Authors: G L Rockey
I closed my eyes. I
opened my eyes. Angelo bore down on my face. “Peggy quit Snakebite tonigh’,
broke it off,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that … everything … no
singing Saturday nights, nutin. Peggy told him she was in love, gettin’
hitched.”
I closed my eyes,
remembering Peggy's words, last night, after the premiere, about love, quitting
Snakebite, and all that ducky sweet stuff. I didn't take her seriously. I never
had luck with serious.
Angelo interrupted, “And guess who Peggy tol’
Snakebite was the groom to be?”
I opened my eyes.
Angelo glanced toward
Snakebite's upstairs apartment. “Maybe you should leave, now, know whan I
mean?”
I said, “And how is
dear old Snakebite?”
“Broke up, taking it
hard.”
“He here?”
“Lucky for you, no.”
“Too bad, I wanted to
say hello.”
“You'll get a goodbye.”
“Where might he be?”
“Just left, went down
to his ranch, pissed.”
I drained my drink and
pushed the glass forward. “Hit me again, Angelo, right on top. Make it a
double.”
“Dumb.” Angelo said as
he poured then walked away. “Dumb.”
Wurlitzer clicked and
Willie Nelson sang “Georgia”.
It was then that I saw
again the Tall One, Gillian Phoenix. It was like one of those signs on the
highway, you pass at 80 mph, think, there was something there I missed and you
know you have to go back and see it again. This was like that. I gave a little
wave, said “Hi.”
She smiled back, “Hi,”
and went to the back area where the dressing rooms were.
I called, “Hey
Angelo.”
He returned slowly and
leaned over the bar. “You still here?”
I said, “Would you
please ask Gillian to come out here, I'd like to ask her something.”
Angelo munched a
martini olive and wagged his finger in my face. “Don't even think about that
one, you won't see what hit ya, Snakebite's got big plans for her.”
Perplexed, I said, “If
Snakebite is eyeing this Gillian why is he so upset about Peggy dumping him?”
Angelo frowned,
“Snakebite's in love with Peggy, stonzo.” He peered down his nose. “’At's
different.” He sashayed to the service bar.
Willie Nelson singing,
I turned to the back bar and stared at, six feet away, the family of liquor
bottles setting on glass shelves and I was thinking how things were angling
together, ninety miles an hour, toward that intersection with no stop signs.
Then there she was
again, the tall willowy Kitten who was Gillian. She stood at the service bar.
She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. She smiled again and the sign you
miss at 80 MPH, you’re back and it’s in your face and you know you were right.
She went to a booth where a couple lounged.
I sucked my ice and
banged my glass for Angelo. He looked, waddled down, and in my face, said
again, “You still here?”
I nodded to the Tall
One. “Tell me about the Tall One.”
I noticed Angelo's eyes catching something in
his peripheral vision. He whispered, “I tol’ you, doan even think about….” then
stopped.
Wondering why he stopped,
he never stopped, I smelled that peppery fragrance, touch of incense in there …
yep, in the back-bar mirror, the Tall One had moved behind me. I looked over
Angelo's left shoulder at her reflection. Her face, a high point in time, I
swear I saw a nimbus around her head.
I glanced back to
Angelo. He shook his head and there appeared much trepidation in his eyes.
I looked again in the
mirror to the Tall One's image—same as before, 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. My nostrils filling with her knock out fragrance and I felt myself
turning.
I looked into her
face. Couple years ticked off my end-time. I studied her slightly angled far-away
eyes highlighted by turquoise shadow, then her perfect tear drop nostrils, then
the delicate sheen of coral gloss on her perfect lips, then the plunging cut of
her Kitten outfit. Breathtaking. I went back to her eyes. Something there not
seen in the other Kittens. A discerning. Then I noticed there was a time warp
of something trying to get said in one short second of real-time like a glimpse
of something that is a brilliant light at the end of that long tunnel. And in the
background, a million miles away, cocktail glasses skipped against glass, a
computer spit out a cash receipt, a million mumbled words floated in The Cat’s
smoky red air, and Ray Price sang “Night Life”.
I said, “May we help
you?”
She said, “I was gonna
ask Angel somethin?” Her voice was some kind of after dinner drink—warm,
Amaretto, Drambui, Grand Marnier, clinging to the sides of a snifter, touch of
Cherry Herring in there too.
Stopped, I said,
“Angel? You mean….” I turned and looked at Angelo. “Angel?”
He shrugged. “Kiss me,
I'm Italian.”
I turned back to her.
She looked at me and,
it seemed, on through to Hong Kong.
Angelo mumbled, “Jesus
Christ,” and started toward the service bar, yelled, “Back to work, Gillian.”
Angelo gone, I said,
“So what did you have to ask Angel, maybe I could help?”
“I doubt it, I have to
go.”
She glanced around the
lounge like she was making mental notes, recording things, then returned to me.
“You live here?”
I sensed more in her
tone than the question implied, “I'm trying to solve a mystery.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That love at first
sight thing I mentioned to you last night. I think it's true.”
I perceived a quick
tinge of apprehension in her eyes.
But she's sticking
around.
I said, “So you just
started working here, huh?” I blew smoke in the air.
She pointed (elegant
hands, long fingers, nice nails, nice polish, no rings) to the warning label on
my pack of Salems.
I said, “I only smoke
when I drink.”
She looked through me
to southern Peru.
I thought I'd fish.
“So, do you know Snakebite well?”
“He's the owner,
whaddaya think?”
“I know him too, kinda
… a little, to see him.”
“What happened to your
cheek.”
