Authors: G L Rockey
She said, “Tomorrow
for sure.”
“What am I, parts?”
After checking in at
his upstairs Felix The Cat office, Snakebite talked to Stella. Did she get the
new chinchilla. Yes. At the ranch. Snakebite told her good, he would be going
down in an hour to give the new one a squirt.
Snakebite's black
leather trousers smelling like the floor of a slaughterhouse, he got back from
the ranch somewhat tired and thought he would go to the bar, have a drink, say
hello to his Kittens, chat with Angelo.
His white Stetson
tilted back, sitting at the bar, a rum and coke served, he saw Gillian.
He said to Angelo,
“Who's ‘at tall dish a peaches?”
“New one, Stella hired
her, Gillian Phoenix.”
He couldn't believe
this one “tall tomata” caught his eye, class, he called her over, said, “You’s
a looker, baby.”
“Yeah.”
“Ohhh my, feisty too.”
CHAPTER 20
Jack’s
Time
The remainder of the
afternoon uneventful, around 5:00, as planned, I went to Berry's office. Big
Joe was already there, seated in his favorite chair, distant, his shoulders
slumped; I got the impression he would rather be getting a colonoscopy.
After a few
pleasantries, Berry told Joe and me, he would meet us in the lobby of The Berry
around 6:15. After tonight’s interview with Peggy, he was taking her to dinner,
discuss salary, business, alone. He emphasized
alone
, then allowed that
he and Peggy would be going straight from The Berry to The White Oaks Country
Club.
I looked at Joe, “You
never been in my Jag, have you Joe, want ride over to The Berry with me?”
A ripping sound came
from the vicinity of Joe’s seat, sounded like something tearing or something.
* * *
My offer to give Joe a
lift dismissed by that ripping sound, driving myself to The Berry, I began
thinking of interview questions I would ask Peggy: “You look familiar, do I
know you … say, didn't we meet at a Y function?” I blinked my eyes, pinched my
arm. Nope. You're here, real time. I wondered not how, but when, this whole
thing was going to explode in my face. A thought appeared like one of those
cartoon bubbles with the dotted line pointing to me: Jack in the middle with
the raisins and nuts.
CHAPTER 21
Real Time
6:20:15 P.M. CDT
On the way home, Sago
Yu pulled his red Jeep pickup into a Krystal. He went inside and got his usual
takeout order—four bacon cheese hamburgers, a large fries, a bowl of chili, and
two large root beers.
Home for the evening,
he served Tony Longtoe two burgers and a root beer then spread his food out on
the kitchen table and began eating.
While eating, Sago
read a magazine clipping he had saved related to S-Stuff:
A spokesperson said, “Right now in the United
States alone, there are thousands of patients waiting for organs. Thousands
will die in a year due to shortage. With the increasing risk of AIDS type
viruses from cross species transplants (pigs, etc.), human parts are much more
desirable. The organs most needed are kidneys, livers, and lungs. Corneas are
also in demand.” The spokesperson added, “A kidney can be preserved for up to
72 hours.” She noted, “The demand is high, and the dollars involved are huge.”
Unable to finish
eating, recalling a previous conversation he had had with Nashville Police
Department Detective, Jerry Little, he pressed Little’s phone number. Little
advised him he was, as they spoke, working a missing persons case, high school
student, female, he was working with the T.B.I., they had intercepted some
messages about a ring of locals. Seemed the bad guys were using the chinchilla
business as a front.
After hanging up, Sago
said to Tony, “So Tony, what do you know about the chinchilla business.”
“Ruuff, ruuff.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER 22
Jack’s
Time
Designed by Berry, The
Berry Inn resembled a large saltine cracker box with little square windows cut
in the sides. Built on fifteen acres Berry had purchased north of Nashville,
the inn boasted 100 guest suites, a teleconference center, and three eating and
drinking establishments.
Entering through the
front plate glass doors, straight ahead was a registration desk and, for casual
dining, to the right was the entrance to the Knife & Fork—a lot of knotty
pine, floor to ceiling windows, yellow table cloths, lime-green chairs and dark
green floor tile.
To the left was the
entrance to the Rebel Lounge—walnut paneling, green carpet, indirect lighting,
a large window overlooked an Olympic size pool. Gold framed oil paintings of
Southern Civil War Generals hung on the walls, and fifteen high-back bar
stools, upholstered in red, faced a polished brass bar. Opposite the bar, ten
four-top tables, white tablecloths, sat snugly against the wall. One large
corner U booth sat at the end.
A third eating and
drinking center, for the more discriminating, on the top floor, rotating slowly
in a circle, coat and tie only, the Pheasant & Grouse offered fine dining
in an elegant Louis XIV setting.
Admiring The Berry
lobby, a muscular brunette, gold name tag “Marty”, green floor length dress,
like she was expecting me, shot a hard look (bet she knew Stella) my way, said
Berry was with The Berry Inn's Manager Bernard. Walking away (scary hips) she
said flippantly, over a shoulder, “Galbo's in the Rebel Lounge.”
I went over to the
lounge. Big Joe sat at the table sideways, legs crossed, chewing a fingernail.
As I sat, Joe said,
“This sucks.”
Looking around I could
see why The Berry might be in trouble. The place was empty except for the
bartender, a petite waitress, two guys at the bar, us and a clock that
displayed 6:45.
Around five minutes
later, Berry came in and sat opposite Joe. Little red blotches rode high on his
cheeks. He ordered a Manhattan South. Joe and I had already been served our
usual: Joe a Gibson, me Jack Daniels on the rocks.
Berry looked at his
gold Rolex.
I checked Blancpain.
