by G L Rockey
At 7:35 Peggy arrived at Arthur's. Snakebite, there since 6:30, said nothing. Peggy ordered only a house salad, kept saying, “Snakebite, we have to talk,” then not talking. He insisted on watching her 10:00 weather show at TV12. She reluctantly agreed.
After the 10:00 weather, Snakebite insisting he had a surprise, Peggy informed him that they must drive separately to her house. She had an early morning meeting at the station and needed her car. Snakebite said he would just drive her to the station in the morning. She said, no way, she had to get her beauty rest, big promo photo shoot early tomorrow.
Arrived at Peggy's house, having a drink at her bar, Snakebite presented a gold ring with a dime-sized diamond nesting on top, then reached to kiss her. She sneezed and placed the ring on the bar. She had to go do something. He fidgeted. Back from her something, Peggy told him she was breaking it off, everything, singing at Felix The Cat, everything, she was in love, madly, deeply, like never before, she was sorry, couldn't help it, wanted him to go, and be a gentleman about it.
Snakebite snatched her throat in hand, wanted to know, “Who's the cocksucker?”
She looked into his pink eyes. “You're hurting me.”
“Who?”
“Jack Carr … and don't you dare touch him, I'll spill my guts.”
He loosened his grip, put his sunglasses on, took his ring, and left.
Peggy pressed Jack's home number: “Hello, no one is available to take your call, please leave a message after the tone.”
CHAPTER 7
Jack’s Time
I had snuck out after the 6:00 producers' meeting, (Peggy was tied up with Snakebite) went to The Green Onion. Had a drink, sat in with The Petes.
Around 12:30 A.M., that Kitten, Gillian Phoenix, heavy on my mind, I wanted to see if my first impressions were correct.
* * *
Going down the outside cement steps, I entered The Cat's cozy basement world. Walking past the familiar parquet bar, I sensed something was up. I hung my tan blazer on the back of 1A and loosened my tie.
From Wurlitzer, Travis Tritt sang “Best of Intentions”.
I looked around. Maybe ten other customers sat in booths, five at the bar. Then I noticed Angelo emerging from the back room area. Standing at the service end of the bar, seeing me, instead of the usual warm greeting, he scowled a dull black funeral bunting. He waddled down to face me. The black bunting a brooding silence, he wore his usual uniform—gray slacks, white long sleeve shirt, red vest, bolo tie (tonight a silver arrowhead, about the size of my fist, knotted his bolo), and the Vitalis wafted from his countenance. He didn't offer his usual I'm-handing-you-my-last-dollar-and-see-my-pinkie-ring right hand across the bar. Instead he said, “Whan can I do for you?”
“What's the matter?” I said.
“Nutin the matter with me.” He glanced toward the steps that led to The Haute Cuisine.
I said, “Somebody complain about The Haute Cuisine food?”
His face turned more ugly. He nodded another notch up, as in higher. I figured Snakebite's apartment. I studied Angelo's face. His eyes had a weary look, like he might be trying to tell me something complicated, as in a life and death plot.
I said, “How's Snakebite doing?”
Angelo shook his head morosely in six chapters of no. and said, “You might wanna leave.”
“I just got here.”
“Is your funeral.” Angelo manipulated, with his priest like moves, a Jack Daniels bottle. I noticed the brooding on his face turn darker as he served my drink on the standard little lacy Felix The Cat coaster. He looked me in the eye and said, “I tried to tell you, stronzo.”
“Could I have a little more ice, please.”
He grunted and scooped, in his hand, ice from the stainless steel well behind the bar and dropped several cubes in my drink. “I tried to tell you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Getting mixed up with that bitch.”
Angelo, eyes fixed on me, shook his head, munched a big green martini olive, and, cutting slices of lime, said, “Let me ask you somethin?”
I had learned, frequenting this dump, to avoid Angelo's ‘let me ask you something’. Best to change the subject.
“Hot in here Angelo, air conditioner broke?”
