by G L Rockey
I said to P.J. “Your boss is on the phone, maybe I'll just come back.”
A look of panic, she glanced at her mini telephone exchange phone.
I noticed Joe bite down on his cigar, tuck his phone between chin and shoulder, retrieve his dagger letter opener, scrape the cuticle on his right middle fingernail, say, “That can be arranged.”
I said, “He's really on the phone … oh well, I'll catch him later.” I started to leave.
P.J. shook her head anxiously, reached for my arm, whispered. “No, Jack, don't do that, please.”
I felt her fear. “For you, I'll stay.” I tapped on Joe's door.
He turned and looked at me.
I smiled and gave a little wave.
Phone stuck in his ear, he propped his black submarine shoes on his desk top and puffed his cigar. His cigar brand, Aliados, actually smelled pretty good; I noticed he wore his uniform of the day-gray double-breasted suit, pinstripes, white shirt, very blue or indigo, probably some kind of Italian guy, tie.
I smiled again, waved, and gave him a little salute with my coffee mug.
He sat up and turned his back.
I turned to P.J. “Important call. Probably his plumber.”
She cringed.
I said, “How is your morning going?”
I heard Joe hang up and say, “Okay Carr.”
I knew that meant I could enter the inner sanctum. I continued with P.J. “So, P.J., did you have any trouble getting in this morning, I mean with the rain and all….”
Joe: “I said okay, Carr.”
I said to P. J., “Your boss sounds annoyed.”
She closed her eyes, kept typing.
“Talk to you later.” I smiled and stepped to Joe's doorway.
* * *
From the tips of his crew cut light brown hair to his wingtips, six foot three Joe resembled an oak curio cabinet. His eyes burnt umber brown, about the size of poker chips, he appeared younger than his forty years, and projected superiority like one who knows secrets no one else knows. He extended his familiar ExLax frown.
I said, “What's a matter Joe, not enough goose liver over the weekend?”
“You-move-out-of-my-fucking parking slot?”
“No.”
He leaned forward, crushed his cigar in his orange TV12 ashtray, said, “Lemme tell you something, Carr, that's my parking slot and don't ever park in it again, ever.”
“Like I told you, it was so late when I got here, raining cats and dogs, I didn't think you were coming in….”
“I don't give a Dumbo's flying fuck what you thought, that's my slot I'm here or not, rain or shine, period!” He threw his letter opener at the far wall. It stuck.
I looked at the dagger. “You should go to Sarasota, Joe, join the circus.”
Ignoring the remark, “Next time I'll have that limey piece of junk of yours towed.”
“No you won't.” I walked to Joe's Cupper coffee pot (same as Berry’s), which sat on an antique white serving cart next to his liquor cabinet. “Coffee fresh?”
“Bite me.”
I freshened my coffee.
He said, “Did you talk to Luther this morning?”
“This coffee looks stale.”
“You talk to Luther?”
“Why?”
“I told him to get his ass in here, do some weather reports, he's our Pied Piper weatherman isn't he, gave me some lip, I canned him for the day.”
I sat in one of the olive drab chairs facing Joe’s desk. “Joe, don't you have enough to do, sales being so lousy and all?”
“Who said sales is lousy?”
“I just heard….”
“From who?”
“Just heard.”
“Sales are great.”
I set my mug on his desk top.
He looked at the mug, frowned, said, “Don't get a ring on my desk.”
I picked my mug up, took a sip, and set it back on his desk.
Joe pushed a piece of scrap paper forward.
I placed my mug on the paper. “Sorry. By the way, who is going to do the weather on tonight's newscasts?”
“That's your problem, can't have insubordination.” Joe cracked his knuckles.
“Berry tell you about his new weather show idea?”
Joe's face turned red. “Fuck.”
I concluded from his tone, yes.
Like a stuck recording, he said again, “Fuck.”
“He did, didn't he?”
“Jesus Christ, we can't let this happen. Luther is the glue that holds this whole thing together.”
