by G L Rockey
Speaking of bangs, for the tenth time today, I looked over the past four days' A.C. Nielsen ratings. Our news numbers, down a point Monday and Tuesday, headed down two points Wednesday. Last night they were down three points. Channel 3 had taken the lead. Conjugating the numbers, I reasoned it didn't take a Mr. Ed to figure out what the cause for the decline in our ratings might be. With Friday's numbers to come in Monday morning, the start of the new week should be riveting. But then I figured, party tonight, Saturday coming up, Monday's a life time away.
Peggy called the office little after 4:00, from her cell phone (she was running behind) and wondered why I hadn't left for home yet to get changed. I told her, a one-of-those-meetings things. She told me to skedaddle home and reminded that I was to meet her at 6:30 for dinner. She said she was so excitedly looking forward to tonight's premiere party. Buddy One Take had confirmed he would be there. She had something very special to tell me.
* * *
Around 4:30, fearful of what the something special Peggy had to tell me was, I advised Joy that I had to go home, shower, change, etcetera, had an engagement. She smiled like she had reconfirmed her count of the Milky Way. I went to the news room and ran into Sago. Since I didn't take his earlier advice to go home and go to bed, he was supposed to meet Whitney at 7:00 but she had been detained (Whitney sold Real Estate), he wanted to have a TGIF drink.
I started to tell him about my itinerary for the evening but he pretty much knew everything, had been invited to the premiere party, was not going, he and Whitney were going to a movie.
Gillian on my mind anyway, I didn't have to meet Peggy until 6:30, plenty of time, I said, “What the hey, let's go, just one, Felix The Cat.”
He said he had to finish editing a “piece” for the news, would meet me.
CHAPTER 8
Real Time
4:50:01 P.M. CDT
Stopped at a red light, five minutes from TV12's parking lot, Peggy made a call to Stella: “Hi Stella, Peg. Are the Rent-A-Big-Screen TV technicians there yet? …good, be sure they put the screens either side of the bar … how big are the screens … get out … really … and tell the caterers an extra two dozen shrimp, Jack loves shrimp … did you pick up the champagne? … good, and check the Jack Daniels, we had a case, but Jack … oh Stella, don't be that way … we will … let's just get through this … how many people last count … sixty! …God … gotta go hun, weather show at 5:00, me and Jack should be there about 10:45 … and Stella, check the video recorder … playback, be sure it's working … wanta’ get it all … I know you do … okay, bye.”
CHAPTER 9
Jack’s Time
On the way to Felix The Cat, Winston's top down, I stopped at a BP for petrol (Winston preferred petrol to gas), filled up and made my way to Printer's Alley. I figured one drink, maybe two, dash home, shower, new suit, pick Peggy up, play it by ear.
After parking Winston off Church Street, walking toward Printer's Alley, I noted a familiar revolving bank sign, with time and temperature, moved more slowly than usual—5:05 P.M., 91 degrees, 5:06 P.M., 92, and the humidity had to be 100 percent. Even the Bell South ‘Bat-Building’ looked uncomfortable. I know I was, took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. Rounding the corner to Printer's Alley, I noticed Sago—loose white trousers, white sneakers, orange short sleeve shirt—standing at the outside steps that led down to Felix The Cat. He gave me a little salute.
I said, “That was fast.”
“I know a shortcut.”
“Figures.”
I skipped down the steps. He followed and we entered Felix The Cat's cozy basement world. Noisy tonight, looking around, pretty full house, but I saw no Gillian. I hung my blazer on the back of 1A. Sago bellied up in 2A.
From Wurlitzer blared Waylon Jennings’ “Good Hearted Woman”.
Then, like a dark cloud, Angelo emerging from the back room. Seeing Sago and me, he scowled that familiar dull black funeral bunting.
Sago said, “What’s a matter with him.”
“He’s glad to see me.”
Angelo waddled down to face us. He wore his usual uniform—gray slacks, white long sleeve shirt, red vest, bolo tie (tonight a jade stone, about the size of my watch, knotted his bolo), and the Vitalis smell reeked. He said, mostly to me, “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
“I like the bartender.”