He wrinkled his brow, and, his eyes requiem black, he leaned over the bar and like I was a piece of little Melba toast, spread garlic laced words on my face. “Let me ask you a serious question.” Some oregano in there too.
I said, “I really don't feel like a serious question.”
“No no, this isn't serious serious. It's kind of personal serious, know whan I mean, like life and death?”
“Okay, what?”
“What did you do to Snakebite's number one hum?”
I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. Angelo bore down on my face. “Peggy quit Snakebite tonigh’, broke it off,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that … everything … no singing Saturday nights, nutin. Peggy told him she was in love, gettin’ hitched.”
I closed my eyes, remembering Peggy's words, last night, after the premiere, about love, quitting Snakebite, and all that ducky sweet stuff. I didn't take her seriously. I never had luck with serious.
Angelo interrupted, “And guess who Peggy tol’ Snakebite was the groom to be?”
I opened my eyes.
Angelo glanced toward Snakebite's upstairs apartment. “Maybe you should leave, now, know whan I mean?”
I said, “And how is dear old Snakebite?”
“Broke up, taking it hard.”
“He here?”
“Lucky for you, no.”
“Too bad, I wanted to say hello.”
“You'll get a goodbye.”
“Where might he be?”
“Just left, went down to his ranch, pissed.”
I drained my drink and pushed the glass forward. “Hit me again, Angelo, right on top. Make it a double.”
“Dumb.” Angelo said as he poured then walked away. “Dumb.”
Wurlitzer clicked and Willie Nelson sang “Georgia”.
It was then that I saw again the Tall One, Gillian Phoenix. It was like one of those signs on the highway, you pass at 80 mph, think, there was something there I missed and you know you have to go back and see it again. This was like that. I gave a little wave, said “Hi.”
She smiled back, “Hi,” and went to the back area where the dressing rooms were.
I called, “Hey Angelo.”
He returned slowly and leaned over the bar. “You still here?”
I said, “Would you please ask Gillian to come out here, I'd like to ask her something.”
Angelo munched a martini olive and wagged his finger in my face. “Don't even think about that one, you won't see what hit ya, Snakebite's got big plans for her.”
Perplexed, I said, “If Snakebite is eyeing this Gillian why is he so upset about Peggy dumping him?”
Angelo frowned, “Snakebite's in love with Peggy, stonzo.” He peered down his nose. “’At's different.” He sashayed to the service bar.
Willie Nelson singing, I turned to the back bar and stared at, six feet away, the family of liquor bottles setting on glass shelves and I was thinking how things were angling together, ninety miles an hour, toward that intersection with no stop signs.
Then there she was again, the tall willowy Kitten who was Gillian. She stood at the service bar. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. She smiled again and the sign you miss at 80 MPH, you’re back and it’s in your face and you know you were right. She went to a booth where a couple lounged.
I sucked my ice and banged my glass for Angelo. He looked, waddled down, and in my face, said again, “You still here?”
I nodded to the Tall One. “Tell me about the Tall One.”
I noticed Angelo's eyes catching something in his peripheral vision. He whispered, “I tol’ you, doan even think about….” then stopped.
Wondering why he stopped, he never stopped, I smell
ed that peppery fragrance, touch of incense in there … yep, in the back-bar mirror, the Tall One had moved behind me. I looked over Angelo's left shoulder at her reflection. Her face, a high point in time, I swear I saw a nimbus around her head.
I glanced back to Angelo. He shook his head and there appeared much trepidation in his eyes.
I looked again in the mirror to the Tall One's image—same as before, high cheekbones, rum-colored eyes, arched nose that came to a delicate point, full lips, rounded chin, caramel-colored hair cascading around her face down to and over her bronze shoulders. My nostrils filling with her knock out fragrance and I felt myself turning.