“Is that what you were thinking when you gave him the day off?”
“Bite me, had to do it, insubordination kills an organization.”
“Surprised Berry didn't discuss a major move like this with you … you being second banana….”
“Watch it.”
“Did he tell you about the interview tonight?”
Sour look. “Fuck.”
Another yes. I lit a cigarette. “I think Berry wants to have everybody on board, just in case there's a trial, somebody to hang, you know, later.”
He walked to his letter opener, snatched it from the wall, returned to his desk and sat. Eyes darting, I could hear things scraping in his mind like the wheels of railroad freight cars crawling over rusty rails. He chewed a bit of fingernail and, cheeks twitching, spit the piece of fingernail to the side.
The public address system crackled: “Joe Galbo, front office, Galbo, front office.”
Berry's voice seemed urgent.
Joe rolled his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ. You'd think he would just call me.”
“Difficult being second banana isn't it, big guy?”
“Watch it.” He stepped toward the door, “I'll be right back,” and left.
I went to Joe's Cupper, freshened my coffee, thought about a shot of Wild Turkey, decided against it, wandered out to see P.J., chatted, returned to Joe's office, sat, leaned back, and clicked the practical pragmatic events of this morning into order. I concluded: the moment rules and he who owns the biggest lie survives.
I had another jolt of coffee, P.J. came in and poured herself a cup (truly elegant Egyptian she-king) and in a few minutes Joe returned and sat at his desk.
“That was fast.” I sipped.
“Berry wants Luther's contract in hand, signed and delivered on the Goose Girl’s barrel head, by five o'clock today. You'll have to take it over to Luther's house.” I sensed an unsure crack in Joe's semper fi resolve.
I said, “Don't hold your breath.”
“Look Carr….” Joe fisted his right hand then calmed.
I detected kill clicked into a small compartment of his brain for future reference. He swallowed today and would remember tomorrow. He pointed his finger at me. “I'm ordering you, go over there, his house, get it signed now.” He stood and walked to his window. “Better get used to it Carr, I'm second in command now. Have that contract on my desk by 4:30.”
I thought of a time when I would have gone for his jugular. But I didn't care anymore. The lie was too big. I got up and left.
* * *
Riding down Otis, I was thinking, on earth they say real time is as things happen. Then I remembered reading somewhere: on Saturn, spring is nine years long. My time didn't seem to fit into either category.
Returned to my office, a call from Joe. He reminded me to get Luther's contract signed and, in case he forgot, to bring it to him so he could take it to Berry. Then he said he was going to lunch with Berry, did I want to go. I told him couldn’t, had a dentist appointment. He reminded me that when he got back from lunch his parking space needed to be vacant.
That all settled, I called Sago and we went to Krystal.
I drove and he filled me in on S-Stuff:
Sago said, “Remember that missing University of Tennessee co-ed student … found her purse, money, car in a mall parking lot?”
“Three, four months ago,” I said.
“That one.”
“What?”
“According to Margo Hunt….”
“Who’s Margo Hunt?”
“ With MSNBC news, doing a series on missing persons….”
“Oh.”
“According to Margo, the UT co-ed is still living.”
“Where?”
“In the chest of a Tokyo car mogul … heart … that light was red.”
At Krystal, I wasn't hungry, had a cola. Sago had two corn dogs, large fries, a bowl of chili, and a large root beer.
Eating a fry, Sago said, “Oh, my alias, ‘case somebody asks, for the S-Stuff, is Tony Longtoe.”
“That's your dog's name, isn't it?”
“I'm borrowing it.”
“Who's going to ask?”
“Never know.”
* * *
After lunch, Sago got a Chiller ice cream.
Driving back to TV12, the April rain ended, Nashville sparkling in bright sunshine, I told him about Luther, the new weather show, Peggy Moore (I didn't relate my weekend at Tara; Sago worried a lot). He said he figured something was up, had a dream last night, a bald eagle was eating its just-hatched eaglets.
