by G L Rockey
The tour ended in a large room dominated by a white stone fireplace which glowed with crackling flames. On a wall beyond hung a motion picture-sized projection screen. To the left, on a white baby grand piano, in a Liberace-like candelabra, a dozen white candles burned. Next to the piano, seeming to grow out of the floor, sat a marble top bar with five white stools. Several gold framed character sketches of sports and movies celebrities adorned the wall behind the bar.
Looking around, the white candelabra candles burning, scores of other red, white, large, small, fat and tall candles flickering everywhere, Carl was reminded of St. Jerome's Cathedral at Midnight Mass.
Seeing his interest, Tommi confessed that candles were her favorite source of light. Beyond the candlelight, the night glimmer of downtown Detroit twinkled through floor to ceiling windows. Tommi said, “Here we are, my cuddly favorite space.”
“Nice fireplace,” said Carl as he lit a Kool.
“It's gas, ceramic logs, who wants to mess with big ole logs.” She flared her eye and drew on her cigarette holder, “Wood logs that is.”
“Right.”
She invited him to sit on the long white sofa which faced three matching easy chairs.
She swayed to the bar. “So sweetie, what may I fix you to drink?”
“Rum and Coke.”
“Appleton rum okay?”
“Nothing but the best.” Declining the sofa offer, he followed her to the bar and sat on a stool.
Tommi mixed his drink and presented it on a blue High Five cocktail napkin. Then she took a bottle of slivovitz from a bar refrigerator and poured an ounce of the liquor in a brandy snifter.
“That that Polish moonshine stuff?” Carl said.
“Slivovitz, yes dear.”
“Don't light any matches.”
She chuckled.
“Let me see that bottle.”
She handed him the bottle.
He took it and looked at the label. “This stuff really 70 percent alcohol?”
“Believe it darling, put some of that on a cat's raw behind and watch him run.” She flared her eyes, sipped and changed the subject. “You're probably wondering why I asked you over.”
“I guessed, maybe radio advertising.”
“You devil, you, how did you know? Saluda`. Shall we dine?”
“Starved.”
“Bring your drink.”
She led Carl to the elevator, and they entered and began a slow descent. Fifteen seconds later they exited into a roar of kitchen noise as servers, cooks, and bartenders shouted, cursed in and around the smell of cooking fat, aged beef, and Roquefort dressing. In there, too, was a whiff of clams, oysters, and fish.
Tommi and Carl walked through the kitchen maze and entered, through automated swinging doors, the High Five dining room.
Quickly greeted by a sassy lady hostess, they were seated in a corner booth that normally accommodated eight. White tablecloth, wine glasses, shiny flatware.
Tommi ordered a bottle of Beaujolais, then selected for Carl the special King Cut porterhouse steak. “How do you like it done, Mr. Carl?”
“Raw.”
“Somehow I knew that.”
Tommi had the petite fillet, medium rare.
Drinking and eating, they talked of advertising, and that led to talk of sponsorship of Carl's Playing for Keeps show. Tommi wondered if Carl would be possibly interested in doing one or two broadcasts live from the High Five, “A remote, I think they call it, be a smash.”
Carl liked the idea, would talk it over with the WJJ brass.
Flamed prickly pear ice cream for dessert, they sipped Grand Marnier and smoked thin Macanudo cigars.
Puffing off a delicate stream of smoke, Tommi said to Carl, “Why don't we go back upstairs, I have something you might be interested in.”
Short elevator ride up, entering Tommi's “cuddly favorite space,” Carl stopped and stared. Sitting on two bar stools, dressed in mesh see-through everything, two young ladies sipped from long stemmed Champagne glasses.
Mellow Stan Getz jazz playing in the background, the ladies smiled.
“Surprise, surprise.” Tommi said and introduced Mindy and Pearl to Carl. Mindy a blonde, Pearl a brunette, Carl got a moist kiss on both cheeks.
After drinks fresher-uppers, Tommi walking to the sofa, said “How 'bout we see a movie.”