I looked into her face. Couple years ticked off my end-time. I studied her slightly angled far-away eyes highlighted by turquoise shadow, then her perfect tear drop nostrils, then the delicate sheen of coral gloss on her perfect lips, then the plunging cut of her Kitten outfit. Breathtaking. I went back to her eyes. Something there not seen in the other Kittens. A discerning. Then I noticed there was a time warp of something trying to get said in one short second of real-time like a glimpse of something that is a brilliant light at the end of that long tunnel. And in the background, a million miles away, cocktail glasses skipped against glass, a computer spit out a cash receipt, a million mumbled words floated in The Cat’s smoky red air, and Ray Price sang “Night Life”.
I said, “May we help you?”
She said, “I was gonna ask Angel somethin?” Her voice was some kind of after dinner drink—warm, Amaretto, Drambui, Grand Marnier, clinging to the sides of a snifter, touch of Cherry Herring in there too.
Stopped, I said, “Angel? You mean….” I turned and looked at Angelo. “Angel?”
He shrugged. “Kiss me, I'm Italian.”
I turned back to her.
She looked at me and, it seemed, on through to Hong Kong.
Angelo mumbled, “Jesus Christ,” and started toward the service bar, yelled, “Back to work, Gillian.”
Angelo gone, I said, “So what did you have to ask Angel, maybe I could help?”
“I doubt it, I have to go.”
She glanced around the lounge like she was making mental notes, recording things, then returned to me. “You live here?”
I sensed more in her tone than the question implied, “I'm trying to solve a mystery.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That love at first sight thing I mentioned to you last night. I think it's true.”
I perceived a quick tinge of apprehension in her eyes.
But she's sticking around.
I said, “So you just started working here, huh?” I blew smoke in the air.
She pointed (elegant hands, long fingers, nice nails, nice polish, no rings) to the warning label on my pack of Salems.
I said, “I only smoke when I drink.”
She looked through me to southern Peru.
I thought I'd fish. “So, do you know Snakebite well?”
“He's the owner, whaddaya think?”
“I know him too, kinda … a little, to see him.”
“What happened to your cheek.”
“Shaving, Norelco threw a blade.”
She looked through me to China, “You the Peggy Moore connection around here?”
That floored me. “I….”
“Hey.” Angelo returned, hands on hips, trying his best to whisper, said to Gillian, “I said back to work!”
Gillian looked through me to Peru again, and left.
Angelo shot me a very dark look then went to tend another bar customer.
I looked to Gillian, stepping away, and felt myself moving off center, fantasizing about two plus two possibilities.
Despite Angelo's warning, I stayed until closing time making goo goo eyes with Gillian, and I think, almost sure, she was goo gooing me, but something was holding her back.
* * *
When I got home there were three messages from Peggy, all of which pretty much said, “Jack, call me.” I didn't get them and barely remember falling onto my foldout bed.
I awoke to a High-C variation of “OhmyGawd” and it sounded like my neighbors, early risers, were not only High-C’ing it, but rearranging the furniture and tearing off some wall paper between notes.
I checked Blancpain, Wednesday, just a little after 7:50 A.M.
I showered, dressed in my Wednesday dress down uniform—Levis, blue button down shirt, suede sports jacket, western boots and left for TV12.
Winston's top down, sunshine, cool morning air, driving to the station, I was thinking Gillian and, for the first time in six months, futures.
* * *
Around just after 11:00 A.M. I got a call from Peggy. She said she had been trying to call me all night. I told her my machine must be broken again and besides, I was a little under the weather. She reminded me, “Lunch at 12:30, I'll pick you up, then we have to go get you that suit for Friday night.”
We got the suit, Dino's Men's Store, charcoal, three button. She had picked it out along with a maroon tie, black wingtips, and a silk long sleeve shirt. Returned to the station, around 5:30 I told Joy I had to go to a meeting, had the executive producer conduct the 6:00 news critique, asked Joy to tell anybody who asked that I would not be back, had to attend a Television News Directors’ Association meeting about rules, a lot of technical stuff, would take all night.
I snuck out and went to The Green Onion, played some keyboard with The Petes and, despite Angelo's warning, could stand it no more, went to Felix The Cat. Angelo couldn't believe I was there, lucky for me Snakebite wasn't there, he and Stella had gone over to his other club, The Pink Poodle.