Back at Joy's desk, she said that Ms. Moore had called again, left a number. Eyebrow raised, she handed me the pink message slip. I took it, went into my office, slipped the message in my waste basket and called Luther. Furious at Joe Galbo for ordering him around, giving him the day off, Luther refused to discuss anything, was going to take two weeks’ vacation in Sedona, Arizona, think out his options. As far as anyone coming over to his house, him signing the contract that Berry wanted, Luther said, quote: “That sucker can wait till the cows come home, partner.” Luther also said, as far as Joe Galbo was concerned, well, Luther could be vicious when crossed. I didn't mention Peggy Moore to Luther. He could read the headlines tomorrow or the next day or when he got back from Sedona. Some days enough words are enough and real-time reality, you begin to gag.
Feeling guilty I retrieved the message from Peggy: her phone number and a please call note. I thought about calling, thought not, then called.
She said, “Hi there.”
“Hi.”
“I wanted to thank you for that ding a bell weekend.”
It went on like that for a minute or so, then she asked, like she knew who held the aces and how many, if Berry had said anything about the interview tonight. I said he had and she cooed into the received, “See ya all tanight.”
CHAPTER 17
Real Time
1:55:10 P.M. CDT
Joyce Kensington—white short sleeve sloop neck T-shirt, hip hugger jeans, black slouch boots, brown leather purse dangling from a strap over her left shoulder—made her way down the Felix The Cat street side cement steps. Her natural brown caramel-colored hair streaked with coiffeur-added blonde highlights, lip gloss an off-white luster, smoky blue eye shadow, her rum-colored eyes intense, she opened the rusty red metal entrance door and strolled into Felix The Cat.
Her senses scanning like a virus detector, casing the murky lounge, she sat at the bar, ordered a gin and tonic from the female bartender, and introduced herself as Gillian Phoenix. After a sip, she asked the bartender about work, any openings. The bartender said, “You gotta talk to Stella Pastorini.”
“She in?”
“Nope, works another lunch gig, The Berry Inn, usually rolls in around 3:00.”
Joyce would wait. She lit a Kent cigarette, flashed her off-white nail polish, crossed her long legs, and waited.
* * *
2:55 Stella arrived, the female bartender said, “There's the godmother, now.” She called to Stella, “Hey Stel, another one looking for work.”
In a booth, Stella said, “What's yer name?”
“Gillian Phoenix.”
“Where'd ya work before?”
“Phoenix.”
“Cute … the name … whaddaya doing in Tennessee?”
“I like barbecue.”
“You a wise ass?”
“No.”
“What'd ya do out in the desert?”
“Dancer, cocktail waitress,” she winked, “upscale adult entertainment.”
“Where?”
She told her the name of the strip club that had been contacted, given a pass to stay open if they cooperated, “Honey Pot Cabaret.”
Stella said, “You got wheels?”
“Yep, Harley.”
“Cool.”
They talked some more, then Stella invited her back to the Kittens’ dressing room.
A musky smelling wood paneled lair, stained pink shag carpet, two Kittens on break smoked cigarettes.
“Strip.” Stella said to Gillian.
She did.
Stella inspected her body, touched, probed, looked for marks, said, “Not bad, you start tonight. Any good, should make couple hundred in tips.” She paused and studied deep into Gillian’s eyes. “Our owner, Snakebite Walker, has some special out of town friends come to town now and then, sometimes they needs a date. Up class people. Any problem with that?”
“Been there done that,” she stared Stella down, “But I don't do dirt balls.”
Stella snickered, “Catch you stealing, you'll wish you'd stayed in Phoenix, start tonight, learn the ropes.”
“What about an outfit.”
“Think we got one, might be a little tight, Snakebite likes 'em that way.” Stella cackled a laugh, then as an afterthought, reached in a drawer, picked out a straight razor, gave it to Gillian.
“What that for?”
“Weapon of choice, you run into weirdo freaks, strange bird now and then.”
