Time and Chance

by G L Rockey

  Angelo said, “Peggy Moore, premiering tonight.” He nodded, “Right there, on our stage.”

  “Who?” I said.

  Stella, extracting with her lips a cigarette from a pack of Pall Mall said, “Peggy Moore, Clip ‘en Ship TV commercials, also has a single out, Duke Label, ‘Dogwood Blossoms’, where ya been, Jackson?” She wrenched a safety match free and lit her cigarette.

  Angelo said, “Stella and Peggy are like this.” Angelo twisted his index and middle fingers like a puffy pretzel. “So, you better be good.” He winked at Stella.

  Stella put her hands on her hips and gave Angelo a dry ice smile.

  I let my eyes wonder to Stella's purple camera. I was reminded of Berry's picture-taking hobby. Everybody's taking pictures, I thought. A thousand years from now, they won't have any trouble piecing together how we did all this. I said, “What's with the camera?”

  Angelo said, “Stella's gonna take pictures of Peggy's premiere.”

  I said to Stella, “You and Berry Frazer have something in common.”

  “Wa’s ‘at?” She said through a stream of cigarette smoke.

  “Berry's hobby is photography.”

  “Hah.” She smiled that smirk again and I surmised it was something between I-got-your-number, don't-mess-with-me, and I-know-more-than-you-think. She sashayed toward the other end of the bar.

  Following her long quarter horse gait, I said to Angelo. “I think Stella likes me.”

  Angelo checked Stella at the far end of the bar, leaned closer, twisted his fingers in that pretzel again, and whispered, “She's a switch hitter.”

  “No thanks.” I dragged Salem and exhaled, “Nice place to open a bar.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Angelo manipulated a Jack Daniels bottle, flipped a four ounce tumbler glass, and poured a double. Watching him reminded me of the Pope; I saw a few times on TV, Christmas midnight mass, live from the Vatican, handling a chalice, neat and delicate, and every motion had a purpose (Aunt Jane's Rev Molino said the Pope was the Anti-Christ. I was sure that's why the rattlesnake got him).

  “I din know that.” Angelo dealt white Felix The Cat cocktail napkins on the bar in front of me and placed a good looking Jack Daniels on one.

  “What didn't you know?” I said.

  “The Kid was a photographer.”

  “Hobby.” I sipped and said, “I still don't get it?”

  “Whan's that?”

  “Stella, lunch hostess at The Berry, Snakebite’s assistant.”

  “I tol’ ya, she's helping out, I doan know, Snakebite and Berry worked something out.” He winked, “I think them two guys spy on each other.” He seemed to catch himself out of school. “You din hear nutin from me.”

  “So tell me, who is Peggy Moore?”

  “Like Stella said, does the TV commercial for Clip ‘en Snip beauty shops, sings, has a record out,” he winked, “Snakebite said she's the best hum he ever had. He's moonstruck, know whan I mean.”

  Peggy, Snakebite, Stella; the relationship sounded complicated, but then, in this world of unsure things, I know two and a half things for certain: number one, Angelo had missed his calling, should have been a news reporter; number two, ‘hum’ in Angeloese has nothing to do with music.

  Angelo said. “You wonn your regular chew?” He meant food.

  I said, “Yesterday.”

  He yelled to Stella. “Hey Stella, how 'bout bring Jack a half dozen oysters and a half dozen shrimps, same plate, extra horseradish on the side. Basket of Club Crackers.”

  Wurlitzer clicked and George Strait sang “All My Exes Live in Texas”.

  I noticed a dark concern forming on Angelo's face.

  “What's the matter, you don't like George Strait?” I said.

  “He's okay.”

  Then I recognized the telegraphing, to me anyway, that a serious question was coming, usually related to the local TV business.

  I tried to change the subject. “So, expecting a big crowd tonight?”

  “Hey, Jack, saw the paper, Galbo upped, huh?”

  “I didn't know you could read,” I said.

  Like I had cheated at a game of marbles, “Jaaack.”

  “Upped.” I sipped.

  “Over you?”

  “Over God.”

  “Whan's a guy like that make?”

  “God?”

  “Stronzo, Galbo.”

  “Mulligan stew.”

  “Whan's that?”

  “Don't ask.”

  Angelo, with white bar rag, wiping a dry highball glass, telegraphed a more serious subject coming my way. “Your boss was in last Wednesday.”

  “Which one?”