He nodded up, as in higher. His eyes had that weary look, like before, trying to tell me something, as in life and death. He said, “Both you guys might wanna leave, now.”
“We just got here.” Sago said.
“Is your funeral.” Angelo, with his priestly moves, manipulated a Jack Daniels bottle then served my drink on the standard little lacy Felix The Cat coaster.
I said, “Where's Gillian?”
Angelo grunted, looked at Sago. “Whata’ you want Sing?”
“Sago.”
“Sago, sing, sung, who gives a shit.”
“Heineken.”
Angelo, eyes fixed on me, got a Heineken from the cooler, plumped it down in front of Sago, shook his head, glanced toward Snakebite's upstairs apartment.
I said, “Snakebite in?”
“Yep, with his buddy.”
“His buddy?”
“Chuck from Houston.”
“Chuck from Houston?” Sago raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, ya know, Texas, they'll be down later.” Angelo reviewed me, “Drink up, then you oughta leave, know whan I mean?”
Like I said before, I never appreciated being told to leave any place.
I glanced at the Budweiser clock on the wall. Little after 6:00 but that was bar time—fast. Plenty of time for me to be in a new suit, having an Italian dinner, afterwards going to a premiere party, hearing a surprise announcement. Amazing how chance gets all balled up with fate. I heard laughter from somewhere behind a bottle of Chivas Regal.
Angelo wiped, with his white bar rag, a spot in front of me and said, “Dumb.”
“If any of us were smart, would we be here?” I said.
Angelo said, “I'm not talking smart, I'm talking dumb.”
I felt Sago studying me.
I said, “What time is it?”
Sago, “Your watch broke?”
“Yes.”
“6:04.”
Thinking I'd change my plans a little, I didn't need to wear a suit to Figlios, could go the way I was, I'd go home after dinner and change.
Somebody said, you know, knowing history like I do, I think something bad is about to happen.
I reminded myself: sometimes, if you can keep a thought from becoming words, like that famous falling tree, reality will move away.
I noticed Sago and Angelo staring at me.
Sago said, “Kemosabe, your lips are moving.”
“You better take him home, Sing, while he can still move his lips.” Angelo said and he moved down the bar to another customer.
Sago said, “What’s his problem?”
Then there she was, the Tall One, Gillian, stepping from the back room to the service bar. I gave a little wave and said “Hi.”
She smiled. I smiled. She smiled again and the road sign you missed is in your face.
Kitty Wells sang from Wurlitzer, “Honky Tonk Angels”.
Sago said, “Who was that?”
“Gillian Phoenix.”
Sago said, “Eyes hint of my mother's side, but way too tall for me.”
“I think I'm falling in love.”
“Are you crazy or what?”
“I think.”
I turned to the back bar and stared at, six feet away, the liquor bottles setting on their glass shelves and Sago shaking his head. Thinking how things were angling together, ninety miles an hour, toward that intersection with no stop signs, I said, “All in the head.”
Sago said, “My mother's people think Western man's head up his ass.”
“What about your Dad's side?”
“They know it.”
I glanced at
the time on the wall. Just past 6:29.
CHAPTER 10
Real Time
6:35:06 P.M. CDT
Peggy, waiting at the rear entrance of TV12, looked at her gold Cartier wristwatch: 6:36. She whispered, “Jack is late, he's always late.”
She had an idea. She went to her office and called her home number. Stella answered. Peggy asked if maybe Jack was there checking on the party preparations. He liked little surprises.
Stella said things were coming together superbly for the party, but she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Jackson.
Peggy called Felix The Cat.
CHAPTER 11
Jack’s Time
The Cat pretty noisy, Sago gone outside to call Whitney, I noticed Angelo had picked up the house phone. Talking, he turned to look my way. He put the phone down, approached me, and said, “You here?”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “You.”
“No.” I thumped my glass on the bar. “Hit me.”
“We're all gonna get whacked.” He went back to the phone, said something, hung up, and returned to me stone faced. He said, “That was Moore, looking for you.”
