Time and Chance (2 page)

Real Time

6:35 P.M. Central Standard Time (CDT)

Tugging on her red
suspenders, F.B.I. Special Agent in Charge, Bonnie Castiglioni, sat at her
Atlanta office's round conference table with Tennessee Bureau of Investigation,
Nashville Bureau Chief, Guy Pickle.

Looking more like
Columbo than Columbo, Pickle said, “You said that.”

Bonnie ran her right
hand through her butch cut black hair. “It's a new twist, Pickle, scumbag angle
of the week.’‘

Bonnie snapped her
suspenders, stood and walked to a swath of window overlooking the sparkling
steel and glass high rise building of downtown Atlanta. She turned and leaned
against the marble sill. “You know our jurisprudence darlings, to prove someone
is dumping in the water, you gotta have a witness to the act. We need someone
to go undercover, Pickle, catch a scumbag we suspect is dumping in the water.’‘

Pickle joined her at
the window, “I'm listening.”

“We have good evidence
that points to a Houston connection who is hooked up with a five star scumbag
who lives in your fair Music City, runs a string of strip joints, massage
parlors, owns a C&W night club—Felix The Cat—that features female servers
called Kittens.”

Pickle, not surprised:
“Snakebite Walker.”

Bonnie nodded, “The scumbag
also runs a little ranch, twenty miles south of Nashville, uses it as some kind
of charity write-off, supposedly something for disadvantaged kids.” Bonnie gave
Pickle a stare. “Hello.”

Pickle: “So where are
we?”

“You have a special
agent, could pass for Ms. World, make a dandy Kitten.”

Another no-surprise
look from Pickle, “Joyce Kensington.”

“Undercover … she'd
have to volunteer.”

Pickle thought a
minute, “Knowing her, she will.”

“Can she act?”

“Whata’ ya mean?”

“She's got a law
degree, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She'll have to go
back to school, as in backwards, let's go get some lunch, I'll explain.”

CHAPTER 3

Jack’s Time

I concluded the
producers' meeting with, “It's like Goliath kills David, no story.”

After a pregnant
pause, everyone gone, I made a few notes, filed them under “notes”, and noticed
a cigarette burn near the knee of my khaki Dockers. The burn seemed to match
the surrounding khaki, so I rolled down the sleeves of my blue dress shirt,
loosened my Land's End ecru tie, retrieved my blue blazer from the back of my
office door, and started off to meet Sago.

In the TV12 lobby,
standing at the front door, Sago—white Nike running shoes, white slacks, black
V-neck shirt, orange (station color) TV12 rain slicker—looked out at a wall of
only-in-Tennessee spring rain.

I pushed the plate
glass door open, “Let's go.”

He said, “Where's your
trench coat?”

“At home.”

We dashed through the
downpour to Winston, got in, and I started the engine. Exiting the parking lot,
windshield wipers flapping like they were in a hundred yard dash, Sago asked if
I would please stop at Krystal. He had to have a bacon cheese.

Rain pounding
Winston’s canvas top, radio on, a female voice on our sister station, WTNN-AM,
announced through the drone: “…people living in low lying areas should be ready
to move to high….”

Over the announcer,
Sago said, “You just ran a red light, Kemosabe,” (he called me Kemosabe … the
vintage Lone Ranger TV series, now on Youtube, backwater cable channels, he
watched it regularly).

I said, “So what's
going on with S-Stuff?”

He snapped the radio
off, “Missing kids.”

“Missing kids?”

“Missing kids aren't
so missing.”

Sago could see chicken
tracks on a concrete road. He also had an acute sense of smell like Ike, a
hunting dog I had when I was fifteen. Ike sniffed out wild animals. Sago
sniffed out nice tame things, as in human, what he called, unique to the
species—murder, rape, torture, war—to name a few of the shenanigans unique to the
species you and I happen to be members of.

I said, “How so?”

“Something is pointing
close to home.”

I pulled into a
Krystal (after several incidents involving human ingenuity associated with
strange things ending up in cop's hamburgers, Sago feared restaurant drive-thru
windows), stopped close to the front door and said, “You gonna tell me now or
make me wait ‘til you get a bacon cheese?”

“Mike 'Snakebite'
Walker.”

He got out, slammed
the door, and ran inside.

* * *

So you'll know, Mike
'Snakebite' Walker, is Nashville's own albino bookie scumbag who happens to be
the owner of a local strip joint called The Pink Poodle. The Pink Poodle is
advertised as totally nude, a hundred main course ladies for every taste. For
dessert, he offers, across the county line, the Lips & Stick massage
parlor. He is also proprietor of Felix The Cat, a country and western night
club which boasts a restaurant called The Haute Cuisine. I've dined there once
which might tell you something. On the other hand, I occasionally frequent the
basement night club. I had come to know the personable bartender, Angelo Rich
(Rich short for Ricigleano, not sure of the spelling). Angelo was a comic
diversion and he poured a pretty good drink. On my frequent visits to The Cat
(nickname for the lounge), I never met Snakebite but had seen him slinking
around corners and crevices a couple times.

His nickname,
Snakebite, I was told, came from a nasty habit he had of striking out at things
(usually human) that displeased him. The strike, I was told, the speed of
light, was sometimes followed by a lick with his long black tongue.

 
Snakebite, I was also told, a third generation
albino, his irises pink, light blinded him and, when angry, the pink turned
red. His true age a mystery, he was thought to be around thirty. I was told all
this by the person aforementioned, bartender Angelo Rich.