  “Berry Frazer.”

  “Oh, Stella's too.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Angelo frowned. “Berry didn't say anything to me about Galbo being upped.”

  “Why would he?”

  “He's my pal.”

  “He's everybody's pal.”

  Angelo changed gears: “Berry had a meeting with Snakebite, upstairs.”

  Upstairs meant Snakebite's upstairs apartment office (guess who had previously told me that). Sipping, I said, “What was the meeting about?”

  Angelo's eyes narrowed into dark pools of Sicilian intrigue. He cupped his mouth and whispered another closet secret. “The Kid's in trouble.”

  I think I mentioned, ‘the Kid’ was one of several nicknames for Berry. I said, “Oh?”

  Still closer to my face (heavy breath), Angelo whispered like he had deciphered the Rosetta Stone: “The Kid's into Snakebite big time.”

  I conjugated ‘into’ and came up with money, as in debt. I remembered what Joy had told me about Berry's gambling problems, but I figured that was past tense. Pretending blank, I said, “You're kidding.”

  He shook his head, “Shit buckets, know whan I mean?”

  “We talking about Stella's and my boss, right?”

  “Yeah, the Kid, Berry, makes dumb bets, chases, loses thirty, fifty large,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that.”

  My weakness lying in other areas, not familiar with this gaming lingo, I said. “Large?”

  “Thousand bucks.”

  A hundred bucks being a lot to me, I raised an eyebrow. “The Kid makes fifty thousand dollar bets?”

  Quick nod: “Five, ten games some days.”

  “That's a lot of large.”

  “And the Kid loses nine times out of ten, dumb, chases his bets.”

  “Don't we all?” I looked around. “Speaking of Snakebite, he upstairs?”

  “Out of town, Memphis, opening a new joint, Pink Poodle Two.”

  “Another challenge.”

  “He says it's a ballbuster, remodeling a warehouse, hundred stool bar, three dance stages, private booths,” he winked, “all first class … shooting for a July 1 grand opening.”

  “Doesn't seem nice, going to miss Ms. Peggy's premiere tonight, she and he being … you know, going steady.”

  “Whaddaya-gonna-do, business is business, know whan I mean, price of cheese keeps going up.” Changing gears again, polishing the parquet in front of me, Angelo said softly, “I also hear, Snakebite whans his cash P.D.Q.”

  The skip paused me, “Cash?”

  “Whan the Kid owes.”

  “Oh.”

  Deepening intrigue, “Snakebite said the Kid offered him some kind of TV trade deal.” Polishing again, “Hey Jack, how's that trade stuff work in TV land?”

  “Same as in days of yore, you have something I want, I have something you want, instead of cash, we trade wants.”

  “Wha’s that mean?”

  “Say you own a car dealership.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Say I own a TV station.”

  “Okay.”

  “I come to you and say, Angelo, I want to lease a car but instead of paying you money I give you advertising time on my TV station.”

  “No shit. So that's how that works.”

&n
bsp; “Yep.” I sipped.

  Angelo looked like, finished with the Rosetta Stone, he had started to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls. “So that's it, Snakebite gets something and the Kid gets to pay off some large.”

  Intrigued, I thought I'd fish. “Sounds like the Kid’s bets are getting ahead of him.”

  “Big time shit buckets, but you din hear nutin from me.”

  “Nutin.” I sipped and waited.

  Angelo narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “Snakebite told me him and the Kid had worked out one of 'em trade deals.”

  “For what?”

  “For the Kid's bailout.”

  “How's that?”

  “Snakebite might write off some of Berry's debt if Peggy Moore could get on TV, you know, her own show, regular like, know whan I mean.”

  “She's on TV now, isn't she … the commercials?”

  “She wonns big time, her own TV show, you know. Promote her records. Name up in lights, neon, like 'em New York, Las Vegas guys.”

  “I still don't know who Peggy Moore is.”

  His voice volume increasing, Angelo propped his foot on the back-bar stainless steel sink and said, “Jack, Jack, sings on Clip ‘en Snip TV commercials, has the new song out, ‘Dogwood Blossom’, Duke label.”

  “Hadn't heard it.”

  “Jack, you're a big TV news director, supposed to know everything.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Everybody.”

  “That ices it.”

