Time and Chance (7 page)

Angelo chimed in,
“This guy runs the whole shootin’ match over there at TV12.”

I corrected him,
“Well, almost.”

Stella stepped next to
Angelo, hands on hips, head cocked, eyebrows lifted, lower lip protruded, and I
had a funny feeling I was being measured for a suit, or slacks, or something. I
said to Peggy, “Angelo exaggerates, but pleased to meet you anyway.”

“Well, pleased to meet
you, too.” She offered her right hand, big sapphire rock grew out of a ring on
her fleshy middle finger.

My right hand in hers,
Peggy said, “I know Mr. Big at TV12.”

“Oh, who's that?” I
said, thinking I knew.

“Berry Frazer.” Her
hand held on to mine, her fingers played hide and seek.

Said I, “Oh, Berry,
Berry Frazer, that's somebody I know too, Stella does too, we work for him,
right Stella?”

I smiled at Stella who
offered up that smirk again.

Ignoring Stella, Peggy
turned her jade irises up a notch. “So what do you do over there at that ol’
TV12?”

“Whatever Berry
wants.” I said.

Angelo, a touch of
concern on his face, said, “Berry is Jack's boss.”

Peggy flashed an I'll-bake-you-a-cake
smile. “Small world.”

“Tiny,” I said.

“So what do you do?”

“I'm the News Director.”

She 00'ed her eyes and
I noticed, observing Peggy's hand grasping mine, Angelo's face turning a
Sicilian black-on-black frown. I also noticed Stella roll her tongue around the
inside of her mouth like she might have a hunk of salt water taffy stuck
between molars.

Peggy released me and
said with a tap on my knee, “Gotta go hun, catch you later, maybe we can, ah,
have a drink,” she tapped my shoulder, “talk about TV … okay?”

What can you say? I
smiled. “Sure.”

“Okaaaay.” Peggy took
her hat from the bar and pranced off.

Stella shot me that
smirk in spades, sucking on a Pall Mall, blew a stream of smoke toward the
ceiling, spun, and walked away toward the service bar.

I noticed Angelo's
black-on-black frown, like a thunderstorm over Percy Priest Lake, growing more
ominous. He leaned over the bar, shielded his lips with his fingers and, like a
trainer when his fighter is losing in the tenth round, said, “Goombah listen,
I'm telling you, don't mess with Moore, that's Snakebite's number one hum, know
whan I mean … no no no. She's a no touchamia.”

“I didn't touch you.”

“Jack, I'm telling
you, no no no, Snakebite will whack us all … no touchamia.” Angelo slid away
wagging his right hand at the wrist.

I hated when somebody,
anybody, told me no, especially ‘no touchamia’. Must have come from somewhere
way back. Delving in way-back issues once, in a bar I asked, “Delusional
(delusions of grandeur), manic/depressive, paranoid … does anybody know what
that is called….” One guy said, “Basically nuts,” I told him just wondering … a
friend was diagnosed. I told him Harry Stack Sullivan could most certainly put
his finger on it, or in it, or something.

* * *

After what seemed a
shorter than usual break, Peggy returned to the stage and, looking over the
crowd, made an announcement: “Folks this'll be our last set for tonight, it’s
been magnificent being with ya all, ya've been great.”

General applause, a
whistle from Stella then a photo flash.

Peggy waved, “Thank ya
and ya all be sure and come back next Saturday night, and bring a friend, me
and my Billy Boys we'll be here every Saturday night from now on.”

Applause, whistles,
cheers.

She looked my way.
“I'd like to dedicate this next song to our celebrity guest.” She pointed at
me. “Right over there, TV12 News Director, Jack Carr, let’s give him a big
hand.”

Applause. One loud
boo.

I gave a little wave.

Angelo clapped once
and shook his head like he had seen a fatal accident along the highway. Stella,
looking brown and awful, tapped her blue fingernails on the bar and Peggy and
the Billy Boys hit Hound Dog pretty good.

* * *

Hound Dog a wrap,
Peggy took bows, threw kisses, and signed autographs.

I held my glass up for
Angelo to see. He shook his head, moved down the bar, retrieved the Jack
Daniels bottle, poured a good shot, and said, “Last one for you.”

 
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peggy
approaching. She sat in 1B, touched my arm and said, “Hi, there, TV12.” Putting
a pack of Parliaments on the bar, she turned to Angelo, “I'll have a gin and
tonic, Angelo, double twist.”

Amid requests for
Peggy's autograph, drinking our drinks, discussing the finer points of show
biz, assorted small talk about TV, distressing glances from Angelo, hateful
daggers from Stella, Peggy suggested a cup of coffee which I accepted. Waiting
for the coffee, Angelo attending other customers, Stella gone to the back room,
Peggy touched my leg and said, “Where's your wife tonight?”

I shook my head no.

After signing another
autograph, she paused a moment, looked me in the eye and wondered if I might
give her a lift home.

That stopped me. Think
about it. I telegraphed, not a good idea.

Her eyes narrowed to
slits. “Just a little ol’ ride home.” Then, without hesitation, she wondered
where I had parked. After telling her where Winston was, she told me we would
rendezvous there in ten minutes. She had to go to potty and change clothes.

If she had simply
asked, I’d have had to say no, but since it was a ‘told me’ rendezvous, I
finished my coffee, pulled on my London Fog, thanked everybody, said goodnight,
and left.

* * *

Going up Felix The
Cat's outside cement steps, subtle observer that I am, I noticed that the rain
had stopped. Walking toward Fourth Street, the atmosphere clear but still with
much humidity, I was thinking how much more perplexing time and chance had just
become.

Turning the corner, I
noticed Winston, next to the curb, no other cars around, seemed humbled. I put
the top down, sat behind the wheel, lit a Salem, and pushed back.

