Time and Chance

by G L Rockey

  Pickle laughed.

  Bonnie paused, “You have been there, Mr. Pickle.”

  “Just casing the joint.”

  Smiles.

  Pickle: “I interviewed Walker's assistant, Stella Pastorini, worker's comp fraud, premium avoidance, year ago, Walker paid up.”

  Bonnie looked at Joyce, “You involved in that?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been in Felix The Cat?”

  “I prefer the art museum, symphony.”

  * * *

  The conversation proceeded and Pickle suggested that Joyce should move out of her house in the country, rent an apartment in Nashville.

  Bonnie said, “What do you live way out in the country for anyway?”

  “It was my parents' home, willed to me.”

  Bonnie knew of her past. “You need to get an apartment in Nashville.”

  Joyce said, “Just in case, for whatever, should we get my name off the house deed?”

  “Yes, and don't go out there.”

  “I have to, once in a while.”

  “Is there a phone listed?”

  “Yes.”

  Bonnie, “Get it out of there, and okay, once in a while, you can go there but watch it. Anything else?”

  “Rural mail box, names on it.”

  “Change it.” She looked at Pickle, “Pickle, you just bought a house and change the name on that mail box.”

  Pickle: “How ‘bout G. P. Heinz.”

  Chuckles then they discussed more details, Joyce would take a crash course in undercover work, then Castiglioni said, “Phoenix, something tells me Phoenix. You just moved here from Phoenix, you needed a change.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jack’s Time

  Leaving The Gray Fox, I dashed through the rain, entered the leather and walnut fineness of Winston and paused for a moment. The rain pelting the canvas top, I contemplate the phone conversation that, as I was going out the door, I had returned to answer.

  It was from weekend news producer, Wendy Trotter. She said Joe Galbo had called, her words, “in a state of asshole”. Seems he was concerned about the flashflood watch reports from the National Weather Service, and our weather coverage needed to be beefed up, the other guys (TV stations) were cleaning our clocks.

  I suggested that Wendy check with Luther. She said she had. Luther had reminded her that it was only a watch, not a warning, and that she should educate Joe the next time he called as to the difference.

  Sounded good to me and as we signed off lightning flashed and I counted one-thousand-one … and a sharp crack of thunder split the air. It proved one thing, one thousand two and three are not always necessary.

  Winston shook gently.

  I turned the ignition on, the fuel pump engaged, and I pressed the starter button. Throatily, Winston responded and I pulled from The Gray Fox parking lot.

  Down Hickory Hollow Boulevard, shifting through Winston's gears, the wipers flapped a monotonous rhythm, a gust of wind buffeted the canvas top and rain pranced over Winston's hood like a thousand little Fred Astaires. I settled back, lit a Salem, inhaled deeply, and flowing over the slick seal skin streets, I glanced at the time. Little after 7:15. I turned the radio on and listened to our sister station, WTNN-AM:

  “…and in local news, Pastor Jimmy Ray Carter led a group of protestors who camped out in front of the The Pink Poodle show bar. The show bar is allegedly a front for prostitution and offers what Pastor Ray called “A Sodom and Gomorrah cesspool of debauchery.” Owner Mike 'Snakebite' Walker, out of town, was unavailable for comment. Sheriff Wilson, in removing the demonstrators, said only that we have to respect the legal process. Mike Walker is also the owner of popular night spot, Felix The Cat.

  “In a recent raid, several Walker Enterprise employees were arrested for prostitution.

  “And in local weather news, Channel 12 senior meteorologist Luther Mays says keep that umbrella up, it looks like more rain but the good news is, only one of Luther's shoulders is aching. That means sunshine in 24 hours.

  “In other news….”

  I snapped the radio off and glanced, tucked under the dash, at my two-way radio (Berry had given me a pager but it kept breaking, getting lost. Same with the cell phone he handed out). Pondering a call to the news room, I thought of my twenty reasons not to call. Number one was I didn't want to get suckered into another message from the newly appointed Assistant General Manager, Joe B. Galbo. Number two through twenty were similar.

  Stay lost tonight, I thought.

