Authors: G L Rockey
“Gobbles.”
“Take that coat off
darlin’, get comfortable.” She squeezed an inch of my maximus, “Nice buns.”
I took off my London
Fog and threw it on a white wingback chair that looked like a ship's sail from
Mutiny On The Bounty.
She kicked off her high heels (toenails
matched her cherry fingernails) and, tiptoeing to the bar, said, “Want to stay
with Jack Daniels … or would you rather have something more recreational?”
“Jack Daniels is fine,
thanks anyway.” I joined her at the bar.
Mixing, “So how long
you been at TV12?”
“Hundred years.”
“Silly Jack.”
“Six.”
She sounded like she
was fishing so I threw in a line of my own. “I didn't see Snakebite tonight.”
Taking ice from a
little refrigerator, “Oh, he had to go on a business trip, Memphis, opening a
new club.”
I knew that.
She put a highball glass
on the bar with ice and a godly amount of booze. “So you work for Berry
Frazer?”
“Yes.”
Making herself a gin
and tonic, she said, “How'd he get that little ol’ TV station, hotel, all that
money?”
I wondered if she knew
more than she was letting on. I said, “Parents … left him everything.”
“He can't be very
old.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“He looks older, I
mean….”
“The rug.”
“Well….”
“The rug, I know.
Where'd you meet him?”
Tasting her gin and
tonic, “We had dinner a few nights ago, Berry, Snakebite, and little ol’ me.”
Interesting triangle,
wonder where Stella was. I asked, “Berry's hotel?”
“No, Snakebite’s The
Haute Cuisine.”
“Oh.”
She seemed in thought,
then said, “Has Berry mentioned anything to you?”
“About dinner at The
Haute Cuisine?”
“Silly. I meant has he
said anything to you about little ol’ me and TV12?”
“What would he say?”
“Oh nothing, just
thought he might have mentioned my name, said something, I'm sure he will. I'm
sworn to secrecy, crossed my heart,” she held up her drink, “cheers.”
Didn't take a Ben
Stein to figure it out but I like to fish. “What would Berry say to me about
you and TV12?”
“I shouldn't tell you …
I should tell you … I shouldn't tell you.”
“Give me a hint.”
She flared her eyes.
“It's a surprise.”
“Give me a ‘when’?”
“Sooner than you
think.”
I pondered my genius
affinity with “sooner than you thinks”.
“I ain't saying no
more ‘bout business tonight. Change the subject.”
Just then the phone on
the bar chirped around A flat. She picked up, and I got this end: “Hello … oh,
hi there … oh it went great … you called the club … when … I musta just left …
what … that limo man was a beast … sent him away, took a cab … no darling …
Angelo and Stella was busy as all get out … packed … of course sweetie … sure.
Guess what … somebody from TV12 was at Felix The Cat tonight … their news director.”
She looked at me,
winked, listened, then said into the phone, “Going to take a hot bath and go
right to beddy-bye, pooped … oh sweetie, me too … you still be back Thursday?
Monday, thought you … oh darlin how sweet … sure I will … when … Northwest,
3:30, sure ‘nough, I'll pick ya up, see ya Monday afternoon then … yes … of
course … can't wait, okay … bye bye….” She hung up.
While she had been
talking, thinking she lies pretty good, I had walked to a large silver framed
photograph hanging over the fireplace mantel.
I heard her say, “That
was Snakebite.”
Why did I know that.
“I surmised.”
I studied the picture
which featured Peggy standing beside a short silver haired man. I noted, in the
right corner of the photography, a scrawled salutation:
To Peg with much success, Buddy.
I felt her squeezing
my maximus again.
I nodded to the
picture and, over my shoulder, said, “Who's the gentleman?”
“That's my producer,
Buddy One Take, President of Duke Label. That was the day I signed a contract,
my life….”
Just then the phone
rang. She said, “Shit,” and went to the bar and picked up. “Hello.” She looked
a little shocked. “Darlin’, I didn't say nothing ‘bout nothing ‘bout TV12 to
him … honest … no, okay, nighty-bye.”
I, surmising “him” to
be me, watched Peggy swagger to the sofa, sit, cross her legs, and serve up a
generous portion of thigh: “Anyway, where was I, oh yes, that picture with
Buddy, it's a very ziggy zaggy story. We was po’ po’ po’, Momma made soup out
of rain water and wood chips. I started singing in grade school, dances,
parties, got married when I was sixteen, to a radio D.J., Uncle Ben, you heard
ah him, he did a little ol’ radio show, hosted the Opry now and then, didn't
last long, him or the radio, died, poor fellah … sidetracked me, then I married
Jimmy Pearl, the singer, you know about that one. In all the papers, he's a
pony's hind end. Anyways, I was going along real good, singin’ with a little ol’
band. We did lounges in Chattanooga, Memphis, Birmingham, Knoxville, you know,
Holiday Inns, Hiltons … then I meet this city slicker, big shot lawyer, Paul
Pike, talked me into dumping Jimmy, said I needed a manager, he would make me a
star, handle everything. Married him. Teeniest itty bitty peter … anyway … I
think he thought he was gonna get a free ride on my career. We was brung up po’
honey, but we wasn't brung up dumb.”
“That might be a
song.”
She paused, “You know
by god, it could be … write that down.” She didn't write anything down but
continued: “Anyway, divorced the S.O.B., ten, fifteen, god, years ago. He has a
practice in Knoxville now. I kept the house, the furniture, everything. He had
no choice. I caught him screwing around. Ha. Bet she didn't feel a thing.” She
looked at me and indicated about an inch with thumb and index fingers. “Littlest
bitty thing, anyway, I got a cash settlement too, bundle. The son of a bitch.”
