by G L Rockey
Dry land low, came from someone and, thinking I'd join Jay, I saw that it wasn't Jay.
I had a drink and Pete asked me if I wanted to play. I said sure. Playing something close to “Piano Man”, I didn't give a thought to a long hairy snake chewing at my hands. The base man, olive-green suit, white bowler hat, a wide grin on his face, grunted and passed little bangers like he was loving it all. Snarled in a trial separation, not talking to Blancpain, I swear (reality being what it is) I saw Jay again sitting at the bar. He smiled at me and The Petes rocked The Green Onion with “The Closer You Get”.
* * *
Time around The Green Onion turning fuzzy, I left and returned to my apartment. Needing to talk to someone, I poured a drink and proceeded to talk to the walls as in that stupid song. That led to a serious discussion with Monday about Monday's freaky personality. In particular, Monday, agitated, was terrified of a sure death just about a few minutes away. I tried to reason with Monday: “It's senseless, terminal and all, thrashing about. We all have to go. Don't ask me why, that's just the way it is. But some, like you, get a definite end-date while others have to suck around a slobbering pile of flabby anticipation. At least, Monday, you know.”
Obstinate, this Monday I feared had decided to grab anticipation around the neck and squeeze him out quickly, to the end. Was Tuesday ready?
“I have no desire but to go, now and quickly,” Monday said.
I tried to reason around about things like enjoying the now and hope.
But this Monday wouldn't listen, said, “you people types are different with that hope and eternity thing.”
I said, “Some wonder about that,”
Around half way through the good conversation, I heard a tapping at the window beside my front door. I went over and peeked out.
Peggy smiled through the glass.
I let her in. She was drunk. So was I.
* * *
Up at sunlight through the window and “Ohmygod” shouting next door, Peggy's ginger marmalade perfume invaded my nose. To be sure I wasn’t dreaming I thought I better check Blancpain and did—Tuesday, May 8, 6:30 A.M.
Rousing Peggy, she was a little angry at being awakened so rudely, I got her up and out the door around 7:00.
Before going into work, I drove out to Gillian's farm. Checked the mailbox, my card with notes was still in there. I left it, went to the house. Nobody home, empty, doors locked; I knew the past weekend had happened. There sat the house. The grass driveway, the front lawn where I had parked. I peeked in the windows, nobody around. I sat on the porch swing, smoked a Salem. The late rooster crowed, the train whistle blew, the sun rising through the green, a very linear feeling came over me—the illusion of great depth that I knew was a flat surface.
* * *
Driving to TV12, not believing what was happening, last night with Peggy … stupid, I arrived around late. Joy looking concerned, glanced at her watch.
I said, “Traffic,” got a cup of coffee and at my desk, contemplating late, Sago came in, looked at me, said, “What's a matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t look like nothing,” then he related an interesting piece of news. Greta Turner, a rogue TV12 control room engineer, had equipped Berry's office for video and sound. Sago had an interesting recording from last night.
“Wanta’ see it?” Sago held up a flash drive.
“Why would I?”
“He's balling the blonde 'occluded front' in his office!”
The other option was to listen to Sago tell me about it. Watching would be easier. “Okay.”
He closed the door, pulled the drape over the window to the newsroom, stuck the drive into my TV, said, “Hold onto your seat, Kemosabe,” and pushed play.
Waiting for the video, I said, “You find anything more on Gillian Phoenix, that house out in the sticks I told you about?”
“Rental, owned by some Guy Pickle.”
That name rang a bell from somewhere but I wasn’t sure which one.
We watched Greta’s wide angle video of Berry’s office come up.
Berry dressed in only shorts, Sago said, “Sally might catch cold, dressed like that.”
As we watched, Sago and I exchanging glances.
Many things run through your mind when you see a video like this—Berry in his shorts, snapping pictures of Peggy, her in various stages of getting herself naked, posing her essentials on his desk—you wonder about reality and think things not worth thinking.
I remembered Peggy coming by my place sometime after midnight and figured she had been busy last night.
