by G L Rockey
“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.
I was familiar with the story—known about it for a week. Other TV12 staffers had learned of it, at a meeting in Studio B, this past Friday morning. The move concerned an event at TV12 that the world, at least mine, was not ready for.
I looked, below the newspaper headline, at a 4x6 color photograph with the caption—L-R: Berry Frazer, Joe Galbo, Jack Carr.
As I focused more closely on the photo, it came to mind that I looked like a lightweight standing beside two Happy Valley giants. I studied Berry—carrot-colored hair (most of it a rug), blue eyes, long thin nose, small mouth, pointed chin. Just turned thirty-seven, the photo didn't show his plumbing problems and bad back. His plumbing problem is what is called “hyperhidrosis”, i.e. excessive perspiration. He also has a chronic drippy nose which he blames on the Tylox medicine he takes for his back pain. An avid amateur photographer, he likes to take, I had heard, pictures of women in their knickers, on their knees, or both, from various angles. He is also into big game, as in hunting wild animals, which he kills, has the heads stuffed, and mounted on his office walls.
The other distinguished gentleman in the photo, Joe Galbo, looked like a Mack Truck crossing the white line and coming at 60mph. His passion was intimidation and he loved goose liver.
I flipped to page 1D and read:
TV12's General Sales Manager Joe. B. Galbo has been named Assistant General Manager of local CBS affiliate, WBFN-TV12. On making the announcement, Berry Frazer, owner, President, and CEO of WBFN, commented, “Joe is a dollar-a-holler salesman, started his career selling radio advertising at WDTF in Chattanooga.”
Galbo, a native of Chattanooga, before moving to Nashville three months ago, was General Sales Manager at WATT-TV Atlanta. Joe said, “When Berry called, I had to think about it. Then when he came up with an unbelievable package, I couldn't turn it down. It's hard to say no to Berry Frazer.” Joe assumes his new duties as Assistant General Manager immediately (More at 3D).
I took a deep breath, rubbed my head, clicked my silver Zippo, lit a Salem, turned to page 3D, and read on:
Once a Nashville broadcasting giant, WBFN-TV12 lost its founder, Lamar Frazer, last year. As Berry said, “Daddy bought the farm. Momma gave me the TV station to run. Then, God rest her soul, she died six months after daddy.” Berry went on to say, “I had worked in the family business all my life, part-time then taking over as General Manager. Love to sell. So TV, it comes natural to me.”
With the announcement of Galbo's appointment, Berry added, “With Joe Galbo's Atlanta 'big market expertise', we hope to get our overall numbers back on top.” He added, “Our news is gold, solid as a rock.”
Channel 12 News Director, Jack Carr (third from left in photo) was not available for comment.
I read on:
TV12 was put on the air by Berry's father, broadcast pioneer Lamar Frazer. Originally WNAS-TV (Lamar signed on WNAS-AM in broadcasting's infancy) when Berry took over, he changed the call letters of the TV station to WBFN-TV (BFN for Berry Frazer Nashville), revamped local programming, and began The Sizzle promotion campaign.
Regarding the recent changes, local advertising agency movers and shakers have speculated openly that the TV industry behemoth (popularly known as TV12) is charging blindly around, looking for an identity, when it doesn't need to. A TV12 insider, who wishes to remain anonymous, contends that Berry's changes h
ave hastened the sudden drop in the station's sign-on to sign-off ratings. The insider added, “It's all since the Kid [Berry] took over.”
As to sign-on to sign-off ratings, NBC affiliate Channel 3 has overtaken TV12 and is now number one in Nashville. ABC's Channel 5 comes in second. TV12 is third while FOX's Channel 8 is fourth.
One silver lining, a main stay, has been Channel 12's news ratings that have stayed on top mainly due to the strength of weather icon Luther Mays.
100% of the stock of TV12 is owned by Berry Frazer. The TV station is a subsidiary of Smoky Mountain Broadcasting, Inc., which recently expanded its portfolio when Berry opened The Berry Inn, a 100 room hotel which features the gourmet French restaurant The Pheasant & Grouse.