  “They say Moore, she's the next Tammy Wynette.” He leaned close and cupped his mouth, “Odometer is turned back a little, know whan I mean, hee hee hee.” Snort. He nodded to the stage, “You'll see, she's up at 9:00, singing every Saturday night from now on out.” He winked, “Snakebite's says she's the best hum he ever had.”

  “Name up in lights, huh?”

  “That's what Snakebite said.”

  Wondering what Berry might be up to, I said, “Would you go over that again in Sicilian shorthand.”

  He looked around, leaned close, and, like he had finished with the Dead Sea Scrolls, was moving on to the Shroud of Turin, said out of the side of his mouth, “Peggy gets on TV, the Kid gets to live, and Snakebite gets his chrome polished. Hee hee hee.” Snort. He looked around then pointed his fat right index finger between my eyes. It looked like a snub-nosed 38. “You din hear nutin from me buddy boy, know whan I mean?”

  “Know what you mean.” I noticed Stella come through a door that led to a back area where a dumbwaiter, Kitten dressing room, Men's and Women's pit stops, probably a family of roaches, few rats, were. Balancing a red plastic tray on her shoulder, she stopped at the service bar to say something to Neon.

  I took a sip and, the ice melting nicely, I sucked on an ice chip. I didn't want to know what I thought I had just heard about Berry, Snakebite, trade deals, and what it might mean for TV12. Not only did I not want to know, I didn't want to think about it so I said, “You know how many wives Solomon had?”

  “Sol Yidda, the diamond guy, up on Church Street?”

  “No, no, Solomon, you know, the Bible.”

  “Maybe you shouldn't drink tonight, know whan I mean? You get too deep in that philosophy shit and start arguing and I can't understand you, get loud.”

  From Wurlitzer, Diamond Rio sang “Sweet Summer”.

  Just then Stella arrived with my dinner and said, “Here ya be Jackson.”

  Said Angelo, “Put 'em right there.”

  She plopped a large platter of oysters and shrimp in front of me, dropped a red plastic basket filled with Club Crackers next to the plate, finished the setting with a white cloth napkin, and blew a meaty “enjoy” in my face.

  “Thank you.” I said.

  She sucked a back molar and left.

  Said Angelo, “Solomon's wives, huh. Whan's that again?”

  “Solomon, Old Testament, wisest of the wise.”

  Deep concern on Angelo's face, “I got a customer.” Angelo left.

  I ate.

  * * *

  Eating, I confirmed one thing I like about shrimp and oysters: shrimp don't fill you up, more room for drinking; oysters go down fast, more time for drinking.

  I ate a shrimp as an electric guitar wailed an intro, and, from Wurlitzer, a husky female voice filled the room:

  “Wheeen it's spa-ring time in Tennessee, spa-ring time in Tennessee, And the dogwood blossoms bloom, dogwood blossoms bloom, I cur-riiie for you, die for you, my heart bleeds for you, in my lonely, lonely room….”

  The lyrics reminded me of Aunt Jane's Legend of the Dogwood sermon. She told me the dogwood's white blossoms, like tiny crosses, had the bloody nail prints of Christ's crucifixion and the blossoms were fragrant and beautiful to remind us that good things come from suffering.

  I swallowed an oyster and said to myself in the mirror, “Such is the way to immortality, that's the mystery, huh?” I ate a shrimp, “Suffer now, suffer later, SUFFER SUFFER SUFFER. How come all this FUCKING SUFFERING?”

  Angelo appeared out of nowhere, his face hanging a foot from mine, he stared at me. “Goombah, you gotta keep it down tonight, Moore's gonna be singing.”

  Not that hungry, finished eating, I pushed my plate forward.

  “Whan a matter?”

  “Nothing.” I pushed my glass forward. “Fill me up.”

  “You gonna miss the show.”

  “Angelo, when it comes to missing things, I have a long standing agreement with Mr. D., I won't tell on him if he won't tell me what I missed.”

  “Sure, sure, sure. Scottish king.” He scooped ice in my glass.

  I lit a Salem and Wurlitzer pulsed with the mellow sounds of Hank Williams Jr.'s “Ain't Misbehavin’”.

  I said to Angelo “You figure out how many wives Solomon had?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Seven hundred.”

  Pouring Jack Daniels, “No kidding. How'd he do it?” Angelo said and I noticed him pause as the house lights dimmed. “Here we go,” he said as he reached under the bar and turned Wurlitzer's sound off. He nodded toward the stage. “There she goes, Peggy Moore.”

