by G L Rockey
CHAPTER 21
Real Time
6:20:15 P.M. CDT
On the way home, Sago Yu pulled his red Jeep pickup into a Krystal. He went inside and got his usual takeout order—four bacon cheese hamburgers, a large fries, a bowl of chili, and two large root beers.
Home for the evening, he served Tony Longtoe two burgers and a root beer then spread his food out on the kitchen table and began eating.
While eating, Sago read a magazine clipping he had saved related to S-Stuff:
A spokesperson said, “Right now in the United States alone, there are thousands of patients waiting for organs. Thousands will die in a year due to shortage. With the increasing risk of AIDS type viruses from cross species transplants (pigs, etc.), human parts are much more desirable. The organs most needed are kidneys, livers, and lungs. Corneas are also in demand.” The spokesperson added, “A kidney can be preserved for up to 72 hours.” She noted, “The demand is high, and the dollars involved are huge.”
Unable to finish eating, recalling a previous conversation he had had with Nashville Police Department Detective, Jerry Little, he pressed Little’s phone number. Little advised him he was, as they spoke, working a missing persons case, high school student, female, he was working with the T.B.I., they had intercepted some messages about a ring of locals. Seemed the bad guys were using the chinchilla business as a front.
After hanging up, Sago said to Tony, “So Tony, what do you know about the chinchilla business.”
“Ruuff, ruuff.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER 22
Jack’s Time
Designed by Berry, The Berry Inn resembled a large saltine cracker box with little square windows cut in the sides. Built on fifteen acres Berry had purchased north of Nashville, the inn boasted 100 guest suites, a teleconference center, and three eating and drinking establishments.
Entering through the front plate glass doors, straight ahead was a registration desk and, for casual dining, to the right was the entrance to the Knife & Fork—a lot of knotty pine, floor to ceiling windows, yellow table cloths, lime-green chairs and dark green floor tile.
To the left was the entrance to the Rebel Lounge—walnut paneling, green carpet, indirect lighting, a large window overlooked an Olympic size pool. Gold framed oil paintings of Southern Civil War Generals hung on the walls, and fifteen high-back bar stools, upholstered in red, faced a polished brass bar. Opposite the bar, ten four-top tables, white tablecloths, sat snugly against the wall. One large corner U booth sat at the end.
A third eating and drinking center, for the more discriminating, on the top floor, rotating slowly in a circle, coat and tie only, the Pheasant & Grouse offered fine dining in an elegant Louis XIV setting.
Admiring The Berry lobby, a muscular brunette, gold name tag “Marty”, green floor length dress, like she was expecting me, shot a hard look (bet she knew Stella) my way, said Berry was with The Berry Inn's Manager Bernard. Walking away (scary hips) she said flippantly, over a shoulder, “Galbo's in the Rebel Lounge.”
I went over to the lounge. Big Joe sat at the table sideways, legs crossed, chewing a fingernail.
As I sat, Joe said, “This sucks.”
Looking around I could see why The Berry might be in trouble. The place was empty except for the bartender, a petite waitress, two guys at the bar, us and a clock that displayed 6:45.
Around five minutes later, Berry came in and sat opposite Joe. Little red blotches rode high on his cheeks. He ordered a Manhattan South. Joe and I had already been served our usual: Joe a Gibson, me Jack Daniels on the rocks.
Berry looked at his gold Rolex.
I checked Blancpain. Little after 6:50. From what Berry had told us, interview at 6:30, Peggy appeared to be a few minutes late. I parroted Berry's frequent admonition, “Time is money.”
Berry curled his lower lip. “Not funny, Carr.”
Joe burped.
Berry, served his Manhattan South, took a long sip then pressed a number into his cell phone. After several rings, no answer, he pressed off.
Time passed like that Salvador Dali clock running off the table.
No Peggy.
At 7:05 I noticed beads of perspiration pop just below Berry's toupee line.
Joe rolled words on the table, “Well Berry, the glass slippers don't fit, guess we can write this sucker off and go home.”
Berry said, “Shut up, Galbo, she'll be here.” He wiped his face with his napkin, looked at me, and said, “Did you give any thought to how you're going to format Peggy’s new weather show? She'll have to have time to play her guitar, sing in there somewhere, that's part of the deal.”