I pushed my glass forward. “Hit me.”
“Your funeral.” He poured three fingers of Mr. Daniels in my glass.
I nodded to the service bar where the Tall One had been. “I think I've fallen in love with Gillian?”
Like I had stolen his pinky ring, Angelo's eyes catching something in his peripheral vision, was going to say something but stopped.
Wondering why he stopped, he never stopped, I smelled a familiar peppery fragrance, touch of incense in there, then noticed, in the back-bar mirror, just like the other night, the Tall One had moved behind me. I looked over Angelo's left shoulder at her reflection. I swear again, I saw a nimbus around her head.
I glanced back to Angelo. He shook his head like he had lost a game and was going home. He left.
I looked again in the mirror to the Tall One's image—amazing, hadn't changed a bit. My nostrils filling with her knockout fragrance, I turned to her, looked in her eyes and said, “I think I love you.”
She raised an eyebrow like she was reading my mind and straightened Sago's bar stool. “Who was that, with ya?”
“A friend, investigative reporter.”
I perceived a quick tinge of apprehension in her eyes. She said, “Did he split?”
“No, be back.”
She's sticking around.
I said, “So, when are we going to go out?” I blew smoke in the air.
She looked through me to southern Peru then toward The Haute Cuisine stairway and tensed.
I looked there too. A lanky pock-marked face guy—long sleeve red shirt, gold necklace, red plastic looking jeans, maroon silver-tipped cowboy boots, big white western hat, T-bone smile, nose like a tuna—shuffled down the red carpeted steps from The Haute Cuisine. He gave a little wave to Gillian.
Hope he falls on his ass, I thought.
I glanced at Gillian. Looking through me again, she distanced herself a bar stool’s away and I wondered who this dipshit cowboy was waving at her.
Just then T-bone guy stepped beside her and I overheard him say, “Hi babe.”
She smiled, “Hi.”
“See you later, right,” dip touched her arm.
She glanced downward and smiled but it was cold and awkward.
I said, “Hey Tex, where’d ya get those shit kicker boots.”
Gillian moved away quickly to the service bar
Tex scowled at me. I scowled back. He left.
“See ya Tex,” I said as he stepped away.
He turned back, scowled again, then walked toward a corner booth.
I looked to Gillian and felt myself moving off center, fantasizing about two plus two possibilities.
Buoyed, I turned back to the bar but before I could enjoy the buoyancy, I felt a dark presence, somewhere behind and to my left. I smelled a cocktail of Old Spice aftershave mixing with underarm BO.
Wurlitzer paused, clicked, and Faith Hill sang “Better Days”.
The dark presence and underarm cocktail, coming from behind, got stronger, and out of it came a thin crawly voice: “Hey prick.”
I looked in the mirror and was thrilled at the familiar image of Felix The Cat's albino owner, Mike 'Snakebite' Walker. His black wraparound sunglasses scanned me in a surreal reflection.
I turned to his face. His skin reminded me of a fluorescent lamp running low on mercury vapor. Tonight it seemed below low. He had a long skinny nose, no lips, and his hair, hanging to his scrawny shoulders, reminded me of corn stalks in the fall, around Halloween.
His essence radiating under a white cowboy hat with a sixteen inch brim, I thought, on a windy day, holding onto that hat, he could star in a new flying nun TV sitcom. Shorter than I thought him to be, around five six, as he stood next to me, we were eye to eye. I said, “Hi there, Snakebite, how the hey are you? Haven't seen you in a blue moon.”
Gasping a quick hissss of air, he parted his lips (first time I ever got a good look at his gum line, mostly gum, much tartar, pointed little front teeth) and said, “Prick.”
I smiled to be polite and took a closer look at his outfit—aforementioned white hat, long sleeve silver shirt unbuttoned to his navel, silver leather vest, silver pants, and white snake skin cowboy boots. The silver shirt, vest and pants hung on him like a dry cleaner's thin polyester-covered clothes pickup. I guessed his weight close to a hundred pounds.
