Authors: G L Rockey
“I know, I know.”
* * *
Back at the office, I
put my feet on my desk and was thankful for one thing. The peace day, the good
day, Saturday, was nearing. For some reason, living, breathing, I didn't feel
guilty on Saturday. I think it came from Aunt Jane. A fundamentalist thing.
With her Monday through Friday entailed work. Sunday, the day of rest, you had
to get up early for three hours of church, Sunday school, preaching, prayers,
and hymns. In later years, skipping church, guilt persists. But Saturday is a
free day, for me anyway, a free day from it all. I think God really rested on
Saturday and I've toyed with the idea of converting to Judaism more than once.
Leaning back, I
conjugated, before you get to Saturday, Friday still has a few ticks to go in
the form of one big bang—a premiere party.
Speaking of bangs, for
the tenth time today, I looked over the past four days' A.C. Nielsen ratings.
Our news numbers, down a point Monday and Tuesday, headed down two points
Wednesday. Last night they were down three points. Channel 3 had taken the
lead. Conjugating the numbers, I reasoned it didn't take a Mr. Ed to figure out
what the cause for the decline in our ratings might be. With Friday's numbers
to come in Monday morning, the start of the new week should be riveting. But
then I figured, party tonight, Saturday coming up, Monday's a life time away.
Peggy called the
office little after 4:00, from her cell phone (she was running behind) and
wondered why I hadn't left for home yet to get changed. I told her, a one-of-those-meetings
things. She told me to skedaddle home and reminded that I was to meet her at
6:30 for dinner. She said she was so excitedly looking forward to tonight's
premiere party. Buddy One Take had confirmed he would be there. She had
something very special to tell me.
* * *
Around 4:30, fearful
of what the something special Peggy had to tell me was, I advised Joy that I
had to go home, shower, change, etcetera, had an engagement. She smiled like
she had reconfirmed her count of the Milky Way. I went to the news room and ran
into Sago. Since I didn't take his earlier advice to go home and go to bed, he
was supposed to meet Whitney at 7:00 but she had been detained (Whitney sold
Real Estate), he wanted to have a TGIF drink.
I started to tell him
about my itinerary for the evening but he pretty much knew everything, had been
invited to the premiere party, was not going, he and Whitney were going to a
movie.
Gillian on my mind
anyway, I didn't have to meet Peggy until 6:30, plenty of time, I said, “What
the hey, let's go, just one, Felix The Cat.”
He said he had to
finish editing a “piece” for the news, would meet me.
CHAPTER 8
Real Time
4:50:01 P.M. CDT
Stopped at a red
light, five minutes from TV12's parking lot, Peggy made a call to Stella: “Hi
Stella, Peg. Are the Rent-A-Big-Screen TV technicians there yet? …good, be sure
they put the screens either side of the bar … how big are the screens … get out
… really … and tell the caterers an extra two dozen shrimp, Jack loves shrimp …
did you pick up the champagne? … good, and check the Jack Daniels, we had a
case, but Jack … oh Stella, don't be that way … we will … let's just get
through this … how many people last count … sixty! …God … gotta go hun, weather
show at 5:00, me and Jack should be there about 10:45 … and Stella, check the
video recorder … playback, be sure it's working … wanta’ get it all … I know
you do … okay, bye.”
CHAPTER 9
Jack’s
Time
On the way to Felix
The Cat, Winston's top down, I stopped at a BP for petrol (Winston preferred
petrol to gas), filled up and made my way to Printer's Alley. I figured one
drink, maybe two, dash home, shower, new suit, pick Peggy up, play it by ear.
After parking Winston
off Church Street, walking toward Printer's Alley, I noted a familiar revolving
bank sign, with time and temperature, moved more slowly than usual—5:05 P.M.,
91 degrees, 5:06 P.M., 92, and the humidity had to be 100 percent. Even the
Bell South ‘Bat-Building’ looked uncomfortable. I know I was, took off my
jacket and slung it over my shoulder. Rounding the corner to Printer's Alley, I
noticed Sago—loose white trousers, white sneakers, orange short sleeve shirt—standing
at the outside steps that led down to Felix The Cat. He gave me a little salute.
I said, “That was fast.”
“I know a shortcut.”
“Figures.”
I skipped down the
steps. He followed and we entered Felix The Cat's cozy basement world. Noisy
tonight, looking around, pretty full house, but I saw no Gillian. I hung my
blazer on the back of 1A. Sago bellied up in 2A.
From Wurlitzer blared
Waylon Jennings’ “Good Hearted Woman”.
Then, like a dark
cloud, Angelo emerging from the back room. Seeing Sago and me, he scowled that
familiar dull black funeral bunting.
Sago said, “What’s a
matter with him.”
“He’s glad to see me.”
Angelo waddled down to
face us. He wore his usual uniform—gray slacks, white long sleeve shirt, red
vest, bolo tie (tonight a jade stone, about the size of my watch, knotted his
bolo), and the Vitalis smell reeked. He said, mostly to me, “What the fuck are
you doing in here?”
“I like the
bartender.”
He nodded up, as in
higher. His eyes had that weary look, like before, trying to tell me something,
as in life and death. He said, “Both you guys might wanna leave, now.”
“We just got here.”
Sago said.
“Is your funeral.”
Angelo, with his priestly moves, manipulated a Jack Daniels bottle then served
my drink on the standard little lacy Felix The Cat coaster.
I said, “Where's
Gillian?”
Angelo grunted, looked
at Sago. “Whata’ you want Sing?”
“Sago.”
“Sago, sing, sung, who
gives a shit.”
“Heineken.”