Savoring the night, I
watched, off to the east, silent streak lightning claw at the sky, and in a
moment, muted thunder like timpani echoed over the Cumberland Mountains, and
like I said, there was much humidity in the air.

* * *

Ten minutes that
seemed like an hour passed, then, as if out of thin air, I smelled, thick,
tart, and warm, that ginger marmalade.

I looked up.

Toting a white purse
the size of an overnight bag, Peggy smiled down at me and said, “Well hello
there, TV12, thought you'd never ask.”

I swung Winston's
right door open.

She had changed from
her singing outfit to a white dress that hung loosely from thin strings that
dangled over her shoulder. A deep V sliced her honey dew nobleness in half. Her
dress hem stopped an inch above her knees. Nice bare knees, legs, and her
ankles rode high on white stiletto heels. I looked up. She had noted the look,
smiled, and slipped into Winston. She put her purse on the floor, pulled her
dress to mid-thigh, slammed the door, and said, “Where'd ya get this little ol’
car?”

“Cracker Jacks.”

She pinched my arm,
“Silly,” and squiggled her settee in the seat.

I thought Winston
might blush as a spurt of leathery extract broke the essence of ginger
marmalade for a brief breathtaking moment.

“I got a convertible
too,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Cadillac … cinnamon
apple.”

I wondered where her
cinnamon apple Cadillac might be. I mean, a couple Felix The Cat employees,
departing for the night, might notice a cinnamon apple Cadillac not being gone.

She read my mind,
“Snakebite had me a limo tonight, I told the driver I had another ride.”

I bit Salem's filter.

She slid her left hand
over, squeezed my thigh, and purred, “Get on I-65 south, Belle Meade.”

CHAPTER 10

Real Time

Sunday, April 15

01:45:12 A.M. CDT

Busy washing glasses,
Angelo Rich frowned at the ringing of the house telephone. After eight rings,
glances from Stella, he picked up and grumbled, “Felix The Cat.” Brightening
quickly, he said, “Snakebite, how … great great … ah, ah, she went home … yeah …
big night … said she was beat … I doan know … I … yeah, I guess so, limo guy
was great, she went up The Haute Cuisine stairs, I was busy … how's the new
club going?”

Angelo grimaced,
looked at the receiver, listened again, “Hello….” shrugged and hung up.

CHAPTER 11

Jack’s Time

South on I-65, Winston
purring at 55 mph, sweet honeysuckle air swirling around Ms. Peggy's ginger
marmalade, all in all I felt like you do in a time warp and you begin thinking
life is not that complicated. Then you wake up.

I flipped Salem into
the air and watched, in the rear view mirror, sparks bounce off the pavement.

Peggy tuned the radio
to WSM. The wind buffeting her words, she sang along with Patsy Cline's “Sweet
Dreams”.

While she sang, I
worked on the Berry and Snakebite trade-deal puzzle. For some reason that
Salvador Dali painting of a clock, sliding off a table, came to mind.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the
Salvador pretty much on the floor, Peggy's hand about an inch from pay dirt,
she directed and I turned onto some Lane in Belle Meade.

She said, “Right up
there, my drive is the second on the right. You'll see a light on the
entrance.”

I downshifted and
nodded toward an illuminated white iron gate shadowed by high dark hedge. “That
it?”

“Yes, dear.” She took
a control from her purse, pressed, and the gate swung open.

The driveway was a
soft curve up a good size grass-covered hill to a two storey white Antebellum
house that looked like the Tara mansion in Gone With The Wind and, I imagined,
Clark Gable inside getting smashed.

Peggy said, “Just pull
on up under the portico, dear, you can park there tonight.”

Tonight hanging in the
air like wet paint, I was thinking, this thing has been plowing forward like a
Tennessee Williams' play and it is way past time to slow it down, stop, and
exit.

“Penny for your
thoughts,” She said.

“I was wondering, who
cuts the grass.”

“Silly.” She squeezed
the jackpot.

Pulling under the
portico, I stopped Winston, turned to her and said, “Well, nice meeting you
Peggy, hope to see you again.”

She smacked my leg,
“Don't be silly, you, you're coming in for a nightcap.”

Think about it.

* * *

Holding me to her side
like a sack of Stop&Shop groceries, Peggy unlocked the front door and we
stepped inside. She flipped a switch that, through a wall of floor-to-ceiling
glass, revealed the secluded back forty. She flipped another switch and, from
underwater lights, the aqua water of a guitar shaped swimming pool appeared.
Another flip turned on two pretty good sized lamps that illuminated a plush
sunken den.

She said, “Make
yourself at home, darlin’. I gotta pee pee, be right back.”

She went into a little
powder room off the entrance and I surveyed the opulence of the sunken den—sculptured
white drapes framed the windows; lamp's yellow-white glow spread over a long
white sofa, two indigo chairs, long glass coffee table, and, in the distance, a
good size television screen nestled in what looked like a small recording
studio; in the distance, four white leather stools faced a chrome and silver
cocktail bar. A pink telephone sat on the bar top. To the right of the bar, a
mammoth stone fireplace flowed up into hewn wood beams that accented the
cathedral ceiling and a staircase circled up to who knows where. Everything was
cradled in polar bear-white wall-to-wall carpet.

I heard a flush and,
in what seemed just a moment, Peggy came out humming “Sweet Dreams”. I noticed
her nose, a little red; she said with a smile, “How ya like my little ol’ shack,
darlin’.”

I fibbed, “Similar to
my place.”

“Really.” She stepped
back toward the front door and latched the security chain. “Where do you live,
honey bun?”

“Several places.”

Her arms circling me
from behind, she said, “I bet … all you TV people make just such gobbles of
money.”