He put a pack of Marlboro 100s on the bar and I noted his bony fingers had rounded dirty nails. A silver ring on his left pinkie held a rectangular turquoise stone about half the size of his Marlboro pack. Purple crucifixion tattoos, on the curves between thumb and index finger of both hands, seemed to twitch. Gold bracelets hung from both wrists.
He hung a cigarette between his no-lips, lit it with my Zippo, said again, “Prick,” and, fondling my Zippo, eased his skinny frame onto the stool beside me.
“That seat's saved,” I said, “and that's my Zippo.”
He said, “Hisssss,” and I noticed his face skin take on a clammy yellow cast like his kidneys might be exhausted from flushing gunk. That Old Spice aftershave and underarm cocktail getting stronger, I figured the Old Spice was cover for a shower.
He put my Zippo back, dragged his cigarette, and motioned to Angelo.
Angelo arrived and Snakebite said, “Give this prick his last drink.”
“Yes, sir.” Angelo poured a shot in my glass and asked Snakebite, “You whan your regular?”
Snakebite nodded yes then blew smoke in my face. “Prick.”
I blew smoke in his face. “You talking to me?”
“What you do to my number one hum?”
“Who's your number one hum?”
“Yous know, prick, Peggsie.”
Angelo put a tall rum and Coke in front of Snakebite, glanced at me, and left quickly.
Snakebite took a drink and said, “She told me yous two is in amour land, gonna get hooked up.”
“Who's yous two?” I said.
“Prick, you and my Peggsie.”
“She lied, lies a lot.”
“Prick. I got a message for your boss. The bank is, how do they say, foreclosed. He'll know what I mean.”
I looked into his sunglasses. Dark like little TV screens, turned off, I saw myself in the reflection and said, “Try U.P.S. next time, they pick up shit most anytime.”
“Yeah, you tell him, prick.” He stuck his left index finger in my right shoulder. “And you, you might have less time, depends how I feel.”
I stuck my right index finger in his left shoulder, “Go take a shower.”
“Prick. Enjoy your drink, then get outta my joint.”
“Brush your teeth while you're at it.”
“Prick.” He left and joined his T-bone buddy just as Sago returned, said, “What'd Snakebite want?”
“His horse back.”
Sliding onto 2A, he said, “W
hat horse?”
“His Marlboro man horse, somebody took it.”
“Who?”
“Don't ask.”
From Wurlitzer Patsy Cline sang “I Fall To Pieces”.
I looked for Gillian, saw her serve T-bone a drink and Snakebite smiling as he stroked her back.
“She's smiling the same smile for that scum that she smiled for me,” I said.
“Who smile?”
“I think I'm in trouble.”
Said Sago, shaking his head: “Man oh man oh Chivats, you take the Pillsbury cake.”
Buoyed by another quick smile from Gillian, I changed my mind about leaving for the tenth time since around 6:30.
Sago said, “You know what time it is?”
“Look at that.”
“What?”
“Her smile. Tall One.” I nodded to Gillian.
“Oh, I see. That is a very tall smile.”
“You're a connoisseur of smiles. See anything different?”
“In what?”
“The way she smiles at me and the way she smiles at that T-bone jerk in the red and silver.”
“Let me see it again.” He looked. She smiled at T-bone. Sago said, “I see.”
“See what?”
“That's an egg roll smile.”
“Egg roll smile?”
“Full of garbage.”
She went to another table where three ladies smiled. Sago watched. “That's squaw to squaw smile. I don't ever pretend to know, don't want to know, don't ever get into them smiles.”
Gillian went to the service bar and smiled at a new Kitten I didn't recognize.
Sago said, “That's a Krystal hamburger smile.”
Watching her whisper something to the Kitten, I said, “Krystal hamburger smile?”
“Four for a buck.”
Gillian looked at me and smiled.
“Ah oh.” Sago said.
“What?”
“You're in trouble.”
“You think?”
“I gotta go meet Whitney.” He studied my face, said, “It may be too late,” and sliding off 2A, “If I should get a call, run into the TV12 weather department someplace, what should I tell her?”