With Berry on the sofa and Peggy kneeling between his legs, I picked up my remote, press off and looked at Sago. “Anybody else seen this?”
“Greta, you, and me, I think.”
“Have that video have an accident.”
“Probably a copy.”
* * *
Peggy called me around noon, invited me to lunch. I said okay.
She drove and, at Arthur’s, seated, I said, “Saw an interesting video this morning, you and Berry in his office last night playing house.”
“You’re batty.”
“Don’t think so … you were sitting on Berry’s desk, sans everything … want me to give you a play by play….”
The look on her face not nice, I said, “But look, my lips are sealed, and last night at my place was a mistake.”
She spit “I hate you,” poured a cup of onion soup in my lap, slapped my face, and left.
I took a cab.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER 1
Real Time
Three weeks later, May 29
The Tennessean
Nashville Scene, by Shelby Bee
It seems the whole of Music City USA has turned into flaming tongues of gaseous gossip over the current state of WBFN-TV (TV12). The advertising community, the everybody, the anybody who knows anything about the broadcasting business, are talking about the growing problems at Channel 12. Witness recent newspaper headlines:
Luther Mays Move To Channel 3 Disaster for Channel 12
TV12's C&Weather Bombs
Prime Time Peggy Moore Show Preempts Award Winning CBS Reports!
Who’s at the TV12 Switch?
Who's at the switch, indeed. TV12's new prime time Peggy Moore Jubilee Show starring who else, is a disaster waiting to happen. Why the once dominate Nashville station would preempt a prime time CBS news program for this return to an Edsel version of ‘Hee Haw’ is beyond belief. One wonders if Peggy Moore has bought stock in the once powerful family-owned station. The new Moore program is only surpassed in poor taste by Moore's C&Weather show. TV12 employees are mincing and dicing rumors into reality as they wonder what has happened to their once mighty broadcast station.
One TV12 staffer who wished to remain anonymous said TV12's Broadcast House had acquired a new name: Planter House, as in the famous nuts. The staffer added, regarding the pending sale of the television station to S&W Broadcasting, “It's a blessing in disguise.”
CHAPTER 2
Jack’s Time
I don't know, twenty some days, time passing like ice melting on the South Pole, swilling in the memories of the past waning, stewed heat, and liquored moments of a hot and humid Tennessee, and up shows Saturday May 31.
My eyes open at brighter than usual morning sun, no sound from next door, I figure the honeymoon is over, whatever. I made a pot of coffee and was thinking, no wonder people get messed up. All this turning and twisting, running around on a screwed up orb, moving through blankness, collecting things, trying to hide from nothing and every day is like the day before. I had started building an ark to cross over but somebody had sunk the goddamn boat.
I had driven out in the country several times just to look at the scenery and happened to go by Gillian's place. I drove out on weekend mornings too. I didn't care about the house or even Gillian. I liked to drive out in the country, smell the fresh air. One time, while driving out I spotted, in Win
ston's side mirror, back about five cars, a purple PT Cruiser that seemed to be following me. I thought Stella, but whoever it was exited at Church Pike. Anyway, same old stuff, nothing. The note I had left in the mailbox was still there. But mostly I didn't miss Gillian. I had forgotten about her entirely. She was out of my mind. Didn't even enter my thoughts. Her scent not being all over everything was a relief, didn't even notice. I didn't need her. Don't even think of her anymore. What did I care about her with the rum eyes, her with the smile, her with the hello, her with the heart that hurt, her with the glow of time steeped with centuries of living. Her, the Tall One. No more. When I closed my eyes she was no more there, filling me. It takes a thousand years to find that place … but I was through, I could live without her. Nothing about her interested me. Not even her smile. Least of all her dark rum eyes.
Anyway, I figured the past, the past; the future, chance’s fickle stab at a feeble joke; the now thing had Peggy and me simmering hot and cold. Taping her new prime time Peggy Moore Jubilee, amid her new show jitters, we had called a truce, she allowed that that video of her in Berry’s office was “a little ol’ thing Berry did, he got me stoned.”