“Where's Gillian?”
“With Snakebite and Stella, they’re showing her the ropes.”
The Pink Poodle a lap dance strip joint, with a la carte on the side, I bowed my head, closed my eyes and, sensed being sucked into real time, I went to thinking how really fickle real time is and the nasty way chance behaves.
I had a thought, looked up, “Angelo, if Peggy dumped Snakebite … what about the, you know, Peggy-Stella pretzel thing … I mean….”
“I tol’ ya, Snakebite loves Peggy, maybe he don’t care about bumper to bumper, I doan know, doan whan a know.”
* * *
Wednesday, futures put on hold by Angelo's Pink Poodle Gillian pronouncement, Thursday passed uneventful and Friday, at lunch, Arthur's, Peggy was piqued that I had been avoiding her the last few days. I told her TV news director meeting, things popping up all over, busy busy busy. She said, “I been lonely?” (I knew, rumor going around the station, she was having evening meetings with Berry, in his office, she couldn't have been that lonely).
Then she reminded me that I should skedaddle home this afternoon, shower, shave, change into my new suit. She reminded me that the silk long sleeve shirt was a must. Dinner tonight at Figlios, reservation for 6:45, veal marsala was excellent, we could drive over together in her Caddy. Would be back just in time for her 10:00 show, then go to her place for the premiere party. After that, in her words, “I have a surprise for you, shout it from the rooftops.” Newsperson that I am, I asked what the surprise might be. She said, “Wouldn't be a surprise, darling … prepare for the weekend lover.”
Later in the afternoon, Sago popped in, said we needed to take a ride in Winston, talk about S-Stuff.
Figuring the afternoon was shot anyway, I signed off on some paperwork and said, “How about now.”
Studying the scratched side of my face, he said, “How's the face?”
* * *
Looping around I-265 in Winston, Gillian on my mind, I mentioned to Sago the funny feeling I had that seemed to be growing stronger, like something strange might be happening to my DNA, the world's even, evolving in a strange way. Then I told him about Peggy’s premiere party.
He said like a judge's death sentence, “Tonight, go home and go to bed, stay there until Monday, call me if it's not better.”
I felt philosophical for some reason and said, “Seconds
separate events in time, and chance is the exclusive measure to one species.”
“Maybe you should drop me off, go home now.”
After a pause, I said, “So what's with S-Stuff?”
Sago said, “Shortage of parts. Beaucoup waiting line. Pie-in-the-sky bucks, makes Al Capone and Prohibition looks like a night of bingo with the Sisters of Mercy. And the one that takes the pineapple upside-down cake … a good brain is bringing $999.”
“Let me guess.”
“Alzheimer's patients. Problem is, a male recipient from a female donor, he thinks he is a she.”
“Joke right.”
“So is human history.”
“How did we get from there to here?” I said.
“I think it has something to do with money.”
“I wonder about changing species.”
“The family of man,” Sago said.
“I think it's persons, now.”
Sago said, “Whatever, stuck in the DNA we call us.”
“Wonder when we'll move on to the next level of somewhere.”
“Not till we get it right.”
“I know one thing for sure. The faster we go the slower we move.”
“We?”
“I know, I know.”
* * *
Back at the office, I put my feet on my desk and was thankful for one thing. The peace day, the good day, Saturday, was nearing. For some reason, living, breathing, I didn't feel guilty on Saturday. I think it came from Aunt Jane. A fundamentalist thing. With her Monday through Friday entailed work. Sunday, the day of rest, you had to get up early for three hours of church, Sunday school, preaching, prayers, and hymns. In later years, skipping church, guilt persists. But Saturday is a free day, for me anyway, a free day from it all. I think God really rested on Saturday and I've toyed with the idea of converting to Judaism more than once.
Leaning back, I conjugated, before you get to Saturday, Friday still has a few ticks to go in the form of one big bang—a premiere party.