by G L Rockey
“Beats me.” I stepped into the hallway.
Joy said, “If Luther calls, what should I tell him?”
“I'll talk to him later.”
“Who do you want to do the weather tonight?”
“Maybe Galbo will do it.”
She frowned. “You should comb your hair.”
“Thanks.”
“What if Ms. Moore calls back?”
“Take a message, I'll call her back.” I started to leave.
“Oh, and Sago Yu has been in a couple of times, looking for you.”
“I'll see him in the newsroom.”
I walked down the hall thinking I don't want to think. Then, as usual, when you don't want to think, thinking takes over. I pinched my wrist. Yep, you're here.
Approaching the newsroom, I noticed, sitting at her desk, beige telephone receiver to her ear, Executive Producer, Shari Fry waving to me. The intensity of the waving indicated trouble.
Not in the mood for trouble, I went to the small glassed-in room where various media displayed a blitz of information that told a mixed story of flooding in Tennessee, bold moves by China, major unrest in the Middle East, terrorist threat level elevated, nuclear proliferation and there, a quote by Senator Betty Craig of Pennsylvania: “In the nuclear age, if, in the fervor to win, humanity is lost, it would appear to be more noble to lose … winning is simply not everything, surly not the only thing … if winning is a path to the ultimate ending, it isn't anything. But then, I'm not a fan of football … sometimes, in the age of nukes, the guy who blinks first is the more intelligent.”
Thinking, Craig will never get reelected, scanning other news items, I smelled Sea Breeze lotion and Sago Yu stepped next to me.
I said, “Morning Chief.”
“Morning Kemosabe.”
I sipped some coffee and noted Sago wore a white V-neck shirt, his orange TV12 rain slicker, tan slacks, and white Reeboks.
I said, “You look spiffy.”
“Thanks.”
“Joy said you were looking for me?”
“We need to talk, S-Stuff.”
“How about lunch?”
“That would be nice.”
“I gotta go see Sally.” So you’ll know, Sally is another nickname the TV12 staff had assigned to Berry.
Sago smiled, “I heard.”
“What?”
“He's been down here a couple times this morning.”
We left the press cubicle and I walked to the middle of the newsroom where producer Shari Fry—tall winsome lady, sun-bleached brown hair, ponytail, long sleeve blue shirt, jeans, brown penny loafers—approached me.
She said, “Jack, that was second banana on the phone.”
“Second banana?”
“Jack.”
“Where is Mr. Galbo now?”
“Still stuck in traffic somewhere.”
“He called to tell you that?”
Frustrated, “He ordered me to move the noon weather cast to the first segment of today's noon news. I was going to lead with a weather story but not the entire weather cast.”
“If he calls back, tell him okay, then don't do it. If he doesn't call back, ditto. He'll never know the difference.” I turned to leave.
She said, “And what about the stuff on the preacher guy and his congregation picketing Snakebite Walker's joints?”
“What about it?”
“Berry said to kill the stories.”
“What stories?”
“Me either.”
Leaving the newsroom, heading for Otis, the station elevator, I was thinking anger is easy. Rage, with age, fades. Then I thought: that's a song.
Then I remembered Joy's comment about my hair. I made a quick stop at the men's room, set my coffee mug on the stainless steel shelf above the sink, turned on the cold water and splashed my face. I shook my head, patted my face with a paper towel, looked in the mirror, and ran a comb through my hair. I leaned closer. Person in there seemed like a stranger. “Not good, Carr, not good.” I loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. In doing so I detected a faint odor on my fingertips—ginger marmalade.
Through a tiny speaker in the ceiling: “Jack Carr, front office! Carr, front office, immediately!”
Berry again. I shot two squirts of lime Binaca in my mouth, grabbed my mug and walked to Otis for a trip up to reality.