All invited and sitting on the sofa, Tommi pressed a remote control button, Mindy and Pearl cuddled up to Carl and, on the motion picture screen, video played:
A young female dressed as a french maid scrubs a floor. Enter a tank of a man. A Zorro mask hides his eyes. He cracks a whip at the maid. She shrieks.
As the maid shed her clothes and assumed a kneeling position, Mindy and Pearl tugged Carl up and led him to the guest bedroom.
Seeing the bedroom door close, Tommi slipped into her office which had a one way mirror view of the Carl, Mindy and Pearl show. Just in case she needed it for future reference, video recording equipment captured the triple X pretzel looking performance.
CHAPTER TWO
A funny thing happened on the way to the Super Bowl. The game just two Sundays away, Carl was in East Lansing for the weekend. Exceptionally cordial, humble, T.S. even rubbed his legs. Rachelle saw the little boy. The one who had suffered a one-in-a-million accident that crippled a fame and glory career. Friday night in bed he was meek, docile, giving, pliable, sensitive even.
After sex, as he wiped Rachelle's body with a cool wash cloth, he gently broke the news: he was having a little get-together next Sunday at his place in Detroit to watch the NFC AFC Championship games. The games would decide the Super Bowl combatants. Corky and his wife Sandy were invited; he thought it would be nice if Mrs. Bostich were there. Her Pisces desire-to-please emotions taking over, she agreed.
Thrilled with the win, Saturday night, Carl scored several touchdowns in bed with Rachelle.
The next week, Rachelle in Detroit for the football party at Carl's apartment, she awoke in the wee hour of Sunday morning to an annoying itch in her pubic area. She went to the bathroom, tuned on the light, and looked. Little white insects crawled in her pubic hair. She screamed.
Carl entered. “What you screaming about?”
“What in the hell are these.”
He remembered Mindy and Pearl at Tommi's, the romp in Tommi's guestroom. The next day he had found crabs on himself, bought an over-the-counter lotion and thought he was rid of them. His quarterback-in-trouble mode scrambled, “Oh, that's nothing, I wondered if you got them. I found them on me last week. Corky got 'em too, we figure it was the men's locker room at the health club. Crabs.”
“You can't get them like that, can you?”
“Sure you can. There's some stuff in my medicine cabinet, take a shower, lather yourself up good, wait twenty minutes, rinse, kills 'em fast.”
“What about the bed clothes?”
“Change 'em, pajamas too, I'm gonna sleep on the sofa.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Like what.”
****
Sunday arrived and, everyone having a drink, watching the pre-game TV shows, Carl and Corky made a bet on the point spread.
Sandy said, “I never did understand how that stuff worked.”
Rachelle shrugged.
Corky said, “It's the number of points a team has to win by. Say the point-spread is San Francisco by ten points. If they win by only seven points they win the game but the bet is lost. Get it?”
“No.”
Carl stepped in, “Let's say San Francisco ends up playing Philadelphia. I think they will.”
“BOOOO” from Corky.
Carl, “If San Francisco is the favorite by ten points over Philadelphia, the point spread would be San Francisco by ten points. If you bet the ten point spread, San Francisco must win by ten or more points or you lose.”
Shaking her head, Rachelle invited Sandy to the kitchen.
There, preoccupied wit
h that locker room story about crabs, Rachelle said, “Scary thing.”
“What's that?”
“Carl was telling me some people at his and Corky's health club were passing around pediculosis pubis.”
“What's that?”
“Crabs.”
“You're kidding me?”
“Carl said Corky got them too.”
“Corky never said anything to me, dear, and you'd think I'd be the first to know, now wouldn't you. I'd kill the son of a bitch.”
Rachelle paused, Carl, you bastard liar you.
The game over, Carl and Corky smashed, Corky and Sandy gone, Rachelle confronted Carl. After a blistering argument, she drove back to East Lansing.