* * *
Contemplating what gourmet really meant, I put the paper down and remembered what Terri had many times told me, “Two plus two does not always equal four.” She also said, “Truth is not cheap.” She was a gem. Anyway, I conjugated two plus two. It came up three. Berry didn't work in the business all his life. His mother, Libby, had brought him in just a year ago, after his father's death. Then, this past January, his mother died. Before that, Lamar had actually thrown Berry out. That was the scoop anyway, pretty much confirmed by a couple of people, one being my right-arm assistant, Joy Lambert. Joy had been with the station for twenty years. The way she put it, Berry worked in the family business, part-time, while he attended high school. Then, when he flunked out of Memphis State, he took over as General Manager. Then, ten years ago, in her words, “The you-know-what hit the fan”. Evidently Berry had gotten himself into, in Joy's words, “a pinch with gambling”. Turns out, somebody was putting the pinch on Lamar to pay off Berry's gambling debts. The payoff, Joy said, was reported to be “a pretty big wad … in the neighborhood of a million” (she said she heard some days he wagered thousands). She also said, it was rumored, about the debt, that Berry might find himself the ingredients in a can of Puss & Boots cat food. She explained that Lamar and Berry argued off and on for weeks over the payoff. Then, Joy said, Libby told Lamar to pay the debt or else. At the last family, what Joy called, “come home to prayer meeting” in Lamar's office, Berry threw a coffee cup at his father, called him a dumb hillbilly. Lamar booted Berry out, paid off the debt and that was that. Joy could not know for sure, but she had heard, after that, Lamar disinherited Berry but, her only son, Libby never did.
I believe Joy. What she said coincided with what I, in my six year stint at TV12 (Lamar had hired me, liked me, promoted me to News Director, we saw eye to eye on many things), had read between the lines.
To wit, I knew that Berry, before his father died, had been selling cars at Bobby B's Ford Auto World. Berry would come to the station when Lamar was out of town, pass out his business card, and relate how he left the family business so he could be his own man, strike out on the world. He related that it was the best thing he ever did; around the showroom of Bobby B's his nickname had become “Close Frazer”.
I sipped some black coffee and again conjugated two plus two. Came up five this time. I thought, newspaper is wrong or Berry lied, or both. And, one other thing the newspaper forgot to mention: the rumor that Berry was looking to unload TV12, as in sell the farm. One company said to be interested in purchasing the station is S&W Broadcasting, a media giant out of Denver. The deal is reportedly for about fifty million, plus a contract for Berry to stay on as General Manager for, sources said, five years at $200,000 a year plus goodies. The negotiations had started last month, would need to be finalized, then get FCC approval. From what I had heard, a goodly chunk of the fifty million would cover Berry's venture into the hotel business. You see, his new hotel, The Berry Inn, is reported to be in a red hole falling in on itself.
I took a puff, flipped back to page 1, and pondered another Tennessean news story:
RAIN RAIN RAIN
Nashville has been hit by the worst deluge in recent memory. Some predict thirty year flood levels. Many streets are impassable. On the brighter side, ever optimistic TV12's senior meteorologist, Luther Mays says the worst is over, his left shoulder is back to normal. Luther added in one of his patented remarks, “We only had five days a’ rain and people are starting to build arks.” He chastised other Nashville TV weather casters for spreading what he called “Giddy rumors of a thirty-year flood to fetch a rating point or two”.
* * *
FYI, Luther reports our Monday through Friday 5:00, 6:00 and, 10:00 P.M. weather casts. Nashville's native son and TV12's granddaddy weather person emeritus, Luther attends every PTA bean supper within fifty miles of Nashville and some beyond. He belongs to Lions, Rotary, and Kiwanis civic clubs. Silver hair—icon, advertising movers and shakers consider him “the rock of local broadcasting”. Luther had started in radio with Lamar forty years ago.
I noticed my phone ringing. The answering machine on, after two rings, robot said, “Hello, no one is available to take your call at the moment, please leave a message after the tone.”
A beep, then Joe Galbo's voice, “Carr, ya there, pick up.” Heavy breathing. “Carr.” Mumbling. “Carr, this is Galbo, call me at home.”
Click.