  I took a look. In a spotlight's sharp beam, from where I sat, thirty feet away, ascending the stage, a female—major lemon blonde hair to the middle of her back, white cowboy hat, brilliant cherry lips, white vest, long sleeve crimson shirt with rhinestone buttons, noble (actually regal) cleavage, tight white jeans, significant settee, nice legs poured in the jeans, red boots tipped with silver. Like a Monet, I had the feeling distance helped.

  I then noticed, climbing in around the spotlight's edges, four (I assume) males, dressed in mostly black, taking their places behind Peggy.

  Flashes of light coming from bar side, I looked. Stella was busy with her purple camera.

  I looked back to the stage.

  Peggy snatched the microphone from its pedestal mount and said, “Hi there all, welcome to Felix The Cat, I'm Peggy Moore, and these are,” she spread her left arm out, “The Billy Boys … lead man Larry on fiddle, Jim on electric keyboard, Ken on drums, and Lester on bass. Let's give them a big hand.”

  Mild applause. A loud two-finger whistle from Stella and another Kodak flash.

  Peggy continued: “I'd like to start off my first Saturday night here at Felix The Cat … hope there are many more … with my latest single, recorded on Duke Label, ‘Dogwood Blossom’. Hit it boys.”

  Her boys hit it and, with flashing three inch fingernails (matched her cherry lips), she began tearing the atmosphere like something might be tormenting her:

  “Wheeen it's spa-ring time in Tennessee, spa-ring time in Tennessee….”

  I then remembered that indeed I had seen Ms. Moore before. The TV commercial, Clip ‘n Snip Beauty Shops, heard her other single “A Night’s a Day In Between Afternoons”, too.

  Looking at her, I pondered key points confided earlier by Angelo: one, Ms. Moore is Snakebite's main hum; two, Berry's gambling problems has him into Snakebite big time; three, Berry and Snakeb
ite had worked out a trade deal; four, Stella and Peggy are like finger pretzels; and five, Ms. Peggy desires her name up in lights, something like that.

  Peggy's Dogwood Blossoms lyrics bleeding the atmosphere, I turned to the mirror behind the back bar and pulled at the skin below my eyes.

  I said, “If you listen to a lie are you a lie?”

  Probably.

  “If you live with a lie are you a lie?”

  Yes.

  Angelo leaned over the bar: “Who you talking to?”

  “Nobody, just thinking.”

  “Seven hundred?” Angelo said.

  “What?”

  “Solomon's wives.”

  “Yep, seven hundred … and three hundred concubines.”

  “Concubines?”

  “Kinda like out calls?”

  “Mamma mia.” Angelo, snorted, took my plate of unfinished food, and left.

  * * *

  Between Peggy's twenty minute gigs and slice-of-life vignettes from Wurlitzer, I sensed the evening was unfolding like a pop-up greeting card. The big red Budweiser clock on the wall just whizzed past 11:30, and, the lounge packed, between the haze of cigarette smoke, dim candlelight, and Peggy's rendition of “I Fall To Pieces”, I had a slight buzz going, and I had a feeling, when I looked, that Peggy was conducting eye interruptus with me. I also noticed Stella had taken note of the affair.

  Peggy wrapped up her song and announced: “Back in ten minutes, y’all, don't dare leave, hear now.”

  A quick flash from Stella's Kodak, then Wurlitzer clicked, glimmered red, yellow, green and the Dixie Chicks sang “Cold Day in July”.

  Amid applause and whistles, Angelo, clapping his chubby palms, in front of me, said, “Hey, Jack,” he waved to Peggy. “Wanna meet her? Her she comes.”

  I looked. Peggy, moving my way, touched outstretched hands, signed a napkin, kissed a cheek. In a minute, next to me, her ginger marmalade perfume enveloped 1A and she smelled warm.

  She removed her white hat and placed it on the bar. “Whew.”

  Said Angelo: “Peggy, meet Jack Carr, big shot at TV12.”

  She flared her eyes for a second—jade gemstones going way back into something primordial—and said, “Oh, how so?”

  Speechless, I quickly noticed a detail that had been hidden by distance: under thick pancake makeup, little spider lines radiated from the outside corners of her eyes. I too observed her lips, glistened with that cherry gloss, were firm and fully puckered. Silver spur earrings dangled from her pierced lobes, and more than anything, you couldn't help notice, her regal nobleness addressed you in first person plural.