Authors: G L Rockey
She said as a follow up,
“I know where all the skinny little skeletons are buried.”
Brave lady, I thought
and then I fathomed one of those deep things you don't want to know, so you let
it slide, but you know it anyway: I was in deep, what Angelo called
merda
.
I patted her hand. “Let's don't do anything rash.”
We returned to TV12,
and, after the 10:00 weather show, at Peggy’s insistence, Winston and I
followed her to Tara. Settled in nude and nicely on the floor in front of her
bar, the phone rang and after a recorded, “We’re not in just now” Snakebite’s
cut glass voice: “In Memphis, see ya tomorra’, picks me up at the airport,
Delta, 3:00 … calls me.”
She stood, summarily
erased the message, took me by the hand and led me to her pool. We took a dip,
did some underwater research, and ended up in her bed. Around 1:00, I couldn't
sleep; she asked, when I got out of bed, where I was going. I told her I had to
get home, big day tomorrow. She didn't like that but understood.
I left and drove to
Felix The Cat for a nightcap. I also needed to sort out some things.
* * *
Nashville downtown
pretty much empty, I parked on Church Street and walked to Felix The Cat.
Felix, blinking dimly in the night, looked lonely, like he wanted to tell me
something.
Inside, three
customers at the bar, juke box playing Marty Robbins’ “El Paso”, a guy in my
seat 1A, I sat next to the service bar.
Looking at 1A then me,
Angelo said, “Whan are you gonna do?”
“Make it a double.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.” I lit a
Salem.
Pouring me a drink,
“Hey Jack, I saw Peggy's weather, whan's wrong?”
He put a glass of ice
in front of me and poured Jack Daniels.
I was thinking of a
response, sipped, and as I did, out from the back room came a very tall Kitten.
Making her way, she stopped at the service bar, turned my way, and smiled.
I smiled back,
saluted, said to Angelo, “You going to introduce us.”
“This is Gillian, just
started.” He looked at her. “This is Jack Carr, big shot at TV12. Stay away
from him. Trouble.”
Taking all of her in—high
cheekbones, rum-colored eyes, arched nose that came to a delicate point, full
lips, rounded chin, caramel-colored hair cascading around her face down to and
over her bronze shoulders—something puckered in me as my nostrils filled with
her knockout fragrance, exotic actually, peppery, touch of incense in there. I
felt a rush of something going way back, said, “Hi.”
She said “Hi.”
I said, “Could I buy
you a drink?”
She looked at Angelo,
“I don't think so.”
I said to Angelo, “I
think that guy in my seat wants a drink, buy him one, on me.”
He grunted and left.
I said to Gillian,
“Don't I know you from someplace?”
“I don't think so.”
“I thought so.”
I studied her face,
her dark rum eyes, darting around the room, and it was coming back to me: you
see a face, something about it, you could look at it forever, it's everything …
second time in my life, imagine that.
She lowered her eyes
for a moment (just right lashes) then locked my eyes. “What do ya all do at TV12?”
Detecting something
wrong with that “ya all” accent, much too refined around the edges, I said,
“News Director, so, when can we get together, dinner, a show.”
She titled her head
back and smiled. “I gotta go.” She stepped away.
“Wait a minute, I need
to ask you something.”
She stepped back.
“What?”
I studied her hair
reflecting The Cat's ambience. “I don't believe this.”
“What don't you
believe?”
“When did it happen?”
“What?”
“Your arrival on
earth?”
“Old line, I gotta
go.” She looked around the room.
“I'm Scottish.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don't believe it.”
“What don't you
believe?”
I detected a mocking
in her voice like she was beyond this kind of bull shit. But she was sticking
around. I said, “This love at first sight business.”
She looked around.
“Could be.”
Caught off guard, I
choked on a cough.
“You okay?”
“All this smoke.” I
offered my pack of Salem. “Want one?”
“No thanks.”
Angelo yelled, “Last
call.”
I looked at the
Budweiser clock. Closing time. I said, “Say why don't we go have a cup of
coffee?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“No.”
“Fly to Hawaii?”
She turned to leave.
“Wait, let me give you
one of my business cards, ever need anything, call me.”
She stepped back and
took it. “Drive careful,” and went to the dressing room area.
Angelo started turning The Cat lights off. “Go
home, Carr.”
CHAPTER 4
Real Time
3:05:00 A.M. CDT
After Jack left, in
the dressing room, Neon told Gillian she saw her talking to that TV12 guy who
came in.
Gillian said, “Rough
round the edges, looked familiar, like I’d seen him somewheres. Who was he?”
Neon turned a twisted
smile, “Regular, Jack Carr, kinda cute, drinks like a fish.”
Leaving, dressed in
her street clothes, Gillian saw Angelo on the phone. He beckoned her. After
hanging up, he said to her, “That was Snakebite, long distance, wants you to
meet a date.”
She declined, touch of intestinal flu.
“Snakebite ain't gonna
like that.”
She shrugged. “Shit
happens.”
CHAPTER 5
Jack’s
Time
Entering my office
area Tuesday morning, Joy, glancing at my right cheek, wanted to know how I got
the scratches on my face. I told her my Norelco had thrown a blade. She smiled
like she did when she knows exactly how many stars there are in the Milky Way.
Other than that, a
news producer meeting, lunch with Sago, “getting closer to the bone” he said,
Berry again in New York, back Friday, Galbo sticking his second banana nose
everywhere, Dillards had called him, unhappy with the weather.
