Authors: G L Rockey
“Sales are great.”
I set my mug on his
desk top.
He looked at the mug, frowned, said, “Don't
get a ring on my desk.”
I picked my mug up,
took a sip, and set it back on his desk.
Joe pushed a piece of scrap paper forward.
I placed my mug on the
paper. “Sorry. By the way, who is going to do the weather on tonight's
newscasts?”
“That's your problem,
can't have insubordination.” Joe cracked his knuckles.
“Berry tell you about
his new weather show idea?”
Joe's face turned red.
“Fuck.”
I concluded from his
tone, yes.
Like a stuck
recording, he said again, “Fuck.”
“He did, didn't he?”
“Jesus Christ, we
can't let this happen. Luther is the glue that holds this whole thing
together.”
“Is that what you were
thinking when you gave him the day off?”
“Bite me, had to do
it, insubordination kills an organization.”
“Surprised Berry
didn't discuss a major move like this with you … you being second banana….”
“Watch it.”
“Did he tell you about
the interview tonight?”
Sour look. “Fuck.”
Another yes. I lit a
cigarette. “I think Berry wants to have everybody on board, just in case
there's a trial, somebody to hang, you know, later.”
He walked to his
letter opener, snatched it from the wall, returned to his desk and sat. Eyes
darting, I could hear things scraping in his mind like the wheels of railroad
freight cars crawling over rusty rails. He chewed a bit of fingernail and,
cheeks twitching, spit the piece of fingernail to the side.
The public address
system crackled: “
Joe Galbo, front office, Galbo, front office.”
Berry's voice seemed
urgent.
Joe rolled his eyes.
“Jesus H. Christ. You'd think he would just call me.”
“Difficult being
second banana isn't it, big guy?”
“Watch it.” He stepped
toward the door, “I'll be right back,” and left.
I went to Joe's Cupper, freshened my coffee,
thought about a shot of Wild Turkey, decided against it, wandered out to see
P.J., chatted, returned to Joe's office, sat, leaned back, and clicked the
practical pragmatic events of this morning into order. I concluded: the moment
rules and he who owns the biggest lie survives.
I had another jolt of
coffee, P.J. came in and poured herself a cup (truly elegant Egyptian she-king)
and in a few minutes Joe returned and sat at his desk.
“That was fast.” I
sipped.
“Berry wants Luther's
contract in hand, signed and delivered on the Goose Girl’s barrel head, by five
o'clock today. You'll have to take it over to Luther's house.” I sensed an
unsure crack in Joe's semper fi resolve.
I said, “Don't hold your breath.”
“Look Carr….” Joe
fisted his right hand then calmed.
I detected kill
clicked into a small compartment of his brain for future reference. He
swallowed today and would remember tomorrow. He pointed his finger at me. “I'm
ordering you, go over there, his house, get it signed now.” He stood and walked
to his window. “Better get used to it Carr, I'm second in command now. Have
that contract on my desk by 4:30.”
I thought of a time
when I would have gone for his jugular. But I didn't care anymore. The lie was
too big. I got up and left.
* * *
Riding down Otis, I
was thinking, on earth they say real time is as things happen. Then I
remembered reading somewhere: on Saturn, spring is nine years long. My time
didn't seem to fit into either category.
Returned to my office,
a call from Joe. He reminded me to get Luther's contract signed and, in case he
forgot, to bring it to him so he could take it to Berry. Then he said he was
going to lunch with Berry, did I want to go. I told him couldn’t, had a dentist
appointment. He reminded me that when he got back from lunch his parking space
needed to be vacant.
That all settled, I
called Sago and we went to Krystal.
I drove and he filled
me in on S-Stuff:
Sago said, “Remember
that missing University of Tennessee co-ed student … found her purse, money,
car in a mall parking lot?”
“Three, four months
ago,” I said.
“That one.”
“What?”
“According to Margo
Hunt….”
“Who’s Margo Hunt?”
“ With MSNBC news,
doing a series on missing persons….”
“Oh.”
“According to Margo,
the UT co-ed is still living.”
“Where?”
“In the chest of a
Tokyo car mogul … heart … that light was red.”
At Krystal, I wasn't
hungry, had a cola. Sago had two corn dogs, large fries, a bowl of chili, and a
large root beer.
Eating a fry, Sago
said, “Oh, my alias, ‘case somebody asks, for the S-Stuff, is Tony Longtoe.”
“That's your dog's
name, isn't it?”
“I'm borrowing it.”
“Who's going to ask?”
“Never know.”
* * *
After lunch, Sago got
a Chiller ice cream.
Driving back to TV12,
the April rain ended, Nashville sparkling in bright sunshine, I told him about
Luther, the new weather show, Peggy Moore (I didn't relate my weekend at Tara;
Sago worried a lot). He said he figured something was up, had a dream last
night, a bald eagle was eating its just-hatched eaglets.
Back at Joy's desk,
she said that Ms. Moore had called again, left a number. Eyebrow raised, she
handed me the pink message slip. I took it, went into my office, slipped the
message in my waste basket and called Luther. Furious at Joe Galbo for ordering
him around, giving him the day off, Luther refused to discuss anything, was
going to take two weeks’ vacation in Sedona, Arizona, think out his options. As
far as anyone coming over to his house, him signing the contract that Berry
wanted, Luther said, quote: “That sucker can wait till the cows come home,
partner.” Luther also said, as far as Joe Galbo was concerned, well, Luther
could be vicious when crossed. I didn't mention Peggy Moore to Luther. He could
read the headlines tomorrow or the next day or when he got back from Sedona.