Little after 6:50. From what Berry had told us, interview at 6:30, Peggy
appeared to be a few minutes late. I parroted Berry's frequent admonition,
“Time is money.”
Berry curled his lower
lip. “Not funny, Carr.”
Joe burped.
Berry, served his
Manhattan South, took a long sip then pressed a number into his cell phone.
After several rings, no answer, he pressed off.
Time passed like that
Salvador Dali clock running off the table.
No Peggy.
At 7:05 I noticed
beads of perspiration pop just below Berry's toupee line.
Joe rolled words on
the table, “Well Berry, the glass slippers don't fit, guess we can write this
sucker off and go home.”
Berry said, “Shut up,
Galbo, she'll be here.” He wiped his face with his napkin, looked at me, and
said, “Did you give any thought to how you're going to format Peggy’s new
weather show? She'll have to have time to play her guitar, sing in there
somewhere, that's part of the deal.”
“What deal?” Joe said.
Ignoring Joe, Berry
said to me, “You figure that out?”
“Hadn’t yet.”
Joe: “Hah.”
* * *
The conversation
paused for sipping, I noticed Joe's face turning sour. “Speaking of
Cinderella’s stepsister, her she is.” He nodded toward the entrance.
Berry turned quickly.
I looked. Moving
toward our table, Peggy—pink dress, nobleness half out, hem just above her
knees, nice legs that I remembered, and her ankles rode high on green lizardy
spike heels. Closer, her glistening cherry lips were pressed tight in a pouting
smile. I sniffed the air. Yep, ginger marmalade.
Berry stood and said, “Peggy, where ya been,
sweet pea?”
“You don't want to
know.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“No problem.”
She dumped her large
red purse on the table, glanced at Joe, then lingered on me.
I smiled. What can you
say?
Berry held his right
hand out to Joe, “Peggy, this is Joe Galbo.”
Peggy said, “Howdy
Joe, been reading about you in the newspaper.”
Joe, like a bulldog
protecting his bone, nodded.
Gentleman that I am,
standing, I said to clear matters up, “Joe is our new assistant general
manager, likes to be called second banana.”
Joe bit his lower lip.
Berry said, “And this
is Jack Carr, our news director.”
Smiling, she extended
her right hand. “Jack Carr, how ya all doing?”
I shook her hand,
“Haven't we met?”
She squeezed pretty
hard. “Felix The Cat, wasn't it?”
I noticed Berry raise
an eyebrow.
I said, “I think so,”
and my eyes wandered down the deep slice between her nobleness. I glanced back
to her flashing eyes. The wander had been noticed.
“You two know each
other?” Berry looked at her hand still grasping mine.
“Oh, just to say
hello.” Peggy flared at me and released the grip.
Berry touched her
forearm and presented the empty chair next to his. “Have a seat.”
She sat.
Motioning to the
server, Berry cleared his throat. “Let's get you a drink, sweet pea, then these
guys can ask you a question or two.”
Peggy said, “Berry,
you will be sure to have Jack help me on this weather show, won't you? I can't
imagine doing it without him.”
I glanced at Joe. It
appeared he might throw up thick chunks of goose liver and, I think, he had
just passed some gas.
The server arrived. Peggy ordered a gin fizz,
put a Parliament in her mouth, and waited for a light. I started to oblige with
Zippo but Berry beat me with a The Berry safety match.
Berry beamed, “Well,
Ms. Moore, we've been talking it over aaand, you premiere Monday, April 30, two
weeks, how ‘bout that!”
There's that ‘we’
again.
Thick white smoke
coming from her nostrils, Peggy said, “Oh, my god, Berry, I don't know. Two
weeks?” She touched my arm. “Do you think, Jack, I mean, can we do it?”
It was then I
confirmed that all this time stuff (real and mine) is scripted and somebody is
laughing their ass off.
“Sure he does.” Berry
said and (I think to impress Peggy) turned to Joe. “Galbo, get Speaker going on
promotion right away. Jack and me talked to him, but you have to kick start
that guy, you know, get him on it tomorrow. I don't want any goof ups on this.
I want a ton of pictures of Peggy, color. Billboards all over town. Get on the
billboards first thing. Then set her up for three or four promotion spots and
run 'em on our air, TV, and do radio too. Cable. Get the newspaper’s TV Channels
cover.” He turned to me. “And Jack, I want to do a news story, tomorrow, I'll
make the announcement on camera, Peggy beside me, maybe we can shoot it over on
the Opry Stage, call 'em up.”
I said, “Sure enough,”
then said to Joe, “Mr. Galbo, you didn't say … did you have any interview
questions for Ms. Moore, before the announcement, tomorrow?”
Peggy touched my
forearm. “Silly.”
Berry frowned.
Joe began popping his
knuckles, one by one, and I observed killer anguish on his face. I thought I'd
help the pain along. “This the way they do it in Atlanta, big guy?”
His lips said
something very awful and bad and you could never say it on TV.
Semi-occupied with
Peggy's dual nobleness, Berry said to me, “Start Peggy’s rehearsal tomorrow,
Carr, and I want a story on every newscast … Peggy's background, biography,
music résumé, the building of her new weather set, we'll need a new set,
everything.” His full attention shifted to Peggy's eyes, “We're thinking Grand
ol’ Opry look for the set.”
Peggy purred, “Oh
Berry.”
Berry looked to Joe
“We also have to get together tomorrow and decide how we're going to package
this thing for sales.”
Joe said, “I have some
ideas on how you can package it.”
Berry ignored him. “Well, Peg, how do it feel
to be a big TV star?”
“Oh, Berry, I don't
know, it's all so exciting.”
The server served
Peggy's fizz.
Berry held up his
glass to her. “A toast to Nashville's newest shooting star.”
Peggy said, “Oh god.”