CHAPTER 11
Real Time
10:02:15 A.M. CDT
Peggy Moore lit the last of ten cylindrical candles that encircled her oval bathtub, turned off the water, dropped her robe to the floor, and eased herself into the steaming water. The candle's exotic scent filled the air and lavender bubbles feathered her skin.
Immersed in warm water to her chin, her cell phone trilled. Peggy answered. Stella. Peggy told her she had never before, in her whole life, felt so full. It almost hurt it felt so good. She was intoxicated even now.
Stella hung up.
Peggy touched herself and smiled.
The phone trilled again. Snakebite. He reminded her to pick him up at the airport, 3:00 P.M. She told him she would, but she'd have to skedaddle: meeting with Berry Frazer at 6:30.
“You know about what,” she said, “my new weather show.”
Snakebite wanted to go to the meeting. She told him that wouldn't be such a good idea. The meeting was going to be at The Berry Inn, he hated that place, and there was going to be other TV12 people there. Besides, it would be all business, a long night, he would get bored. She would fill him in later.
CHAPTER 12
Jack’s Time
Otis stopped at the second floor, opened, and, stepping out, I paused to take in, on the opposite wall, about the size of a 46 inch HDTV flat screen, an oil painting. The painting was of Nashville's replica of the Parthenon. Peaceful lines, harmony, the original housed Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Hmm.
After a minute, composed, I headed down the thick gray carpeted hall toward Berry's office suite. CBS personalities and Hollywood star portraits, similar to the first floor, hung on these walls too.
Arriving at the entrance to Berry's office, I observed Berry's secretary, Judy— that short sandy hair, pixie style, smoke-blue eyes, a thin five foot six. She typed away like a bullet train on her black computer keypad.
She glanced up at me.
I blew her a kiss and nodded to Berry's door.
She nodded yes and kept typing like she didn't want to get involved.
I gave her a thumbs up, peeked in the door, and noticed Berry studying a picture of himself and some guy on a yacht. I hated to disturb him. I knew how much he liked to look at that picture.
Engrossed, not seeing me, his nose an inch from the yacht photo, I did a quick inventory of his stuffed animal heads to see if there might be a spot for a new one.
Nope, not yet.
Enough not disturbing, I tapped on the door and stepped into the office. “You want to see me?”
He did a little surprise jump like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing, eyeballed me for a good five second, then said, “You're late.”
“We're all late, one way or another.”
“Bullshit.”
“Traffic is jaked. I-65, backed up all the way to Birmingham, rain rain rain. Joe's caught in it too.”
“I don't give a rat's ass about the rain.”
I noticed he was frowning at my slacks.
I touched my fly. “Is my fly down?”
“You sleep in those slacks?”
I shrugged. “My valet forgot to press them.”
“Bullshit.”
He studied me some more. “Look at that shirt. You better get your act together, Carr.”
He turned, strutted to his desk, and sat.
Looking at his paisley tie, I said, “Nice tie.”
“Bullshit, how many times I gotta tell you I want my executives to set an example. Get to work on time, dress in a suit, show a little class.”
“Your daddy never
got uptight about that.”
He kicked his desk. “I don't give a fuck what daddy did. I'm running the show now and that's that.”
“How was New York?”
“Super. What are we doing about this weather?”
“Not much we can do, God and all.”
He hit his desk with a right cross. “Goddamn it, you know what I mean. The sky is falling in, flooding everywhere, and where is our news director?”
What can you say?
Berry adjusted his cufflinks. “And another thing, I told them down there in your la la land newsroom, kill the coverage on them do-gooders picketing Mike Walker's amusement joints.”
Recalling Friday night's conversation with Angelo about bartering various and assorted items for TV advertising, it’s all getting closer to the bone, I thought and said, “Why so?”
“That Rev is just looking for donations, had a hard on for Snakebite forever, wife is a horny bitch.”
“Snakebite is not married.”
“Not Snakebite! The Rev's wife! Jesus Christ, are you awake?”
“Oh.”
“Lay off Snakebite, got it?”