At the outset it
should be explained, in the news business you find things out—good, bad,
whatever, in many ways, just do. It comes by way of leaks, sources, press releases,
telephone calls, official spokesperson, wire services, other media, and a lot
of over-the-fence, under-the-fence, around-the-fence gossip, and the World Wide
Web, Internet of which you read between, above, and below the lines.
Information also comes via audio and video recordings. These last two marvels
have made life different, i.e., before CDs and tape, everything was now, as in
live. Now, now is before, after, or in between. Reality and time are mixed up,
real and otherwise, in history. It also should be noted, some people think news
directors deal with news. They don't. They deal with General Managers, Sales
Managers, producers, on-air talent egos, promotion people, and ratings. Mostly,
anyway.

* * *

Sago returned and I
drove, opting for city streets to avoid traffic-glutted I-24, toward downtown
Nashville. The scent of Sago's Sea Breeze (he used Sea Breeze as aftershave
lotion) along with his bacon cheese Krystal, filled the stuffy cockpit.

While he ate, I said,
“So what about Snakebite?”

Like he does, he said
out of the blue, “Wanna hear a good one.”

“Sure.”

“This one takes the
pineapple upside-down cake.”

I waited.

“Some Ph.D. guy over
in Finland, breeding clones for transplant parts, got a female pregnant, says
he's ass over tin cups in love with her, planning to get married, but he's got
problems with the Pope.”

After fifteen seconds,
I said, “Okay?”

“Pope says he can't
get married, clone doesn't have a soul.”

“Joke, right?”

“True story.”

“Get out.”

“Yep.”

“Don't throw that
wrapper on the floor.” I shifted into third, turned at Jefferson, and after a
distilled moment Sago said: “And, kick in the benign of all time, guess who
Snakebite is an acquaintance of?”

“Who?”

“None other than our
own Berry Frazer.”

Berry Frazer the
owner, President-slash-General Manager of our place of employment, TV12, and our
“I sign the checks” provider; I vaguely knew about his Snakebite connection but
not on what level.

I said: “How about a
drink?”

“So how do you think
Joe Galbo is going to work out as your new boss?”

“How about two
drinks.”

CHAPTER 4

Real Time

Saturday, April 14

9:02 A.M. CDT

Sun streaking through
high puffy clouds, a glorious spring morning, Chuck’s Gulf Stream 5 touched
down on the hot asphalt of the M&W Ranch's private air strip, twenty-five
miles south of Nashville, Tennessee.

The Gulf Stream
stopped, Chuck deplaned first and was greeted by a fashionably dressed woman in
her mid-thirties—brown pantsuit, short luminous black hair; her eyes, nose, and
mouth, squeezed into an oval pockmarked face, resembled a football. An inch
taller than Chuck, she exuded a stepmother's warmth. After a brief exchange,
the ‘chinchilla’ was deplaned and introduced to the woman whose name was Stella
Pastorini. After a moment of pleasantries Chuck got back on the plane and it
taxied away for takeoff.

Stella ushered the ‘chinchilla’
to a yellow jeep Wrangler.

Having been fed
methamphetamine-laced soft drinks on the plane, the ‘chinchilla’ sat relaxed
and smiling as Stella drove to the M&W ranch main house. There she was
bathed, cleaned, dressed neatly in a pink dress, perfumed, and offered a Pepsi
laced with more speed.

Stella allowed that
the girl was a lucky little lady, a nice Nashville man, rich, would take care
of her every need. Then Stella showed her to her very own room—cement walls
painted blue, low ceiling, no windows; the space had a TV, CD player,
refrigerator, toilet, and the large bed was elevated and decorated in bright
colors.

Stella told her to
make herself comfy, goodies in the fridge, locked the steel door, peeked
through the tiny window to check on the girl, then, upstairs, Stella called
Doctor Floyd to schedule an appointment—blood work, DNA typing—for the latest
‘chinchilla’.

CHAPTER 5

Jack’s Time

A sharp crack of
thunder woke me. I sat up on the side of my sofa-bed and checked Blancpain—6:02
P.M., Saturday, April 14.

My mouth tasting like
talcum powder, I remember going with Sago to The Green Onion where The Petes, a
four-piece band, played to a jammed dance floor about the size of a pool table.
I also recalled, occasionally the electric keyboard man, Pete, (he and Terri
had taught me some basics) let me sit in for him. Last night, between and
during drinks, I played some jazz, blues, and Sago's steady, a lovely named
Whitney, showed up. She had a friend, name escapes me at the moment, Sago and
Whitney split, I went to friend’s apartment, left around 5:00, made a stop at
Denny’s, two up with hash browns, and got home around 11:00 A.M. and crashed.

* * *

I glanced out my
curtain-less sliding glass door. Rain streaked the fogged surface and lightning
illuminated the room then gave way to dim light coming through the sliding
glass. In the dimness I contemplated my surroundings: a small furnished
efficiency in a sprawling apartment complex known as
The Gray Fox
. My
niche had lime-green wall-to-wall shag carpet, beige walls, a former tenant’s
silver-framed print of Elvis's hit movie, Viva Las Vegas, and a white curtain
rod above the sliding glass doors. The glass doors led to my private 4x4 foot
deck which had a spectacular view of the asphalt parking lot. The furniture was
furnished furniture.

I don't like to think,
let alone talk about it, but that “life paths you're on that is going along
duckily but fate runs a red light and you find yourself on the 'why' road with
no reason” comment, I made a little while ago, I suppose requires a short fast
explanation:

After my soul mate,
friend, wife, classical pianist (she performed with the Nashville symphony)
Terri, the most beautiful person on the face of the earth, six months ago after
a five year war (scanned, drugged, cut, chemoed), thirty-two years old when
they discovered the breast cancer, died, she was three months pregnant with our
first child, a girl to be named Francesca after some famous composer Francesca
Caccini, I sold everything, moved here … enough!

I got up, started a
pot of coffee and reread a sub-headline of yesterday's Tennessean that I had
picked up at Denny's:
TV12 Ups Galbo, story p. 1D
.