“What deal?” Joe said.
Ignoring Joe, Berry said to me, “You figure that out?”
“Hadn’t yet.”
Joe: “Hah.”
* * *
The conversation paused for sipping, I noticed Joe's face turning sour. “Speaking of Cinderella’s stepsister, her she is.” He nodded toward the entrance.
Berry turned quickly.
I looked. Moving toward our table, Peggy—pink dress, nobleness half out, hem just above her knees, nice legs that I remembered, and her ankles rode high on green lizardy spike heels. Closer, her glistening cherry lips were pressed tight in a pouting smile. I sniffed the air. Yep, ginger marmalade.
Berry stood and said, “Peggy, where ya been, sweet pea?”
“You don't want to know.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“No problem.”
She dumped her large red purse on the table, glanced at Joe, then lingered on me.
I smiled. What can you say?
Berry held his right hand out to Joe, “Peggy, this is Joe Galbo.”
Peggy said, “Howdy Joe, been reading about you in the newspaper.”
Joe, like a bulldog protecting his bone, nodded.
Gentleman that I am, standing, I said to clear matters up, “Joe is our new assistant general manager, likes to be called second banana.”
Joe bit his lower lip.
Berry said, “And this is Jack Carr, our news director.”
Smiling, she extended her right hand. “Jack Carr, how ya all doing?”
I shook her hand, “Haven't we met?”
She squeezed pretty hard. “Felix The Cat, wasn't it?”
I noticed Berry raise an eyebrow.
I said, “I think so,” and my eyes wandered down the deep slice between her nobleness. I glanced back to her flashing eyes. The wander had been noticed.
“You two know each other?” Berry looked at her hand still grasping mine.
“Oh, just to say hello.” Peggy flared at me and released the grip.
Berry touched her forearm and presented the empty chair next to his. “Have a seat.”
She sat.
Motioning to the server, Berry cleared his throat. “Let's get you a drink, sweet pea, then these guys can ask you a question or two.”
Peggy said, “Berry, you will be sure to have Jack help me on this weather show, won't you? I can't imagine doing it without him.”
I glanced at Joe. It appeared he might throw up thick chunks of goose liver and, I think, he had just passed some gas.
The server arrived. Peggy ordered a gin fizz, put a Parliament in her mouth, and waited for a light. I started to oblige with Zippo but Berry beat me with a The Berry safety match.
Berry beamed, “Well, Ms. Moore, we've been talking it over aaand, you premiere Monday, April 30, two weeks, how ‘bout that!”
There's that ‘we’ again.
Thick white smoke coming from her nostrils, Peggy said, “Oh, my god, Berry, I don't know. Two weeks?” She touched my arm. “Do you think, Jack, I mean, can we do it?”
It was then I confirmed that all this time stuff (real and mine) is scripted and somebody is laughing their ass off.
“Sure he does.” Berry said and (I think to impress Peggy) turned to Joe. “Galbo, get Speaker going on promotion right away. Jack and me talked to him
, but you have to kick start that guy, you know, get him on it tomorrow. I don't want any goof ups on this. I want a ton of pictures of Peggy, color. Billboards all over town. Get on the billboards first thing. Then set her up for three or four promotion spots and run 'em on our air, TV, and do radio too. Cable. Get the newspaper’s TV Channels cover.” He turned to me. “And Jack, I want to do a news story, tomorrow, I'll make the announcement on camera, Peggy beside me, maybe we can shoot it over on the Opry Stage, call 'em up.”
I said, “Sure enough,” then said to Joe, “Mr. Galbo, you didn't say … did you have any interview questions for Ms. Moore, before the announcement, tomorrow?”
Peggy touched my forearm. “Silly.”
Berry frowned.
Joe began popping his knuckles, one by one, and I observed killer anguish on his face. I thought I'd help the pain along. “This the way they do it in Atlanta, big guy?”
His lips said something very awful and bad and you could never say it on TV.