I lit another Salem and clicked on my television to check out our 6:00 P.M. News. The set, tuned to my favorite station, Channel 58, Turner Classic Movies, Bogart, in Key Largo, had just shot E.G. Robinson. I waited until Bogart safely headed Santana back to the Largo Hotel then surfed down toward Channel 12. At Channel 46, a preacher caught my eye. I stopped. Tenth Baptist Church of the Mount of Olives, Jimmy Ray Carter, huffed like a Hooterville steam engine:
“…and what if Noah, ah haa, listened to his neighbors, ah haa, had not built that ark, ah haa, ten cubits long and twenty cubits wide, ah haa, we'd all a been up the creek, somebody say hey—men, ah haa. Shum da la mum mum. All in my new book, Big Water Coming, donation of $5.95 or more….”
I said to Jimmy Ray, “If Noah had heeded his laughing neighbors, none of this would be necessary, now would it.”
Jimmy Ray continued:
“For $10.95, we'll include this prayer towel dipped in Jordan River water … shum da la mum, go la tha ka, shum da la mum mum….”
I said to Jimmy Ray, “You're cashing in. Wonder how God is doing?”
Jimmy into more shum da la mums, I muted the set. His speaking in tongues brought back the evening when my Aunt Jane persuaded Terri and me (we were at the grasping-at-anything stage, they had stopped treatment, taken three month old Francesca) to go with her to a healing service at her Pentecostal Church. Reverend Ray Molino, five foot two, black hair (gray eyebrows), inky eyes, played a ruby red Gibson guitar, sang Beulah Land. After the singing, Molino, chanting the same shum da la mum gobbledygook, opened a wooden box and pulled out a six foot rattlesnake. Terri whispered to me “Let's get the hell out of here.” I held her hand.
Looking the snake in the eye, Molino rolled his eyes back and shouted that he had the faith of Paul of Tarsus. Aunt Jane took (actually sort of dragged) Terri up front to get healed. Molino laying hands on Terri, proclaimed her whole. Tarsus Paul evidently out to lunch, the snake bit Molino. He died quickly. After the meeting Aunt Jane quoted her favorite time and chance Bible verse from Ecclesiastes. I know it by heart:
“The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happens to them all.”
Back then I didn't understand. Now, I figure the time part has to be God's. I believed that, still do, like the moon is made of green cheese and frogs eat man legs. Look around. Three fourths of the planet lives on mystery and water. The other fourth lives off mystery and miracles. I mean, time, I can understand. But chance … is that like luck? I mean, what is luck? And what was God doing as Molino died, laughing or crying?
Six month after the snake got Molino, Terri died. Aunt Jane told me she had passed on to be with Jesus. I wanted to go too. I should mention, Aunt Jane was my ‘pa
rents’ since I could remember. Another long story.
I clicked to our news, watched thirty seconds, snapped the TV off, and started to think of what-ifs. I often try to analyze the little what-if jokes from above, which invariably got around to free will, which is always a mistake.
A blast of lightning hit pretty close to my balcony. I glanced at the time, 6:35. Then the thunder. “I need a drink, maybe two.”
Thinking of a good place to analyze things, I remembered what Sago had said yesterday about Snakebite Walker and S-Stuff. So a logical analyze site seemed to be Snakebite’s joint, Felix The Cat. I could not only analyze what-if but also do some sniffing around.
Quickly I showered, shaved, and pulled on a pair of jeans, my sienna cowboy boots, a white polo shirt, brushed my hair, noted, in the brush, a few more threads of silver, grabbed my white London Fog jacket, and headed for the door.
On the way out, the phone began ringing. I went back and checked caller ID. It was TV12.
CHAPTER 6
Real Time
Saturday, April, 14
07:09:10 P.M. CDT
At Guy Pickle's home in Nashville, after dinner, a candid discussion between Guy Pickle, Bonnie Castiglioni, and Joyce Kensington took place.
Bonnie said, “It could get sticky, Joyce. I mean, real shit on a stick. These guys are Marquis de Sade clones, they may come at you, demand whatever you ever dreamed you could never imagine.”
Joyce—gray pantsuit, white dress shirt, inch heel black pumps—sat back and crossed her long shapely legs. Her rum-colored eyes moist, she didn't have to think about it long. She said “Let's go.”
A plan was devised and Bonnie said, “S.O.P, we'll set up a new identity for you, work history, throw in an arrest record. Do a makeover, hair, whole ball of wax. You shouldn't have any problem getting a job at Snakebite’s dump once they see you in one of those peek-a-boo Felix The Cat kitten outfits.”