Given real time fickleness and chance a pimp, good enough for me and we were back to reciprocating body heat in otherwise marathons, at Tara, usually once a week.
I think she really hated when I said that reciprocating body heat thing, the reason I knew, when I mention it, she bit me pretty hard.
When I told her, only kidding, she said, “Suga, ya know, don’t fool around like that.” Back singing at Felix The Cat Saturday nights, she explained the only reason was Snakebite knew she was good for his bar business, and more important, Buddy One Take said it was good to promote her record sales.
She also relayed that Snakebite had extended Berry's credit but was pressing hard for Berry to fire me. Snakebite would rather simply kill me but, Peggy thought that was a messy idea just right now. Maybe later, she (we assume) joked.
So, Peggy screwing around with Berry, back in Snakebite’s graces, figure it out, when I was at Tara, more than one night I had the strange feeling, like that first night in the rain at Peggy's place, eyes were watching from the bushes and, also more than once, Stella popped up in the strangest places. It amazed me that no exotic disease had shown up.
In any case, Peggy got a new office on the second floor in Joe's area. She also got a new candy apple Jaguar convertible. Joe made a deal with a local modeling agency for some local models to pose in Dillards clothing during Peggy’s split screen presentation of the national weather.
Also, Peggy reported to Joe now. I told her that was fine with me and we went from there. Like I said, cordial, she took me for rides in her new Jaguar.
* * *
Around a little before noon, I drove to the office to catch up on some paperwork. TV12 offices closed, skeleton crew at the station, Sago was in, doing some editing. He wanted to do lunch later, talk S-Stuff. I said okay and went to my office. I made a pot of coffee, reread a Broadcasting & Cable article. The story reported that the sale of TV12 to S&W Broadcasting Company was on the fast track.
Contemplating the story, figuring a fork is a fork, I reasoned these are the things that keep life interesting, hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock etcetera etcetera etcetera, kept my mind occupied and I figured, you gotta do what you gotta do. Peggy Moore sure did. Covering all her bases on the way to stardom—new prime time program, in addition to her weather casts, her single, Dogwood Blossoms, being rereleased on a CD album: TV Weather Hits. She was on the rise.
I glanced at the latest A.C. Nielsen overnight rating. Unfortunately, the ratings were not on the rise. Our news numbers were now six points behind Channel 3—Luther's new TV home.
I thought to myself, and Berry blames the rating's decline on Jay, lack of promotion, yakking that Jay does nothing but whine, make excuses. As far as I could determine, we were doing everything but painting Peggy Moore’s name on the side of Nashville's Batman Building. We just finished with a Joe and Berry promotion idea: a thousand little yellow plastic ducks, with Peggy's name on just one of them, were floated down the Cumberland River. The finder of the duck with Peggy's name on it got a free dinner at the Pheasant & Grouse, with Peggy no less. The winning duck never showed up.
I shot some Binaca in my mouth and went to get Sago.
Driving to Krystal, Sago told me about a duopoly in his S-Stuff investigation.
After about a minute I said, “Okay, Chief, I flunked duopoly.”
“Snakebite and Chuck from Houston, seems he's connected to a slew of missing kids.”
A chill. That T-bone guy from Felix The Cat. I felt crawly.
“That was a red light you just went through.”
“So what's the connection?”
“Still working on it.”
After a long time, I said, “Keep digging.”
“Still nothing on Gillian, either.”
“Forget about that.”
Sago’s silence could cut down an oak tree, then he said, “I’m not hungry, how about a drink.”
“Me either, Green Onion it is.”
CHAPTER 3
Real Time
Monday June 2
8:35:00 A.M. CDT
First thing Monday morning the word went out and a hushed anticipation descended upon the halls and offices of TV12. Joe Galbo on his office phone, was taking the A.C. Nielsen advance ratings for the just-past four week May sweeps. More detailed than overnight ratings, the consecutive four weeks ‘sweeps’ ratings were used by advertising agencies as a time-buying guide, some buys through December, good numbers were crucial for TV advertising sales departments to meet their budgets for the year.