Semi-occupied with Peggy's dual nobleness, Berry said to me, “Start Peggy’s rehearsal tomorrow, Carr, and I want a story on every newscast … Peggy's background, biography, music résumé, the building of her new weather set, we'll need a new set, everything.” His full attention shifted to Peggy's eyes, “We're thinking Grand ol’ Opry look for the set.”
Peggy purred, “Oh Berry.”
Berry looked to Joe “We also have to get together tomorrow and decide how we're going to package this thing for sales.”
Joe said, “I have some ideas on how you can package it.”
Berry ignored him. “Well, Peg, how do it feel to be a big TV star?”
“Oh, Berry, I don't know, it's all so exciting.”
The server served Peggy's fizz.
Berry held up his glass to her. “A toast to Nashville's newest shooting star.”
Peggy said, “Oh god.”
After we toasted Berry put his arm around Peggy's neck and murmured in her ear, not so hushed, “Let's go get that dinner I promised you. Know what I mean?”
Peggy paused, looked at me, then said with excitement, “Oh goodie, the White Oaks, sounds great, I feel like a celebration. Let's all go. You too Joe.”
Joe closed his eyes like Bella Lagosi dying.
Berry frowned, “These guys have other….”
“Oh phooey, I insist,” Peggy stood.
What can you say.
* * *
At the White Oaks Country Club entrance (Peggy had suggested that we all drive over together in Berry's Humvee), Joe got to the entrance first and held open the door.
Berry, with his hand in the small of Peggy's back, ushered her in.
I stepped in past Joe, behind Berry.
I felt a rush of wind and heard Joe say something nasty to the back of my head.
Ignoring him, we entered the exclusive Country Club's (I had been here a couple times with Lamar Frazer) lobby. Hadn't changed—oak paneling, green carpeting, six feet armored knight in a corner (minus the knight), thick wooden chairs, huge crystal chandelier, large oil paintings of red-capped fox hunters on chestnut steeds.
Moving to the maître'd's stand, Berry’s disappointment that Joe and I were there embarrassingly evident, greeted by red bow-tied Andy, Berry told him he would be four.
Entering the dining room, Berry began sprinkling his new weather personality around to the many dining room guests.
Watching him, Joe allowed a whisper to me, “This sucks.”
I almost felt sorry for Joe.
Berry finished with introductions, Andy seated us at a small table in a corner that had been hastily set up for four people instead of two. I sat opposite Peggy and Berry sat opposite Joe. I noted we were in the elegant Andrew Jackson Room. More large oil paintings of fox hunters, red tapestry-covered walls, green tablecloth, matching napkins, crystal water glasses, wine goblets, gold-rimmed maroon plates, gold flatware. A flickering centerpiece candle floated in a little silver wishing well.
A waiter, looking like he ate a lot of quiche, came to the table, introduced himself as Roland, and read off a list of specials.
Berry then took charge: “Roland, this is a celebration, bottle of Dom Perignon.” He pointed to Peggy. “This sweet pea you're going to see a lot more of in this town. Peggy Moore, the new TV12 weather gal.”
“Hi Ms. Moore, congratulations, love your nails.” Roland said, lit our centerpiece candle, and left.
Time passing, enjoying my Dom, amid Berry's talk on how we were on the cutting edge, outside the box, I felt something under my left pant leg's cuff. I looked at Peggy. Her eyes sparkled and the something moved further up my leg.
For appetizers, Berry ordered escargot. Peggy chose a shrimp cocktail. I had a half dozen Oysters Rockefeller and Joe asked Roland if they had any goose liver.
Roland’s eye brows raised, “That would be foie gras, yes we do.”
Joe said, “Some Ritz crackers too and a glass of Cold Duck.”
After the appetizer, dishes cleared, the Dom finished, Berry ordered a bottle of red and a bottle of white (Roland recommended a French Beaujolais and a domestic Riesling). Not a wine guy, I was impressed.
The main course arrived shortly thereafter. Berry had lobster, Peggy filet mignon, and Joe had baby back ribs.
I hate what food does to a good buzz so I played with another half dozen Oysters Rockefeller.
Me on oyster number four, Berry, having some problem with his lobster, raised his glass of Riesling and said, “Another toast to the new TV12 weather girl, the biggest thing to hit Nashville since Patsy Cline.”