“Got it.” I don't got it, never had it, don't want it. I smiled and sipped the last of my coffee.
Berry paused for a moment, folded his arms, and, still inspecting me (I think he liked me and I liked him too when he wasn't the asshole that it looked like he might be today), changed the subject, “You see The Tennessean, article on Galbo?”
“I think, as I recall, I did. Got any coffee?”
“Behind the bar, where it always is.”
“Want some?”
“Do I want some.”
I started toward the bar.
He said, “You read that part, about our ratings decline … anonymous source.”
Filling my cup from his white Cupper pot behind the bar, “I think I did see that … news ratings are up though.”
Ignoring that, he said, “We got us a mole in that newsroom of yours and I'm going to find it and fucking kill it.”
I walked around and sat at the bar.
Berry ambled to his picture window and looking out, seemed to be in deep thought.
Gray rainy Monday morning light lolling through the plate glass, mixed with the soft glow from the office lighting, I noticed a new smell. “What's that smell?”
Still looking out the window, “Gucci for Men.”
“New York?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“Fifty bucks an ounce.”
“Heavy.”
Like he was going to say something, he turned to face me but we both noticed Judy at the entrance.
Holding a folder in her right hand, she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Frazer.”
He turned. “What is it?”
“Bobbi, accounting, she needs you to sign these checks.”
“Put them on my desk.” Judy put them in the middle of his desk, left, and Berry's private line buzzed. He strutted from the window, picked up, and said, “Frazer.”
As he listened, he darkened then sputtered: “Whaddaya mean L&L Meats won't deliver the short ribs … C.O.D. for what? …what!”
Listening, he sat behind his desk, rested the phone between shoulder and cheek, and signed the checks Judy had dropped off.
I assumed he was involved with somebody at The Berry Inn, so while he yakked, signed checks, I lit a Salem and studied the back bar—glass shelves, assortment of cocktail glasses, bottles of liquor—and saw, in the mirror behind, me peeking around a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Paused, I heard Berry say, “Okay, let me know.” He slammed the receiver and yelled, “Judy.”
She entered and Berry snapped, “Tell Bobbi to call Bernard at The Berry Inn, he needs a check for L&L Meats.”
“Yes sir.” She took the signed checks and left.
Berry swiveled his chair to the credenza behind his desk, grabbed a white hand towel (Southern Linen supplied a dozen towels three times a week), wiped his face and neck, then threw the towel into a wicker basket on the floor beside his desk. Just then his private line buzzed. He picked up, brightened, and turned his back to me. I listened to him coo: “Hi there, just thinking about you. Got it covered … sure … of course … yes … talked to him … yes … tonight, yes.”
Listening, couldn't know for sure, I smelled, in addition to Berry's sweet Gucci fragrance, something else in the air. Faint odor like a whiff coming in your open car window as you drive along in the summer—dead, ripe, and bloated.
I put Salem out in an orange TV12 ashtray, unrested my mug from the bar, walked to the sofa, slapped a cushion, settled into the lushness, and rested my soggy left loafer on Berry's coffee table.
His back still turned to me, he said, “Yes, yes … six-thirty, Berry Inn … you bet, bye.” He hung up, wiped his lips like he had forgotten, for a moment, I was there, turned to me, looked at my soggy loafer on his coffee table and said, “Get your goddamn foot off my coffee table.”
“Sorry, forgot.” I crossed my legs.
He glanced back at the clock on the wall.
So did I. Little after 10:15.
He yelled, “Judy!”
She appeared at the door. “Yes, Mr. Frazer.”
“Did Galbo get in yet?”
“No sir, I don't think so. I left word with P.J.”
“Tell her to try him again.”
“I'll check.” She left.
Shaking his head, he stood, walked to his window, and put his hands on the sill. Looking out at the rain, he seemed to be in deep thought, then glanced at the parking lot below. “You parked in Galbo's slot.”
“So late, I didn't figure he'd be coming in.”