  I stopped for a red light on Haywood Lane, ten miles southwest of Nashville. Twenty minutes to Felix The Cat, pumping the accelerator, anxious for this always torturous red light to turn, my liver commented, hang in there, we're in this thing together.

  * * *

  The light flashed green. I punched Winston through three gears and turned the radio back on. The second white pearl button tuned in classical station, WPLN. Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21 filled the cockpit. The wipers flapped, Mozart played, and as I drove the music brought back vivid memories:

  Vanderbilt campus … warm June evening … fresh cut grass … the orchestra tunes itself … melodic strings, a clarinet trills, a trumpet hits high C, a kettledrum reverberates … the meandering notes fill the night air. People gather on the lawn, a blanket, a folding chair, a pillow. The bushy eyebrows of Professor Strunk as he taps his music stand … meandering notes cease … the crowd hushes … Strunk raises his baton … for a moment stillness, Terri’s hands poised above a Steinway’s keys … Strunk slices the night air with a swing of his baton … through Terri's fingers, the Steinway responds and the night air fills with Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21, C major…. “Fuoco!” Strunk mouths fire and fury and the music explodes. Then, in a fog I hear myself standing with the others, cheering, “Bravo!” Terri stands and bows….

  I remembered a musical term Terri had recited many times when I was getting ahead of myself: Da Capo. I said to the flapping wipers, “Da Capo, from the beginning, take this mother from the beginning!” Then I thought, “But there is no beginning and this is not new.”

  I shifted to fourth and flowed onto I-24 north.

  ***

  Anxious to arrive at Felix The Cat, I nudged Winston to 65 mph. Recently one of my second homes, Felix The Cat is a montage of crumbling red bricks squeezed, similar to a homemade wedding cake, into three layers. Owner Snakebite Walker was reported to reside on the top level. I had never been invited up to Snakebite's living quarters, but I was told they exemplified his simpler needs in life—mirrored bedroom, mirrored bathroom, mirrored kitchenette, and mirrored office. All windowless. I was told this by, guess who, Felix The Cat's bartender Angelo Rich.

  On the street level, the ‘fine dining’ restaurant, The Haute Cuisine, seats around fifty people in a Roman garden atmosphere (Snakebite isn't Italian but the word around town is that he likes to pretend that a Sicilian conqueror lives in some dark crevices of his DNA). The Haute Cuisine's menu fare is what Snakebite bills in local media advertisements as Seafood & Ribs. Items, printed in gold script on parchment-like paper, are things like Catfish Memphis, Jail House Ribs, and Ham Steak Nashville. The house special is The Snake Eye, a two-pound porterhouse with two fried eggs on top, side of rigatoni.

  I always pass on The Haute Cuisine, opting instead for the basement lounge (affectionately known around town as simply ‘The Cat’) where many rivers of Jack Daniels flow in the sway of country and western music, and see-through ladies, called Kittens, serve cocktails, snacks and finger food.

  Angelo confided that Snakebite had personally designed the Kitten's outfits—black plastic cat ears, plunging crimson blouses, green miniskirts, white garters attached to white tongs attached to white fishnet nylons. All this was presented on red four inch stiletto heels. Sources had it that Snakebite supplied Kittens for high-rolling customers’ pleasure.

  Finding Winston had dutifully turned off the expressway at Woodland, I turned left at Third, right at Church and th
ere it was, green and white, warming the rain-misted night: the arching Printers' Alley Marquee.

  I turned left onto Fourth Street and, down ten cars, snuggled into a curb parking space.

  CHAPTER 8

  Real Time

  Saturday, April 14

  07:45:35 P.M. CDT

  On the way home, Sago Yu pulled his red Jeep pickup into a Krystal. He went inside and got a takeout order: four bacon cheese Krystal hamburgers, two large fries, two bowls of chili, and two large root beers.

  * * *

  Home, a one-bedroom Airstream trailer that sat in the middle of a four acres plot, twenty miles east of Nashville, his registered bloodhound Tony Longtoe yelped in joy.

