11:15:10 A.M. CDT

Wearing a double-breasted
gray pinstriped suit, white dress shirt, and a silk blue tie, in the back
corner of his office, the red buffing pads of his electric shoe polisher
whirred as Joe Galbo tidied up his 12-D black wingtips.

 
In a moment, his shoe's spit-shine restored,
he sat behind his desk, lit an eight inch palma cigar and puffed. After a
second puff he put the cigar in an orange TV12 ashtray, and began chewing the
nail on his left middle finger. Scant nail to bite, he switched to his thumb.
Chewing, he frowned then reached to straighten a silver CBS clock and gold
miniature golf three-wood that sat at the front edge of his desk. Satisfied
with the arrangement, he picked up his cigar, puffed, and looked at his silver
Omega wristwatch: 11:20.

He bit his lower lip
and called, “P.J., you hear from Carr yet?”

“No sir.”

CHAPTER 16

Jack’s
Time

Five shots of lime
Binaca tingling my tongue, coffee mug in hand, I walked, slowly as plausible without
looking lost, toward Otis. Today's second trip to the second floor would be Joe
Galbo's version of reality. Since first meeting Joe, six months ago, I had a
sense he was, in the great human collection, a rarest of rare gene mutations.
Underneath I think he wanted to be liked, a regular Joe, but something in the
slimy green grab of the planet's greed machine had turned him into an asshole.

Moseyed out, I entered
Otis, punched up, and wondered what profound mumbo jumbo Joe would proclaim
this morning with his insane Mother Goose one-liners. One thing I know for
sure, in the sure money world of time and chance, Joe is a survivor.

Otis opened to the
second floor, oil painting of the Parthenon in front of me, I stepped out,
paused a moment, then started down the hallway.

Passing Berry's
office, his door closed, I winked at Judy and kept walking. You could tell you
were getting close to Galbo's power base by the pungency of the cigar smoke and
the bustling semper fi efficiency.

Past the conference
room, nearing Joe's office entrance, I thought what the heck, I need to go say
hello to Bobbi, see if two plus two is still four. I walked past P.J.'s door,
gave her a little wave and continued down the hall. Looking back, P.J.s'
shocked expression said it all.

Bobbi and I had bonded
five years ago when, doing my annual department budget, I questioned my
calculator's veracity. Always making the same mistake, the machine kept
registering two plus two equaled four when I knew, without a doubt, the total
had to be three.

Bobbi, a hard little
stone, native of Johnson City, forty-five looking thirty, stood about five
four. She probably weighed around ninety-five pounds, blown dry. Short red
hair, freckles everywhere, her darting hazelnut eyes caught everything within a
mile and what she didn't see, her pretty nose smelled. Her hobby growing
begonias, Bobbi had a twenty year relationship with the Frazer family. Over the
years she had been a confident and personal counselor to Berry's father. She
did the taxes, buried the bones and, I had a hunch, she knew of Berry's
gambling problems. As far as I know she said nothing to anybody about anything.
The thing I liked most about her, she regularly told Joe Galbo to stick it.

After hi and hello,
Bobbi offered coffee, had a box of Dunkin Donuts, lemon-filled.

After a donut and five
minute or so chit chat, I freshened my coffee, thanked her, and returned to
Joe's reception area.

Typing, P.J. said in a
fearful half whisper, “Where did you go?”

“Errands.”

She rolled her large
brown eyes, “Mr. Galbo is expecting you,” and continued moving her elegant
fingers over the keyboard.

I said, “Pity.”

She cleared her throat
and typed faster.

I glanced inside Joe's
office. He appeared engrossed in a phone conversation. He eyeballed me then
turned his back. I looked inside to see if anything had changed since he was
still just a lowly sales manager. Office looked the same: giant TV tuned to
TV12; desk, slightly smaller than Berry's but anally clean; window overlooked
downtown Nashville, half the size of Berry's; powder blue fabric sofa; creamy
wall covering; two olive drab leather chairs faced his desk. An oak cabinet,
when opened (I knew this), held two quarts of Wild Turkey. Above the cabinet, a
large brass Marine Corp. insignia hung on the wall. He didn't have a private
privy but there was a men's room across the hall. He had put his name on the
first stall, called it his ‘slit trench’.

I said to P.J. “Your
boss is on the phone, maybe I'll just come back.”

A look of panic, she
glanced at her mini telephone exchange phone.

I noticed Joe bite
down on his cigar, tuck his phone between chin and shoulder, retrieve his
dagger letter opener, scrape the cuticle on his right middle fingernail, say,
“That can be arranged.”

I said, “He's really
on the phone … oh well, I'll catch him later.” I started to leave.

P.J. shook her head
anxiously, reached for my arm, whispered. “No, Jack, don't do that, please.”

I felt her fear. “For
you, I'll stay.” I tapped on Joe's door.

He turned and looked
at me.

I smiled and gave a
little wave.

Phone stuck in his
ear, he propped his black submarine shoes on his desk top and puffed his cigar.
His cigar brand, Aliados, actually smelled pretty good; I noticed he wore his
uniform of the day-gray double-breasted suit, pinstripes, white shirt, very
blue or indigo, probably some kind of Italian guy, tie.

I smiled again, waved,
and gave him a little salute with my coffee mug.

He sat up and turned
his back.

I turned to P.J.
“Important call. Probably his plumber.”

She cringed.

I said, “How is your
morning going?”

I heard Joe hang up
and say, “Okay Carr.”

I knew that meant I
could enter the inner sanctum. I continued with P.J. “So, P.J., did you have
any trouble getting in this morning, I mean with the rain and all….”

Joe: “I said okay,
Carr.”

I said to P. J., “Your
boss sounds annoyed.”

She closed her eyes,
kept typing.

“Talk to you later.” I
smiled and stepped to Joe's doorway.

* * *

From the tips of his
crew cut light brown hair to his wingtips, six foot three Joe resembled an oak
curio cabinet. His eyes burnt umber brown, about the size of poker chips, he
appeared younger than his forty years, and projected superiority like one who
knows secrets no one else knows. He extended his familiar ExLax frown.

I said, “What's a
matter Joe, not enough goose liver over the weekend?”

“You-move-out-of-my-fucking
parking slot?”

“No.”

He leaned forward,
crushed his cigar in his orange TV12 ashtray, said, “Lemme tell you something,
Carr, that's my parking slot and don't ever park in it again, ever.”

“Like I told you, it
was so late when I got here, raining cats and dogs, I didn't think you were
coming in….”

“I don't give a
Dumbo's flying fuck what you thought, that's my slot I'm here or not, rain or
shine, period!” He threw his letter opener at the far wall. It stuck.

I looked at the
dagger. “You should go to Sarasota, Joe, join the circus.”

Ignoring the remark,
“Next time I'll have that limey piece of junk of yours towed.”

“No you won't.” I
walked to Joe's Cupper coffee pot (same as Berry’s), which sat on an antique white
serving cart next to his liquor cabinet. “Coffee fresh?”

“Bite me.”

I freshened my coffee.

He said, “Did you talk
to Luther this morning?”

“This coffee looks
stale.”

“You talk to Luther?”

“Why?”

“I told him to get his
ass in here, do some weather reports, he's our Pied Piper weatherman isn't he,
gave me some lip, I canned him for the day.”

I sat in one of the
olive drab chairs facing Joe’s desk. “Joe, don't you have enough to do, sales
being so lousy and all?”

“Who said sales is
lousy?”

“I just heard….”

“From who?”

“Just heard.”