“What were you standing in the rain for?”
“When?”
“This morning, when you got out of that foreign piece of junk.”
“Taking a shower.”
Turning, Berry thrust his right index at me but the ringing of his phone foiled the attack. He stepped to his desk and switched the speaker on. “Frazer.”
Judy: “Mr. Frazer.”
“Yes, Judy.”
“Mr. Galbo is stuck in traffic.”
Berry reddened, “I wanta’ see him, soon as he gets in. Tell P.J.” He flipped the speaker off, walked to his window, turned to me, eased his left hip onto the window sill, relaxed, and said, “We covering this weather thing okay?”
“Got it covered.”
“Joe called me last night, at home, wanted to know why you didn't have Luther in doing reports.”
“Just a weather watch, be over by this afternoon.”
“How come all the flooding then?”
“It's where it always floods, low areas, this time of year.”
Berry shrugged like his mind was elsewhere.
I said, “Joy said something … guess Joe and Luther had a phone run-in this morning, Joe gave Luther the day off.”
Berry shrugged again.
“I was just thinking, Luther off, who's going to do the weather tonight?”
“That's your problem.”
“Maybe Joe can do it.”
Out of the blue, “Did Luther sign that talent contract yet?”
“Not yet.”
“What's his holdup?”
I clicked Zippo and lit a Salem. “Joy said you were asking about that.”
“Yes, I was. While you were taking a shower.” He studied his fingernails. “What's his holdup?”
“Got a problem with the non-compete clause.”
“What problem?”
“If we let him go he can't work for another Nashville station for five years. Most contracts stipulate six months, maybe a year….”
“Fuck most contracts.” Berry slid off the sill, walked to the sofa, and looked down at me. “I'm not promoting on-air talent, so they can go across the street to the competition.”
I thought I'd fish. “Why would he go across the street? He likes it here, or until this morning, he did.”
/> He kicked the side of the sofa, “I want it signed, today.”
“Luther won't be in, remember, Joe gave him the day off.”
He foiled his right index finger again, “You call him, get him in here, take it over his house, I want it signed by five o'clock today, or else.”
“Oh, okay, maybe Joe can take it over.”
“I don't care who takes it over, just get it signed.”
Recalling again my conversation with Angelo about trade deals, Berry's indebtedness to Snakebite, Peggy's comments, I think I knew but I thought I'd ask anyway, “What's the hurry?”
Berry went back to his window, looked out and said, “I'm going to make a change on our weather casts.”
Keep it a thought, I reasoned, because you see, a wise person once told me, thoughts kept from becoming words, not born into the world of real time are sometimes forgotten, and thus they don't have to be dealt with. I said, “So, how was New York?”
He turned and leaned back against the window sill. “I'm going to put Luther on days, morning cut-ins, he can do the noon weather too.”
Like I said, sometime, when you just keep your mouth shut, real time will go away. ”You go to that corn beef and hash place in Queens?”
“Yeah.”
“Hash good.”
“Great.”
“Still serve it with two raw eggs?”
“I'm making the change in two weeks, time for the May ratings. We're going to need a new set. I'm thinking, Grand ol’ Opry look.”
I conjugated, this is real time, now, not a movie. That's when you get in trouble. When you can't tell the difference, and the movers and shakers keep changing the definitions. But still I couldn't believe it, so I said, “Berry, I know this is a joke because if it's not a joke, one of us is hallucinating.”
“Must be you.”
Thinking why am I in this room, I blew smoke toward the ceiling and said, “You understand, you move him to mornings he'll quit, Channel 3 will snap him up in a second.”
“He won't quit, old fart’s got it made, $150,000 a year, car … besides, Channel 3 doesn't have a slot for him.”
“They'll make one.”
“Not with my non-compete, they won't.” He smiled.
“Even if he signs the contract, it won't stick.”
“Who says so?”
“No judge is going to uphold that, five years, he gets nothing.”