At 8:45, the advances taken, Joe scurried to Berry's office. Voices were heard behind the closed door.
Joe: “These ratings are a hundred year fucking flood disaster … a Humpty Dumpty great fall … Darlington Five Hundred twenty five car pileup … our news is lower than the Mad Hatter's dick! …Channel 3 is mashing our balls like little Jack Horner in Betty Crocker's corner … pretty soon we're gonna be sucking the PBS station's hind tit … Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch for Christ's sake!”
Berry: “It's goddamn promotion, I told you to do something there … goddamn Speaker.”
At 8:50, Berry announced on the station public address system: “Galbo, Carr, Speaker, Overmier … meeting front office … meeting front office, now.”
CHAPTER 4
Jack’s Time
My Saturday liquid lunch with Sago at The Green Onion turned to a lost weekend at Tara; I entered the TV12 lobby Monday morning running a little past late.
Sweater girl receptionist Marcie, absent the usual smile, looking like she had just seen a ten car pileup, said, “Berry is looking for you, meeting in his office,” she pointed to the wall clock—9:01, “Berry said ‘now’ ten minutes ago.”
“Darn traffic.” I went to my office. Joy was away from her desk. New pot of coffee brewing, I got a mug of coffee, and Joy walked in, ashen.
“What’s a matter?”
“Galbo got the rating advances, don’t sound good, Berry called a meeting, he’s looking for you.”
* * *
Ascending in Otis to the second floor, I conjugated—with the May ratings not looking so good, me a little late—Berry's mood might be more repugnant than usual.
As I approached Judy's desk, I saw that she appeared to be in distress, actually tearing up. I nodded to her. She rolled her smoke-blues east, west, and back, and kept typing. I stepped to Berry's open office door, dragged Salem, smiled, and looked inside.
Four sets of dismal eyeballs looked at me—Berry’s, Joe’s, Bobbi’s, and Jay’s.
I said cheerily, “Meeting start?”
No words forthcoming, I shrugged, stepped in, and said, “Guess it did.” I looked at Berry crumpled behind his desk, and asked, “You want the door closed?”
Staring ice at me, Berry’s private line rang. He sna
tched up the receiver and said, “Frazer.”
Saved by the bell, I closed the door and paused. I perceived, mixing in and around Berry's thick sweet Gucci for men, something ominous in the room. Reminded me of a funeral parlor. I wondered if maybe I was the corpse. Somebody had to be the corpse. Otherwise, this was a bad joke on reality’s dirty little secret—we're all a joke. I did a little wave to the ceiling just in case Greta was in record mode.
Berry, phone stuck under his chin, listened while ogling my blue-blazer Monday attire. I hope he didn't start on my clothes this morning, I wasn't in the mood. But then, I knew, with everything else, he had bigger fish to fry than my wardrobe. In short, Berry had big problems and everyone in this room knew the intimate details of his little Peggy/Snakebite dilemma, ‘cept maybe Jay.
Time on my hands, I wandered to the coffee pot and, while behind the bar, figured I might as well look around for the corpse. I started with Berry: brooding, listening to somebody on the other end of his phone, he made notes on his yellow legal pad. Blue suit coat off, white on white shirt, TV12 gold cufflinks, red tie, I determined Berry not to be the corpse.
I checked Joe. Slumped on a slate gray chair—navy pinstripe suit, white shirt, silver tie, black cap-toe shoes, legs crossed, he chewed his left middle fingernail like it was tipped with something addictive. He seemed anxious, like an executioner waiting for the signal to press the button, get it over, so he could move onto more important bread and butter matters that make the world go round. Definitely not the corpse.
I looked to Bobbi. Yellow bow tie, white short sleeve shirt, neat as a pin, white pumps barely touched the floor. Sitting in her usual spot on the sofa, she read a mini printout produced by her handheld calculator. She couldn't be the corpse, Berry wouldn't dare.