CHAPTER THREE
The short dark days of winter, cold, icy with freezing rain, blowing snow. Seth, with a full course load, worked at da Vinci's as many hours as he could fit around his class schedule. Seeing Rachelle in everything, he had written her off to insane infatuation and juvenile fantasy. Com. 501 formal classes were not meeting until March, just private sessions with Dr. Zannes, by appointment, to keep on track with individual projects were scheduled. Seth hadn't done any more work on his story idea. He hadn't made any appointments with her either. He didn't want to see her.
All this eating his mind, to escape, needing subjects for a class assignment, he went to Lake Lansing Park. There he took digital pictures of fishing huts on the frozen lake, ice boats, skaters, children cavorting in the snow. He thought he saw Rachelle driving by once but couldn't be sure. More photos—a skater wearing a red toboggan hat, evergreen trees dripping with snow, a fisherman in his hut sipping on a pint of Old Crow, two bluegills on the ice at his rubber boot encased feet.
He took the snapshots back to his apartment, loaded them into his computer, printed the pictures, then used the photos as studies. He painted furiously—titanium whites, cobalt blue, yellow sun reflecting off the ice and snow, purple shadows, rubber boots, tiny fish—but she was always there in the back of his mind.
Forget her; she's a different person, changed since that first day. Maybe it's you that changed. Maybe you imagined it all from the start. Think about it. A professor, married to a famous jock, why would she look at a starving artist with not even yet a bachelor's degree. Dreamer. So what else is new? Damn! I don't want to see her. Why put my head in a blast furnace. Yes, but at some point you have to if you're going to pass the course. Blah blah blah. Damn!
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday, January 20
A typical Michigan January morning—battleship gray, sleet expected to turn to snow later in the afternoon. Carl, working the phones on his Playing for Keeps radio show, came up to a 4:30 break for local news. He lit up a fresh smoke, took a sip of coffee, and Max, his call-screener, wheezed over the intercom, “Hey man, there's a Tommi Gilmour on line one. Says she needs to talk to you.”
Carl picked up.
Tommi needed to see him about something important, couldn't discuss it over the phone, could he come by this evening. She told him she would have her limo driver pick him up, same time, 6:30. Fine.
Carl wondered if this was going to turn into another of Tommi's Mindy and Pearl treat nights. Maybe two new ones. Then again, maybe Tommi wanted to press him on doing his Playing for Keeps show from the High Five.
Radio show over, Carl, picked up by chauffeur Gus, driving cross town, called Rachelle from the limo phone:
She answered, “Hello.”
“Still mad?”
She hung up.
He re-dialed.
She answered. “What?”
“I talked to Corky, he said he did get them. Picked them up at the health club, Sandy was lying to protect him. Call Dent, he got 'em there too.”
“That'd be like calling sewage to ask if garbage is smelly.”
“Love you.”
“Save it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Tommi Gilmour wants to see me, going over to her place.”
“Lucky you. Anything else, I'm busy.”
“Bite me.”
She hung up.
****
Gus pulled the limo into the High Five parking lot and drove up to the closed garage door. The door opened, he drove inside. Carl told Gus he knew the routine, got out, was buzzed through the inside back door and went up the stairs.
Half way up, Carl noticed standing at the top, a fireplug Asian male dressed in white karate garb, a black belt tied at his waist. His bald head shined like polished brass.
Climbing the stairs, Carl: Is this a bad imitation of a TV show or what? He arrived at the top and noticed the fireplug had a gold earring the size of a quarter hanging from his right ear.
Carl said with a sneer, “When’s the show begin?”
Fireplug didn't smile.
“Just joking, I'm here to see....”
“I know.” Carl did a double take at hearing fireplug's thin falsetto voice then said, “You have a name?”
Fireplug almost sang, “Peter. Follow me.”
Following, Carl noticed Peter oozed a fruity cologne odor.
Arrived at Tommi's familiar living room, fireplace roaring, Carl noticed there seemed to be more candles burning than the last time he was there. Then he saw Tommi standing at the end of the bar—now a platinum blond, saucer-like silver rings dangled from her ear lobes, and her softball-sized breasts bulging from the top of her V cut red sequined dress. The dress was ankle length and red high-heels matched the color. She took a drag from her silver cigarette holder and coed over exhaled smoke, “Hi there doll, come in, come in.” She moved toward him and extended her right hand. Inch long fingernails were painted like little American flags.