I told him to give
Peggy a few days off, he didn’t like that.
Otherwise, I couldn’t
get that Tall One, Gillian, I met last night, out of my mind
CHAPTER 6
Real Time
Tuesday Afternoon
3:00:00 P.M. CDT
Delta flight from
Memphis arrived Nashville International on schedule. Snakebite—black leather
outfit, white hat, wraparound sunglasses—deplaned and, no luggage, went to the
arrival pickup area.
Peggy, in a pink
chiffon outfit, pulled her Cadillac to the curb.
Snakebite entered and
she allowed him to kiss her only on the cheek. She had to hurry, weather show
at 5:00 and 6:00. He wanted to go to the station to watch the performance. Not
a good idea, distraction, still had new show jitters.
Dropping him at Felix
The Cat front door, Peggy declined dinner at The Haute Cuisine. She wanted to
go, after her 6:00 o’clock show, some place different so they could talk, had
to be quick, her 10:00 weather show. Why didn't she just meet him at Arthur's,
6:45ish.
At 7:35 Peggy arrived
at Arthur's. Snakebite, there since 6:30, said nothing. Peggy ordered only a
house salad, kept saying, “Snakebite, we have to talk,” then not talking. He
insisted on watching her 10:00 weather show at TV12. She reluctantly agreed.
After the 10:00
weather, Snakebite insisting he had a surprise, Peggy informed him that they
must drive separately to her house. She had an early morning meeting at the
station and needed her car. Snakebite said he would just drive her to the
station in the morning. She said, no way, she had to get her beauty rest, big
promo photo shoot early tomorrow.
Arrived at Peggy's house, having a drink at
her bar, Snakebite presented a gold ring with a dime-sized diamond nesting on
top, then reached to kiss her. She sneezed and placed the ring on the bar. She
had to go do something. He fidgeted. Back from her something, Peggy told him
she was breaking it off, everything, singing at Felix The Cat, everything, she
was in love, madly, deeply, like never before, she was sorry, couldn't help it,
wanted him to go, and be a gentleman about it.
Snakebite snatched her
throat in hand, wanted to know, “Who's the cocksucker?”
She looked into his
pink eyes. “You're hurting me.”
“Who?”
“Jack Carr … and don't
you dare touch him, I'll spill my guts.”
He loosened his grip,
put his sunglasses on, took his ring, and left.
Peggy pressed Jack's
home number: “Hello, no one is available to take your call, please leave a
message after the tone.”
CHAPTER 7
Jack’s
Time
I had snuck out after
the 6:00 producers' meeting, (Peggy was tied up with Snakebite) went to The
Green Onion. Had a drink, sat in with The Petes.
Around 12:30 A.M.,
that Kitten, Gillian Phoenix, heavy on my mind, I wanted to see if my first
impressions were correct.
* * *
Going down the outside
cement steps, I entered The Cat's cozy basement world. Walking past the
familiar parquet bar, I sensed something was up. I hung my tan blazer on the
back of 1A and loosened my tie.
From Wurlitzer, Travis
Tritt sang “Best of Intentions”.
I looked around. Maybe
ten other customers sat in booths, five at the bar. Then I noticed Angelo
emerging from the back room area. Standing at the service end of the bar,
seeing me, instead of the usual warm greeting, he scowled a dull black funeral
bunting. He waddled down to face me. The black bunting a brooding silence, he
wore his usual uniform—gray slacks, white long sleeve shirt, red vest, bolo tie
(tonight a silver arrowhead, about the size of my fist, knotted his bolo), and
the Vitalis wafted from his countenance. He didn't offer his usual I'm-handing-you-my-last-dollar-and-see-my-pinkie-ring
right hand across the bar. Instead he said, “Whan can I do for you?”
“What's the matter?” I
said.
“Nutin the matter with
me.” He glanced toward the steps that led to The Haute Cuisine.
I said, “Somebody complain
about The Haute Cuisine food?”
His face turned more
ugly. He nodded another notch up, as in higher. I figured Snakebite's
apartment. I studied Angelo's face. His eyes had a weary look, like he might be
trying to tell me something complicated, as in a life and death plot.
I said, “How's
Snakebite doing?”
Angelo shook his head
morosely in six chapters of no. and said, “You might wanna leave.”
“I just got here.”
“Is your funeral.”
Angelo manipulated, with his priest like moves, a Jack Daniels bottle. I noticed
the brooding on his face turn darker as he served my drink on the standard
little lacy Felix The Cat coaster. He looked me in the eye and said, “I tried
to tell you, stronzo.”
“Could I have a little
more ice, please.”
He grunted and
scooped, in his hand, ice from the stainless steel well behind the bar and
dropped several cubes in my drink. “I tried to tell you.”
“What are you talking
about?”
“Getting mixed up with
that bitch.”
Angelo, eyes fixed on
me, shook his head, munched a big green martini olive, and, cutting slices of
lime, said, “Let me ask you somethin?”
I had learned,
frequenting this dump, to avoid Angelo's ‘let me ask you something’. Best to
change the subject.
“Hot in here Angelo,
air conditioner broke?”
He wrinkled his brow,
and, his eyes requiem black, he leaned over the bar and like I was a piece of
little Melba toast, spread garlic laced words on my face. “Let me ask you a
serious question.” Some oregano in there too.
I said, “I really don't feel like a serious
question.”
“No no, this isn't
serious serious. It's kind of personal serious, know whan I mean, like life and
death?”
“Okay, what?”
“What did you do to
Snakebite's number one hum?”