“Sound bitter.”
“Who? Me? Bitter. Ha.”
She flashed, “My career's about to hit the moon.” She patted the sofa next to
her and, like she might be calling Rover, said, “Come, sit.”
Thinking before things
get any more complicated, get out now. I walked to the bar, dropped off my
drink and said, “Say, I think I better be going.”
“Jack! Don't say that!
You're not going anywhere.” She went to the entertainment center and snapped on
the CD stereo. Her recording of Dogwood Blossoms began playing and she, humming
to the tune, danced with herself.
I lit a Salem and, in
the dim light of a whiskey fog, thought I saw Clark Gable staggering down the
stairs.
Swaying to the music,
humming, she pirouetted over to me, “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Nothing.”
“Let's dance.” She set
her drink on the bar.
Arms around my waist,
leading, she said, “Oh, honey bun, I'm sooo excited about everything that's
happening. It's, I don't know, like things is a four-leaf clover, a pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow, and I'm right in the middle of it all.”
“That is definitely a
song.”
She paused. “You know,
by god, it might be.” She puckered her lips. “Kiss, kiss.”
I pecked her puckered
lips.
“Stingy Jack.” She
took my hand and lead me to the sofa. Sitting, she yanked me down and turned my
head to her face. Her mouth close to mine, her jade gemstones peeked through
thick mascara.
I started to say, “I….”
but she locked her lips to mine and her tongue probed.
Given my natural self-control
and current mellow condition, I reflexively reached to undo some of her things.
Abruptly, she stood,
faced me, and said, “Bastard.”
Thinking I
miscalculated her intentions, I began to stand but she shot her arms to my
chest like a jujitsu ace. I fell back to the sofa.
A thin smile spread
across her face. “Don't you dare move.”
She pushed the straps
from her shoulders and let her dress fall to the carpet. Her amazing nobleness
revealed, she pushed her pink panties off and kicked them in the air.
I tilted my head and
wondered if this is where I get up and go to her … but, no no, you're the
audience, she'll tell you when. To be polite, I smiled.
“What are you smiling
about?”
“Nothing.”
“Bastard.” Buck naked,
she stepped to my knees.
The stereo clicked,
and Ms. Moore's recording of A Night’s a Day In Between Afternoons began.
Kneeling, humming her
Night’s a Day tune, she zipped me free, took a good look and said, “My my, him
impressive.”
What can you say.
She began peeling my
clothes off, throwing them over her shoulder like a shopper searching for a
size ten in a stack of sixes. Finished stripping me, she began a damn good
imitation of Linda Lovelace in Deep Throat.
I touched her hair and
she hissed up quickly, flicking her tongue.
Suddenly lightning
illuminated the room and the ensuing thunder, like a widening crack making its
way along a crumbling wall, crawled across the sky, then fell into the
distance, echoing, echoing, into remoteness, and I felt very alone and empty.
I pushed Peggy head's
aside, stood, went to the stereo, turned it off, and walked to the sliding
glass doors that led to the backyard and opened them.
“What in blue blazes
are you doing, darlin’?” She said.
“Listen.”
“What?”
“Listen.”
“Are you crazy, I was
doin’ ya.”
“Listen.”
“Are you batty?”
“I think.”
It started to sprinkle
rain. I studied the tiny drops plinking little circles on the turquoise pool's
surface.
Peggy came to my side
and cupped my limpness in her hands. “Him got soft,” she said poutily. “You
sick or something?”
I started to go
outside.
“No.” She tugged my
arms. “It's lightning.”
“Take a chance.” I
stepped through the door and stood, naked, feeling pretty good. A light rain
fell and the air was thick with budding honeysuckle, dogwood blossom, magnolia
sweetness, and wet grass.
She stepped next to
me. “What'n the blazes is the matter with you?”
A strange feeling that
someone watched us from the bushes, I said, “Nothing.” She knelt and after some
variations on the Lovelace's performance, she pulled me to the grass and we
began variations of that famous Shakespearian beast with two backs.
* * *
Then it was quiet
except for a few light raindrops. I rolled on my back and felt the coolness of
the grass. A wisp of wind blew across my chest.
She said, “Oh, Jack, I
can't get enough of you.”
I stood and walked
toward the pool.
“Where you goin’?”
“Swim.”
I dove in the deep end
and doggy-paddled to the shallow end where I rested on an underwater step.
Peggy followed,
wiggled her milky white body through the water, surfaced, and sat beside me.
Wiping her face with
her palms, she said, “Penny for your thoughts?”
Thinking, time and
chance is mixed up with a fickle free will thing and the exclusive consequences
are stuck on the smell of humanity forever, I said, “You know how many wives
Solomon had?”
“Silly Jack.”
Lightning clawed the
night sky and thunder, this time like a falling giant, rolled off into the
distance and I felt that yearning after-Terri emptiness that was there under
the surface and the thought came:
nothing
can fill you now … not even sex … move, adapt, or die.
Lightning smacked nearby.
Peggy stood. “We
better go in.”
“Yeah, might get
struck by lightning.”
“Silly. I'm already
struck, you're mine now.”
She took him by the
hand and led me inside.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
Real Time
Monday, April 16, 08:32:05 A.M. CDT
Berry Frazer entered
the TV12 elevator, punched the down button and, while the car descended from
the second floor to the first, twiddled his thumbs.
Twenty seconds later,
Berry—six foot one, white shirt with blue collar, red paisley tie with matching
breast pocket hanky, blue pinstripe suit, Gucci oxblood tassel loafers, yellow
silk socks—strode past the TV12 news room. Five more steps and he entered Jack
Carr's outer office where Jack's assistant Joy Lambert, at her desk, opened
morning mail.