  Sago spread on his kitchen table two of the bacon cheeseburgers, fries, a bowl of chili, and a root beer for himself. The other burgers, fries and chili were put on the floor for Tony Longtoe. Sago poured the second root beer in Tony's beverage bowl and got out of the way.

  Sago, seated at the kitchen table, eating, read an article related to S-Stuff:

  …people have gone missing in many States. One is Texas where police have filed more than 2500 missing person report this year. The number reached 2000 last year. Most people missing are under 18. One example is a sixteen-year-old who went missing six months ago. Her mother reports last speaking to her daughter about 10:00 P.M. the night she disappeared. When she called police she was told they would treat the case as a runaway because there was no evidence of foul play. Theresa told them that was impossible. She had found $200 in her daughter's dresser drawer and none of her personal items, clothes, nothing was missing.

  Finished eating Sago logged onto the internet to do some research. He typed into Google: “missing kids transplant organs”.

  A thousand hits, he clicked on the first item and read:

  Numerous studies show that human organ transplantation are feasible, and enormously beneficial and considered to be the best treatment option for thousands of patients every year. Kidneys, livers, and lungs may be transplanted from a living donor. A heart, pancreas, or cornea transplant must be from people who are brain dead but on artificial life support. Even though they are technically dead, their body is still functioning, which means the organs remain healthy. Organs deteriorate very quickly after death, making them unusable for transplant.

  Unfortunately, the demand for transplants far surpasses the supply of donated organs. Patients who need an organ transplant may become trapped in an elaborate organ distribution system with thousands of people needing an organ being placed on prioritized waiting lists. The lists are made up by boards of directors who decide who will get which organs and when. Simply put, there aren't enough organ donors, so patients must wait months, even years, for their chance at recovery.

  He read another hit:

  Black Market in Transplant Organs—An international group is capitalizing on the organ shortage by kidnapping and/or smuggling live donors into countries. They are whisked to a bootleg clinic where their organs are removed and sold. The organized crime ring profits from the vast need for lifesaving organs and the scarcity of supply. Thousands of people currently waiting for an organ transplant, scores of individuals die waiting. A source who spoke on condition of anonymity called the organ-for-sale ring global and said it operates in several countries including the U.S.A.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jack’s Time

  Winston consoled, snapped up tight, I headed through the rain up Fourth Street. After a short puddle-jumping dash down Church Street, left under the Printer's Alley marquee, in the distance, blinking through the rain, there it was: the familiar red and green neon sign, sagging over the front entrance, pulsed in the likeness of famous Felix The Cat. Felix winked on, smiled off, winked on, smiled off; dripping wet, glowed in the mist. I wondered what interesting tidbits Felix might tell if he could talk.

  You entered Felix The Cat lounge two ways—inside via The Haute Cuisine's sweeping red carpeted stairway, or outside, around the corner, via fifteen cement steps crammed in a narrow cement stairwell.

  Preferring the outside entrance, I dodged around to the side, swung to the steps, proceeded down through soggy bits of street trash, opened the rusty red metal door, and entered. Cozy like a distant bad memory loses its sting with time, the lounge's brick walls oozed gray mortar. The black tile floor hid nicely under the dim indirect lighting.

  A step inside, I noted that the establishment was, more than usual, filled with patrons and, about eye level, a delicate and tart rutting ripeness mingled in and around the scent of Parmesan cheese, anchovies, and cigarette smoke. Brushing some rain from my jacket, I cased the parquet bar. Ten of the fifteen high-back bar chairs were occupied but my favorite seat, at the far end (I liked to think of as 1A, as in jet plane, first class) was open. I also noted that the twenty green upholstered booths were mostly occupied. The booths encircling a modest dance floor and several couples danced to, from the blue and red bubble Wurlitzer, which featured C&W classics, George Jones' “The Window Up Above”. Beyond the dance floor, on the small elevated stage, someone was adjusting a set of drums.

  Walking to my favorite seat, I nodded to, at the service end of the bar, a petite Kitten I knew as Neon—stunning and full-packed in Kitten outfit, her brunette hair cascaded to middle-back, china doll white skin, petite. Another time, another place, maybe. Terri was still too much with me.