CHAPTER 18
Jack’s Time
Contemplating what I would do and say at tonight’s interview with Ms. Moore, real time sapped my concentration, so I called Berry.
He said, “How was the dentist?”
“Good.”
“What's with Luther's contract?”
“You want the long or the short of it.”
“Short.”
“Basically, stick it up your ass, he's taking a two week vacation … think he's history.”
Berry threw a phone tantrum, blamed me for not handling it right. While he vented, I conjugated, right is relative. Then, seeming relieved, he said, “We'll talk to him when he gets back. He isn't going anywhere, got it made around here. Who we gonna have do the weather, meantime, till Peggy gets up to speed?”
That we again. “Weekend people.”
“Good, we're home free, handle Luther when he gets back, only two weeks, then Peggy takes over.”
“I thought we were going to do an interview toni—”
He hung up.
Five minutes later I got a call from Joe. He wanted a status report about the Luther contract. I told Joe the details.
He was extremely upset that I had gone over his head to Berry. I was never to do that again. Then he reminded me that Berry wanted us in his office at 5:00 to go over tonight's interview procedures with Peggy.
“Excited yet, Joe.”
“Fuck you.”
CHAPTER 19
Real Time
3:30:30 P.M. MST
Peggy, in red jumpsuit, matching sneakers, picked Snakebite up at the airport. His black silver-tipped cowboy boots’ three inch heels put him at five seven. Buttoned up to show as little milk white skin as possible, he wore black leather slacks, black shirt and a black sports coat. His hat, a wide brimmed white Stetson, sat on top of his flowing golden locks. Wraparound sunglasses concealed his pink eyes.
Driving, Peggy apologized for being a little late, had to get her nails done, explained that she had that meeting with Berry at 6:30, she'd have to skedaddle home get dressed, would have to dump him off at Felix The Cat. Maybe she could see him later, depended on how long things went with her meeting with Berry.
She said, “Tomorrow for sure.”
“What am I, parts?”
After checking in at his upstairs Felix The Cat office, Snakebite talked to Stella. Did she get the new ch
inchilla. Yes. At the ranch. Snakebite told her good, he would be going down in an hour to give the new one a squirt.
Snakebite's black leather trousers smelling like the floor of a slaughterhouse, he got back from the ranch somewhat tired and thought he would go to the bar, have a drink, say hello to his Kittens, chat with Angelo.
His white Stetson tilted back, sitting at the bar, a rum and coke served, he saw Gillian.
He said to Angelo, “Who's ‘at tall dish a peaches?”
“New one, Stella hired her, Gillian Phoenix.”
He couldn't believe this one “tall tomata” caught his eye, class, he called her over, said, “You’s a looker, baby.”
“Yeah.”
“Ohhh my, feisty too.”
CHAPTER 20
Jack’s Time
The remainder of the afternoon uneventful, around 5:00, as planned, I went to Berry's office. Big Joe was already there, seated in his favorite chair, distant, his shoulders slumped; I got the impression he would rather be getting a colonoscopy.
After a few pleasantries, Berry told Joe and me, he would meet us in the lobby of The Berry around 6:15. After tonight’s interview with Peggy, he was taking her to dinner, discuss salary, business, alone. He emphasized alone, then allowed that he and Peggy would be going straight from The Berry to The White Oaks Country Club.
I looked at Joe, “You never been in my Jag, have you Joe, want ride over to The Berry with me?”
A ripping sound came from the vicinity of Joe’s seat, sounded like something tearing or something.
* * *
My offer to give Joe a lift dismissed by that ripping sound, driving myself to The Berry, I began thinking of interview questions I would ask Peggy: “You look familiar, do I know you … say, didn't we meet at a Y function?” I blinked my eyes, pinched my arm. Nope. You're here, real time. I wondered not how, but when, this whole thing was going to explode in my face. A thought appeared like one of those cartoon bubbles with the dotted line pointing to me: Jack in the middle with the raisins and nuts.