As they shook hands, she kissed Carl on the cheek. Peter made his way behind the bar.
Tommi said, “Rum and Coke, Mr. Carl?”
“Yep.” He lit a Kool.
Peter mixed.
Tommi's slivovitz sat on the bar in a brandy snifter the size of a small fishbowl. She picked the snifter up, sipped, then said, “Gonna be one hell of a Super Bowl this year, huh Mr. Carl.”
“Eagles and 49ers, I'd say.”
“Point spread 49ers by six. Think that will hold?”
“At least.”
Peter shoved a drink in front of Carl.
Carl sipped.
Tommi dragged, inhaled, blew smoke in the air. She looked to Peter, “We need to be private sweetie.”
Peter nodded and left.
Tommi went to the sofa and patted for Carl to join her, “Come, join me.”
Carl hesitated then went and sat on an easy chair opposite her.
She said, “Afraid of me, big boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Stinker.” She chuckled, “Isn't that just fabulous news.”
“What's that?”
“Dent is going to be officiating the Super Bowl this year.”
Surprised: “He is?”
“You didn't know?”
“That sorry son of a … no. But then, I haven't seen him for a few weeks.”
“Neither have I. That bugger has been busy, I bet.” She smiled, paused, played with her cigarette holder, took a drag, blew smoke in the air, “Carl, how well do you know Dent?”
“Who you ragging, Tommi?”
She rolled her eyes. “Listen to this stinker.”
“You know I know him, he's my best friend.”
“Old pal from your Irish Notre Dame days, right?”
Pausing, he detected something in the air, like a linebacker might be going to blitz on the next play.
Tommi chuckled deep in her throat, sipped, dragged her cigarette, held smoke in her lungs, then exhaled thick words, “Carl, how can I say … some people are having a few problems with Mr. Dent.”
“Oh, how's that?”
“Arithmetic, you know, two plus two is coming up zero.”
Carl shrugged.
“I'm not following you.”
She tapped ashes in a silver ashtray. “I've been working with Dent for a few years now.”
“I know, he told me, he invests for you?”
She batted her eyelashes, “Other way 'round, honey.”
Tilting his head, “Ms. Gilmour, I lost you back at the ten yard line.”
“Ever hear of a beard?”
He smirked, “Yeah I used to grow one, in college, before the Michigan game.”
She laughed, “Smarty pants. I'm talking 'bout gambling, dear.”
Disdainful: “Tommi, are we getting at something?”
She stared into his eyes, “I am Dent's beard, honey pie.”
Carl tipped his head like an end had just dropped one of his touchdown- winning passes, “Tommi, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“I place gambling bets for Mr. Dent.”
With a puffed sneer and much finality: “Bullshit.”
“No dear, true shit.”
“Bullshit.”
“You are such a stinker.”
Carl stuck his right index finger toward Tommi's heart, “You telling me YOU place gambling bets for Dent Ruffin?”
She nodded her head slowly, “Mm ha.”
“You're a goddamn liar!”
“Honey, believe me.”
He stood, “I'm getting the out of here.”
Peter appeared.
She inhaled, smiled a cap-tooth smile, blew smoke in the air, said to Peter, “Was this stinker a quarterback or what?”
Carl threw his glass at the fireplace. It shattered.
“Ahhhh, Carl, you disappoint me.”
“Disappoint your giggy, I'm getting out of here.”
Peter stepped toward Carl.
Carl stared at Peter and fisted his right hand. “You want a piece of this, mother fucker, come on.”
Tommi said, “Carl, Carl, please, no violence.”
“Then tell this prick to back off.”
Tommi waved her hand.
Peter left.
Carl sat.
“That's better.” Tommi lit a fresh cigarette. “Carl, I know you are best friends with Dent, but believe me, that bad boy has got his Willy Wonka in a wringer.”