  Anyway, Neon was absorbed in something Angelo Rich was telling her. I nodded to Angelo. He nodded back and kept talking to Neon.

  At 1A I put my pack of Salems, along with Zippo, next to a Felix The Cat silver ashtray, hung my London Fog on the back of the stool, and settled in.

  Looking straight ahead, I saw myself peeping, between the standard complement of cocktail glasses and liquor bottles, in the mirror that extended the length of the back bar, at myself.

  I lit a Salem, noted the Budweiser clock on the wall indicated bar time 8:10, and looked back to where Angelo still talked to Neon. I saw he had on his green alligator cowboy boots which put him at around five-eight. I guessed he weighed two hundred pounds. He wore gray slacks, white long sleeve shirt, a red vest, and a bolo tie. Quick as a seal in water, his shiny black hair, held in place with Vitalis—you could smell the hair balm a block away. Other distinguishing features of Angelo: quarter size brown eyes that said “I'm Italian”, a trademark laugh, through his skinny nose “hee hee hee” followed by a snort, Portobelo lips, and stubby fingers that sprouted polished pink manicured nails. His right pinkie held a gold ring the size of a nickel with about a carat diamond set in the gold. Angelo was vain about his many acquaintances, especially TV acquaintances. And secrets with Angelo were like bread cast upon the waters. I always thought he would have made a good news reporter. He told me he was from 'parts unknown' and says wonn for want and whan for what and din for didn't. Full-blooded Sicilian, he is intensely proud of his heritage.

  After giving Kitten Neon a pat on the hand, Angelo strutted down the bar and stood in front of me. His bolo tie had a turquoise stone about the size of my Zippo. He said, “Hey, goombah, you're all wet.”

  “It's raining out.”

  Smiling, “How ya doing?”

  “Great.”

  He presented his right hand in his usual I'm-handing-you-my-last dollar and see-my-pinkie-ring fashion. “How's tings in TV land?”

  “Great, marvelous, couldn't be better.” I extended my right hand.

  He gave, also as usual, one small pump, took everything back and I noticed, approaching us, a lady (small purple camera dangled from a cord around her neck to just below her gumdrop nobleness) of some unique persona that I thought I recognized.

  Angelo said, “Hey Jack, you ever met Stella Pastorini?” Angelo turned to Stella. “Stella, this is Jack Carr, News Director, TV12 big shot.”

  I looked at Stella—cropped short luminous black hair, gold crescent earrings, blue lipstick, blue nails, blue eye shadow, a silver ring on every finger. Her eyes, nose, and mouth, squeezed into an
oval pockmarked face, resemble a football. Three inches taller than Angelo, she wore black leather pants, long sleeve white shirt, black vest, and red bow tie. You couldn't see any, but I had the feeling, under there somewhere, you would find a tattoo or two. I also had the impression that she was much smarter than she looked. I was sure I recognized her from somewhere, but where?

  She blitzed me with a smirky smile (long yellow-white front teeth), extended her right index finger at my nose, and blurted a fog horn, “I know you.”

  From the many times Berry Frazer took some of we department heads to lunch at his Berry Inn’s Knife & Fork Country Kitchen, I recognized the teeth immediately and said, “The Berry Inn, Knife & Fork, lunch hostess, right?”

  “Riiight.”

  “You look different.”

  “Different job, different look.” She batted her blue lids. “Me and you, we both work for the same fashion plate.”

  Quick person that I am, I didn't work for Snakebite, had to be Berry Frazer. “You mean Berry Frazer?”

  “You got it, Jackson.”

  “I hadn't seen you in Felix The Cat before,” I said.

  Angelo said, “Stella is Snakebite's assistant, she's helping out tonight, see how it goes, expecting a big crowd.”

  I conjugated, She’s Snakebite's assistant and lunch hostess at my boss’s The Berry … hmmm.

  Like he could read my mind, Angelo said, “She's just helping out at The Berry.”

  Stella formed a very complex smile.

  I didn't want to know what was behind the smile so I looked around, “I noticed you're a little busier than usual tonight, what's up?”