by G L Rockey
“Well?” She flared again, “cat got your tongue?”
I felt like a bottle of wine at a wino convention.
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.”
CHAPT
ER 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.”
“Gobbles.”
“Take that coat off darlin’, get comfortable.” She squeezed an inch of my maximus, “Nice buns.”
I took off my London Fog and threw it on a white wingback chair that looked like a ship's sail from Mutiny On The Bounty.
She kicked off her high heels (toenails matched her cherry fingernails) and, tiptoeing to the bar, said, “Want to stay with Jack Daniels … or would you rather have something more recreational?”
“Jack Daniels is fine, thanks anyway.” I joined her at the bar.
Mixing, “So how long you been at TV12?”
“Hundred years.”
“Silly Jack.”
“Six.”
She sounded like she was fishing so I threw in a line of my own. “I didn't see Snakebite tonight.”
Taking ice from a little refrigerator, “Oh, he had to go on a business trip, Memphis, opening a new club.”
I knew that.
She put a highball glass on the bar with ice and a godly amount of booze. “So you work for Berry Frazer?”
“Yes.”
Making herself a gin and tonic, she said, “How'd he get that little ol’ TV station, hotel, all that money?”
I wondered if she knew more than she was letting on. I said, “Parents … left him everything.”
“He can't be very old.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“He looks older, I mean….”
“The rug.”
“Well….”
“The rug, I know. Where'd you meet him?”
Tasting her gin and tonic, “We had dinner a few nights ago, Berry, Snakebite, and little ol’ me.”
Interesting triangle, wonder where Stella was. I asked, “Berry's hotel?”
“No, Snakebite’s The Haute Cuisine.”
“Oh.”
She seemed in thought, then said, “Has Berry mentioned anything to you?”
“About dinner at The Haute Cuisine?”
“Silly. I meant has he said anything to you about little ol’ me and TV12?”
“What would he say?”
“Oh nothing, just thought he might have mentioned my name, said something, I'm sure he will. I'm sworn to secrecy, crossed my heart,” she held up her drink, “cheers.”
Didn't take a Ben Stein to figure it out but I like to fish. “What would Berry say to me about you and TV12?”
“I shouldn't tell you … I should tell you … I shouldn't tell you.”
“Give me a hint.”
She flared her eyes. “It's a surprise.”
“Give me a ‘when’?”
“Sooner than you think.”
I pondered my genius affinity with “sooner than you thinks”.
“I ain't saying no more ‘bout business tonight. Change the subject.”
Just then the phone on the bar chirped around A flat. She picked up, and I got this end: “Hello … oh, hi there … oh it went great … you called the club … when … I musta just left … what … that limo man was a beast … sent him away, took a cab … no darling … Angelo and Stella was busy as all get out … packed … of course sweetie … sure. Guess what … somebody from TV12 was at Felix The Cat tonight … their news director.”
She looked at me, winked, listened, then said into the phone, “Going to take a hot bath and go right to beddy-bye, pooped … oh sweetie, me too … you still be back Thursday? Monday, thought you … oh darlin how sweet … sure I will … when … Northwest, 3:30, sure ‘nough, I'll pick ya up, see ya Monday afternoon then … yes … of course … can't wait, okay … bye bye….” She hung up.
While she had been talking, thinking she lies pretty good, I had walked to a
large silver framed photograph hanging over the fireplace mantel.
I heard her say, “That was Snakebite.”
Why did I know that. “I surmised.”
I studied the picture which featured Peggy standing beside a short silver haired man. I noted, in the right corner of the photography, a scrawled salutation: To Peg with much success, Buddy.
I felt her squeezing my maximus again.
I nodded to the picture and, over my shoulder, said, “Who's the gentleman?”
“That's my producer, Buddy One Take, President of Duke Label. That was the day I signed a contract, my life….”
Just then the phone rang. She said, “Shit,” and went to the bar and picked up. “Hello.” She looked a little shocked. “Darlin’, I didn't say nothing ‘bout nothing ‘bout TV12 to him … honest … no, okay, nighty-bye.”
I, surmising “him” to be me, watched Peggy swagger to the sofa, sit, cross her legs, and serve up a generous portion of thigh: “Anyway, where was I, oh yes, that picture with Buddy, it's a very ziggy zaggy story. We was po’ po’ po’, Momma made soup out of rain water and wood chips. I started singing in grade school, dances, parties, got married when I was sixteen, to a radio D.J., Uncle Ben, you heard ah him, he did a little ol’ radio show, hosted the Opry now and then, didn't last long, him or the radio, died, poor fellah … sidetracked me, then I married Jimmy Pearl, the singer, you know about that one. In all the papers, he's a pony's hind end. Anyways, I was going along real good, singin’ with a little ol’ band. We did lounges in Chattanooga, Memphis, Birmingham, Knoxville, you know, Holiday Inns, Hiltons … then I meet this city slicker, big shot lawyer, Paul Pike, talked me into dumping Jimmy, said I needed a manager, he would make me a star, handle everything. Married him. Teeniest itty bitty peter … anyway … I think he thought he was gonna get a free ride on my career. We was brung up po’ honey, but we wasn't brung up dumb.”