Some days enough words are enough and real-time reality, you begin to gag.
Feeling guilty I
retrieved the message from Peggy: her phone number and a please call note. I
thought about calling, thought not, then called.
She said, “Hi there.”
“Hi.”
“I wanted to thank you
for that ding a bell weekend.”
It went on like that
for a minute or so, then she asked, like she knew who held the aces and how
many, if Berry had said anything about the interview tonight. I said he had and
she cooed into the received, “See ya all tanight.”
CHAPTER 17
Real Time
1:55:10 P.M. CDT
Joyce Kensington—white
short sleeve sloop neck T-shirt, hip hugger jeans, black slouch boots, brown
leather purse dangling from a strap over her left shoulder—made her way down
the Felix The Cat street side cement steps. Her natural brown caramel-colored
hair streaked with coiffeur-added blonde highlights, lip gloss an off-white
luster, smoky blue eye shadow, her rum-colored eyes intense, she opened the
rusty red metal entrance door and strolled into Felix The Cat.
Her senses scanning
like a virus detector, casing the murky lounge, she sat at the bar, ordered a
gin and tonic from the female bartender, and introduced herself as Gillian
Phoenix. After a sip, she asked the bartender about work, any openings. The
bartender said, “You gotta talk to Stella Pastorini.”
“She in?”
“Nope, works another
lunch gig, The Berry Inn, usually rolls in around 3:00.”
Joyce would wait. She
lit a Kent cigarette, flashed her off-white nail polish, crossed her long legs,
and waited.
* * *
2:55 Stella arrived,
the female bartender said, “There's the godmother, now.” She called to Stella,
“Hey Stel, another one looking for work.”
In a booth, Stella
said, “What's yer name?”
“Gillian Phoenix.”
“Where'd ya work
before?”
“Phoenix.”
“Cute … the name … whaddaya
doing in Tennessee?”
“I like barbecue.”
“You a wise ass?”
“No.”
“What'd ya do out in the desert?”
“Dancer, cocktail waitress,” she winked,
“upscale adult entertainment.”
“Where?”
She told her the name
of the strip club that had been contacted, given a pass to stay open if they
cooperated, “Honey Pot Cabaret.”
Stella said, “You got
wheels?”
“Yep, Harley.”
“Cool.”
They talked some more,
then Stella invited her back to the Kittens’ dressing room.
A musky smelling wood
paneled lair, stained pink shag carpet, two Kittens on break smoked cigarettes.
“Strip.” Stella said
to Gillian.
She did.
Stella inspected her
body, touched, probed, looked for marks, said, “Not bad, you start tonight. Any
good, should make couple hundred in tips.” She paused and studied deep into
Gillian’s eyes. “Our owner, Snakebite Walker, has some special out of town
friends come to town now and then, sometimes they needs a date. Up class
people. Any problem with that?”
“Been there done
that,” she stared Stella down, “But I don't do dirt balls.”
Stella snickered,
“Catch you stealing, you'll wish you'd stayed in Phoenix, start tonight, learn
the ropes.”
“What about an
outfit.”
“Think we got one,
might be a little tight, Snakebite likes 'em that way.” Stella cackled a laugh,
then as an afterthought, reached in a drawer, picked out a straight razor, gave
it to Gillian.
“What that for?”
“Weapon of choice, you
run into weirdo freaks, strange bird now and then.”
CHAPTER 18
Jack’s
Time
Contemplating what I
would do and say at tonight’s interview with Ms. Moore, real time sapped my
concentration, so I called Berry.
He said, “How was the
dentist?”
“Good.”
“What's with Luther's
contract?”
“You want the long or
the short of it.”
“Short.”
“Basically, stick it
up your ass, he's taking a two week vacation … think he's history.”
Berry threw a phone
tantrum, blamed me for not handling it right. While he vented, I conjugated,
right is relative. Then, seeming relieved, he said, “We'll talk to him when he
gets back. He isn't going anywhere, got it made around here. Who we gonna have
do the weather, meantime, till Peggy gets up to speed?”
That we again.
“Weekend people.”
“Good, we're home
free, handle Luther when he gets back, only two weeks, then Peggy takes over.”
“I thought we were
going to do an interview toni—”
He hung up.
Five minutes later I
got a call from Joe. He wanted a status report about the Luther contract. I
told Joe the details.
He was extremely upset
that I had gone over his head to Berry. I was never to do that again. Then he
reminded me that Berry wanted us in his office at 5:00 to go over tonight's
interview procedures with Peggy.
“Excited yet, Joe.”
“Fuck you.”
CHAPTER 19
Real Time
3:30:30 P.M. MST
Peggy, in red jumpsuit,
matching sneakers, picked Snakebite up at the airport. His black silver-tipped
cowboy boots’ three inch heels put him at five seven. Buttoned up to show as
little milk white skin as possible, he wore black leather slacks, black shirt
and a black sports coat. His hat, a wide brimmed white Stetson, sat on top of
his flowing golden locks. Wraparound sunglasses concealed his pink eyes.
Driving, Peggy
apologized for being a little late, had to get her nails done, explained that
she had that meeting with Berry at 6:30, she'd have to skedaddle home get
dressed, would have to dump him off at Felix The Cat. Maybe she could see him
later, depended on how long things went with her meeting with Berry.