“Oh, Berry, you're so sweet.” Peggy imitated blush.
Joe gulped some Beaujolais.
After another toast by Berry, I noticed his words becoming thicker, his eyes heavier, red blotches riding high on his cheeks, his toupee a little crooked.
I floated a glance at Peggy. Around my knees, her toes were bolder than they had been all night.
Joe, between bites, seemed to be clawing in all the activity above and below the table.
* * *
Dinner finished, a flurry of waiters cleared the table and Roland sparked cherry's jubilee. The flame reflection on Peggy's lips. Grand Marnier spiked Berry. Irish coffee calmed Joe, and I ordered another Jack Daniels.
Peggy had, “Drambuie and decaf, thanks,” and layered her lips with fresh cherry lipstick.
A little past 11:45, the lights came up, and servers started to put chairs on tables.
One of Peggy's feet rested on my right knee.
Joe, turned sideways, legs crossed, puffed on an eight inch Aliados cigar.
I smoked a Salem, sipped black coffee and pretended I knew what all this was about.
While I pretended, Berry began rambling about guesting county and western stars on Peggy's weather show. In midsentence, like a goon had hit him on the head with a baseball bat, he tipped forward and his face plunked on the stained table cloth.
“Oh dear.” Peggy tried to straighten his wig.
Joe stood, “Well, Jack, I guess we better take Sally home.”
Surprised to hear Joe use Berry's nickname, I said, “Guess so,” drained my coffee and put Salem out.
“Poor Berry.” Peggy tried again to straighten Berry's toupee. She looked at Joe. “Do you think he's all right?”
“He's all right, just drunk as a skunk.” Joe rubbed his stomach, burped, and took charge. “I'll drive us back to the The Berry, take Sally home.”
Joe cased Peggy, then me, sniffed the air.
I said, “Smell anything, Joe?”
“You don't want to know.” He blew a large plume of white smoke toward the ceiling and hefted Berry to his feet.
* * *
After Joe dropped us off at The Berry, departed with Berry in tow, Peggy suggested I follow her to Tara. I told her I had to see a guy named Pete about a piano but she, pinching around my inner thigh, insisted we needed to talk about our rehearsal schedule. A sucker for pinches, I followed.
&n
bsp; Peggy unlocked the front door to Tara and we stepped inside. She pressed the switches that illuminated the pool and sunken den.
I said, “Looks familiar.”
“Getting to be a habit, dear.”
Somehow, I didn't want to believe that, but I knew it was so, and for another closer-to-home reason a thought occurred to me. I asked, “You pick up Snakebite, airport, this afternoon?”
“Are we detecting a little ol’ bit of jealousy pooh?” Peggy closed the door, snapped the dead bolt, latched the security chain.
“Just wondered.”
“Don't be such a worry wart. Take that coat off, get comfortable.” She squeezed my maximus and kicked off her shoes and I found myself locked in an embrace.
After a minute she took off my coat, threw it on a chair and just then the phone on the bar chirped. Peggy went over and picked up: “Oh hi there … it went great … sure did, just like you said … oh no, don't come out tonight, I'm pooped, been talking business ‘til the cows come home.” She looked at me, “Yep, startin’ rehearsals tomorrow … got to get my beauty rest … I do too … maybe tomorrow … of course … sure do … going to take a hot bath and go right to beddy-bye … me too.”
She hung up, laughed. “Berry was funny.”
“That was Berry?”
“Silly, just little ol’ Snakebite, he worries about me.”
Sounded like hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock. “Just wanted to be sure of my lines.”
“Lines?”
“This play we're in.”
“Silly billy. Want a drink?”
“No.”
“Me either.” She teetered to the sofa, plunked herself down, patted a spot next to her like nice doggie come sit, said, “Ya are jealous, ain't ya?”
Don't answer.
“Ain't ya?”
No, no, no. Don't answer.
“You are, ain't ya?”
Either way you lose.
She said, “You're so sweet.” She thrust her arms in the air like a touchdown had been scored. “Oh Jack, I'm so excited about this weather show I could scream. I hope you'll help me be good.”