“Shaving, Norelco
threw a blade.”
She looked through me
to China, “You the Peggy Moore connection around here?”
That floored me. “I….”
“Hey.” Angelo
returned, hands on hips, trying his best to whisper, said to Gillian, “I said
back to work!”
Gillian looked through
me to Peru again, and left.
Angelo shot me a very
dark look then went to tend another bar customer.
I looked to Gillian,
stepping away, and felt myself moving off center, fantasizing about two plus
two possibilities.
Despite Angelo's
warning, I stayed until closing time making goo goo eyes with Gillian, and I
think, almost sure, she was goo gooing me, but something was holding her back.
* * *
When I got home there
were three messages from Peggy, all of which pretty much said, “Jack, call me.”
I didn't get them and barely remember falling onto my foldout bed.
I awoke to a High-C
variation of “OhmyGawd” and it sounded like my neighbors, early risers, were
not only High-C’ing it, but rearranging the furniture and tearing off some wall
paper between notes.
I checked Blancpain,
Wednesday, just a little after 7:50 A.M.
I showered, dressed in
my Wednesday dress down uniform—Levis, blue button down shirt, suede sports
jacket, western boots and left for TV12.
Winston's top down,
sunshine, cool morning air, driving to the station, I was thinking Gillian and,
for the first time in six months, futures.
* * *
Around just after
11:00 A.M. I got a call from Peggy. She said she had been trying to call me all
night. I told her my machine must be broken again and besides, I was a little
under the weather. She reminded me, “Lunch at 12:30, I'll pick you up, then we
have to go get you that suit for Friday night.”
We got the suit,
Dino's Men's Store, charcoal, three button. She had picked it out along with a
maroon tie, black wingtips, and a silk long sleeve shirt. Returned to the
station, around 5:30 I told Joy I had to go to a meeting, had the executive
producer conduct the 6:00 news critique, asked Joy to tell anybody who asked
that I would not be back, had to attend a Television News Directors’
Association meeting about rules, a lot of technical stuff, would take all night.
I snuck out and went
to The Green Onion, played some keyboard with The Petes and, despite Angelo's
warning, could stand it no more, went to Felix The Cat. Angelo couldn't believe
I was there, lucky for me Snakebite wasn't there, he and Stella had gone over
to his other club, The Pink Poodle.
“Where's Gillian?”
“With Snakebite and
Stella, they’re showing her the ropes.”
The Pink Poodle a lap
dance strip joint, with a la carte on the side, I bowed my head, closed my eyes
and, sensed being sucked into real time, I went to thinking how really fickle
real time is and the nasty way chance behaves.
I had a thought,
looked up, “Angelo, if Peggy dumped Snakebite … what about the, you know,
Peggy-Stella pretzel thing … I mean….”
“I tol’ ya, Snakebite
loves Peggy, maybe he don’t care about bumper to bumper, I doan know, doan whan
a know.”
* * *
Wednesday, futures put
on hold by Angelo's Pink Poodle Gillian pronouncement, Thursday passed
uneventful and Friday, at lunch, Arthur's, Peggy was piqued that I had been
avoiding her the last few days. I told her TV news director meeting, things
popping up all over, busy busy busy. She said, “I been lonely?” (I knew, rumor
going around the station, she was having evening meetings with Berry, in his
office, she couldn't have been that lonely).
Then she reminded me
that I should skedaddle home this afternoon, shower, shave, change into my new
suit. She reminded me that the silk long sleeve shirt was a must. Dinner
tonight at Figlios, reservation for 6:45, veal marsala was excellent, we could
drive over together in her Caddy. Would be back just in time for her 10:00
show, then go to her place for the premiere party. After that, in her words, “I
have a surprise for you, shout it from the rooftops.” Newsperson that I am, I
asked what the surprise might be. She said, “Wouldn't be a surprise, darling …
prepare for the weekend lover.”
Later in the
afternoon, Sago popped in, said we needed to take a ride in Winston, talk about
S-Stuff.
Figuring the afternoon
was shot anyway, I signed off on some paperwork and said, “How about now.”
Studying the scratched
side of my face, he said, “How's the face?”
* * *
Looping around I-265
in Winston, Gillian on my mind, I mentioned to Sago the funny feeling I had
that seemed to be growing stronger, like something strange might be happening
to my DNA, the world's even, evolving in a strange way. Then I told him about
Peggy’s premiere party.
He said like a judge's
death sentence, “Tonight, go home and go to bed, stay there until Monday, call
me if it's not better.”
I felt philosophical
for some reason and said, “Seconds separate events in time, and chance is the
exclusive measure to one species.”
“Maybe you should drop
me off, go home now.”
After a pause, I said,
“So what's with S-Stuff?”
Sago said, “Shortage
of parts. Beaucoup waiting line. Pie-in-the-sky bucks, makes Al Capone and
Prohibition looks like a night of bingo with the Sisters of Mercy. And the one
that takes the pineapple upside-down cake … a good brain is bringing $999.”
“Let me guess.”
“Alzheimer's patients.
Problem is, a male recipient from a female donor, he thinks he is a she.”
“Joke right.”
“So is human history.”
“How did we get from
there to here?” I said.
“I think it has
something to do with money.”
“I wonder about
changing species.”
“The family of man,”
Sago said.
“I think it's persons,
now.”
Sago said, “Whatever,
stuck in the DNA we call us.”
“Wonder when we'll
move on to the next level of somewhere.”
“Not till we get it
right.”
“I know one thing for
sure. The faster we go the slower we move.”
“We?”