Angelo, eyes fixed on
me, got a Heineken from the cooler, plumped it down in front of Sago, shook his
head, glanced toward Snakebite's upstairs apartment.
I said, “Snakebite
in?”
“Yep, with his buddy.”
“His buddy?”
“Chuck from Houston.”
“Chuck from Houston?”
Sago raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, ya know, Texas,
they'll be down later.” Angelo reviewed me, “Drink up, then you oughta leave,
know whan I mean?”
Like I said before, I
never appreciated being told to leave any place.
I glanced at the
Budweiser clock on the wall. Little after 6:00 but that was bar time—fast.
Plenty of time for me to be in a new suit, having an Italian dinner, afterwards
going to a premiere party, hearing a surprise announcement. Amazing how chance
gets all balled up with fate. I heard laughter from somewhere behind a bottle
of Chivas Regal.
Angelo wiped, with his
white bar rag, a spot in front of me and said, “Dumb.”
“If any of us were
smart, would we be here?” I said.
Angelo said, “I'm not
talking smart, I'm talking dumb.”
I felt Sago studying
me.
I said, “What time is
it?”
Sago, “Your watch
broke?”
“Yes.”
“6:04.”
Thinking I'd change my
plans a little, I didn't need to wear a suit to Figlios, could go the way I was,
I'd go home after dinner and change.
Somebody said,
you
know, knowing history like I do, I think something bad is about to happen.
I reminded myself: sometimes, if you can keep
a thought from becoming words, like that famous falling tree, reality will move
away.
I noticed Sago and
Angelo staring at me.
Sago said, “Kemosabe,
your lips are moving.”
“You better take him
home, Sing, while he can still move his lips.” Angelo said and he moved down
the bar to another customer.
Sago said, “What’s his
problem?”
Then there she was,
the Tall One, Gillian, stepping from the back room to the service bar. I gave a
little wave and said “Hi.”
She smiled. I smiled.
She smiled again and the road sign you missed is in your face.
Kitty Wells sang from
Wurlitzer, “Honky Tonk Angels”.
Sago said, “Who was that?”
“Gillian Phoenix.”
Sago said, “Eyes hint
of my mother's side, but way too tall for me.”
“I think I'm falling
in love.”
“Are you crazy or
what?”
“I think.”
I turned to the back bar and stared at, six
feet away, the liquor bottles setting on their glass shelves and Sago shaking
his head. Thinking how things were angling together, ninety miles an hour,
toward that intersection with no stop signs, I said, “All in the head.”
Sago said, “My
mother's people think Western man's head up his ass.”
“What about your Dad's
side?”
“They know it.”
I glanced at the time
on the wall. Just past 6:29.
CHAPTER 10
Real Time
6:35:06 P.M. CDT
Peggy, waiting at the
rear entrance of TV12, looked at her gold Cartier wristwatch: 6:36. She
whispered, “Jack is late, he's always late.”
She had an idea. She
went to her office and called her home number. Stella answered. Peggy asked if
maybe Jack was there checking on the party preparations. He liked little
surprises.
Stella said things were
coming together superbly for the party, but she hadn't seen hide nor hair of
Jackson.
Peggy called Felix The
Cat.
CHAPTER 11
Jack’s
Time
The Cat pretty noisy,
Sago gone outside to call Whitney, I noticed Angelo had picked up the house
phone. Talking, he turned to look my way. He put the phone down, approached me,
and said, “You here?”
“Who?”
He shook his head.
“You.”
“No.” I thumped my
glass on the bar. “Hit me.”
“We're all gonna get
whacked.” He went back to the phone, said something, hung up, and returned to
me stone faced. He said, “That was Moore, looking for you.”
I pushed my glass
forward. “Hit me.”
“Your funeral.” He poured
three fingers of Mr. Daniels in my glass.
I nodded to the
service bar where the Tall One had been. “I think I've fallen in love with
Gillian?”
Like I had stolen his
pinky ring, Angelo's eyes catching something in his peripheral vision, was
going to say something but stopped.
Wondering why he
stopped, he never stopped, I smelled a familiar peppery fragrance, touch of
incense in there, then noticed, in the back-bar mirror, just like the other
night, the Tall One had moved behind me. I looked over Angelo's left shoulder
at her reflection. I swear again, I saw a nimbus around her head.
I glanced back to
Angelo. He shook his head like he had lost a game and was going home. He left.
I looked again in the
mirror to the Tall One's image—amazing, hadn't changed a bit. My nostrils
filling with her knockout fragrance, I turned to her, looked in her eyes and
said, “I think I love you.”
She raised an eyebrow
like she was reading my mind and straightened Sago's bar stool. “Who was that,
with ya?”
“A friend,
investigative reporter.”
I perceived a quick
tinge of apprehension in her eyes. She said, “Did he split?”
“No, be back.”
She's sticking around.
I said, “So, when are
we going to go out?” I blew smoke in the air.
She looked through me
to southern Peru then toward The Haute Cuisine stairway and tensed.
I looked there too. A
lanky pock-marked face guy—long sleeve red shirt, gold necklace, red plastic
looking jeans, maroon silver-tipped cowboy boots, big white western hat, T-bone
smile, nose like a tuna—shuffled down the red carpeted steps from The Haute
Cuisine. He gave a little wave to Gillian.
Hope he falls on his
ass, I thought.
I glanced at Gillian.
Looking through me again, she distanced herself a bar stool’s away and I
wondered who this dipshit cowboy was waving at her.
Just then T-bone guy
stepped beside her and I overheard him say, “Hi babe.”
She smiled, “Hi.”
“See you later, right,”
dip touched her arm.