Time and Chance

by G L Rockey

  “Carr's been boning her since day one, still is.”

  Stifling a quick strike between Berry’s eyes, Snakebite ran his fingers over his chin and said, “No he ain't.”

  “Take a look at these.” Berry took a pack of color pictures out of his side coat pocket and handed them to Snakebite.

  Snakebite removed his sunglasses. His eyelids began fluttering as he looked at nude close-up snapshots of Peggy in various stages of stripping. One had her, nude, knees tucked to her chin, a thin smile on her face, sitting on a big desk, The last had her with her legs spread apart.

  Snakebite: “Who took ‘ese?”

  “I found them in Carr's desk, figure it out.”

  His eyes turning red, Snakebite threw the pictures in Berry's face.

  Berry smiled, “Does this mean you'll talk to Ms. Peggy.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Jack’s Time

  Rumors swirling around TV12 like an Agatha Christie mystery, real time elbowing in like a fell-off-the-wagon weight watcher, engineer Greta—bib overhauls, blue shirt, red bow tie—came in my office. She had a couple interesting recordings—one a meeting between Berry and the people from S&W. The other between Berry and Big Joe. Greta wanted to know if I wanted to see them.

  I said, “You been busy … just tell me.”

  She sat, “FCC final approval of S&W's purchase is in the can, looks like an August close … Sally stays on as general manager, but no contract. And get this….” She paused, broad smile.

  “What?”

  “Moore has to go.”

  I remembered the video Sago had of Berry's meeting with Bobbi. I said, “Berry failed to persuade S&W to keep Peggy on, huh?”

  Greta smiled.

  I lit a Salem. “What's on the Galbo recording.”

  Greta said, “Guess Sally is going on vacation, Europe, couple weeks, be back in time for the picnic. He told Joe to bounce Peggy today. He also gave Joe instructions to rotate weather people until he got back, see what S&W wanted to do for Peggy's replacement. Guess you'll be getting a call from Galbo.”

  After Greta left, right on time, I got a call from Joe. He said I should have somebody ready to do the weather tonight and to have Peggy see him as soon as she got in. I figured I'd leave early, Joe could fend for himself.

  Leaving, I told Joy I had a couple people to see, a meeting that might run long, then I had to see a guy about a boat. Probably wouldn't be back.

  She smiled like she knew exactly how many stars were in the Milky Way.

  * * *

  Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday interred in the day boneyard, Blancpain displayed Friday, June 14, just after 6:15 P.M. I didn’t believe it so I checked my computer, yep, around three days had been gone AWOL somewhere … where to I don’t know … where do dead days go … it seemed like it was last Tuesday, around the time I went to see that guy about a boat.

  Anyway, watching our 6:00 O’clock News, I got to thinking about Peggy. It had been what, three days since she had been heave-hoed by Joe. Actually, I was told, he had to escort her, kicking and screaming, out of Broadcast House. Somewhere in one of those dead days, I remember her calling me to tell me Joe took back her Jaguar. I told her there wasn't much I could do, maybe she could buy it from the dealer. She laughed, let Berry eat it, she still had her Cadillac. Hated that Jaguar anyway. She was worried about me. Said Snakebite had found out about us. Some pictures had showed up, Snakebite saw them, beat her up pretty good, black eye, threatened to kill her, me too, kicked her out, she was all alone.

  Then she said, Stella had told her a contract might have been let on me, be careful.

  I then asked, she and Stella being so close and all, about Stella’s health. She said Snakebite couldn't get rid of Stella, she was the Gorilla glue that held everything together, then she wanted me to come out to her place, take a dip.

  Considering the contract on me talk, everything else, I told her I didn’t think that would be a good idea just now.

  Remembering the bitterness in her response when I told her that, the loud click when she hung up, Sago walked into my office.

  He said, “Guess what?”

  “I don't want to see any more videos.”

  He proceeded to tell me that someone had blabbed to Joe about Greta's bug in Berry's office. Joe had the camera and microphone removed and Greta was history.

  Sago then went on to S-Stuff. Detective Little, the T.B.I and F.B.I. were now involved and it looked like something big might be coming down. Still had nothing on Gillian. I told him that I had told him weeks ago to forget about that.

  Looking like he didn't hear me, he asked if I was going to the TV12 picnic tomorrow. An annual blowout summer affair, this would be the last one before S&W took over.

  He said, “Berry’s supposed to be back from vacation, should be interesting.”

  “Might go, just to see the show.”

  That settled, he wanted to go to The Green Onion for a drink. I said why not and the phone rang. It was Peggy. She had to see me. It was a 9-1-1 matter of life or death, please, begging actually.

  I gave in, said okay, hung up and looked at Sago.

  He said, “Was that who I think it was?”

  “I think.”

  “Don't do it.”

  “I have to.”

  Feeling sorry, not sure if for myself or Peggy, I drove out to Tara.

  Peggy's 9-1-1 life or death summons was her swimming pool. The pump had stopped. In checking, I found the off/on switch, off. Adjusting the straps to her pink bikini, she couldn't believe that’s all it was.

  In the middle of a drink at Peggy's bar, Stella showed up. She didn't seem pleased to see me. Actually surprised. So was I, what if Snakebite caught her at Peggy's house. She needed to talk to Peggy.

  The sun setting, Jack Daniels and I went out by the pool. I took off my shoes and soaked my feet, killed time, there's so much of it.

  Fifteen minutes later Peggy came out naked. Sun tanned pretty good except for the customary bikini outline, she said Stella had gone and I was never to say that I saw her. A sinister smile on her face, she jumped in the shallow end of the pool. Funny how they float.

  She splashed me, “Come on in chicken.”

  Feeling sorry for her, I stayed the night.

  I awoke to the familiar swirling pink clouds on Peggy's canopy bed, squinted at Blancpain: little before 1:00 P.M., Saturday, June 15, and the familiar warm ginger marmalade perfume was there.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and coughed.

  Peggy half awake, purred, “Kiss, kiss.”

  “I gotta go.”

  Through a big yawn, “No you don't … it's Saturday.” She turned and reached to hold him. “Kiss, kiss.”

  I sat up on the side of the bed.

  She curled around me and said, “You're not going to that ol’ TV12 picnic are you?”

  Not surprised she knew about the picnic, I lied, “No, I gotta do some work with Sago, we're working on a news series.”

  “Your turn to make the coffee.”

  * * *

  After poolside coffee, toast, a dip, some underwater snorkeling, all dressed proper, at Tara’s front door, she tugged my belt. “I'm expecting you, buster … tonight for dinner.”

  “I'll see how it goes, Sago and I have a mile of editing….”

  “Phooey, can't work day and night at that dump.”

  “I'll call you later.”

  “Just come out, we can grill poolside, swim.”

  “We'll see.” I walked, parked under the portico, to Winston.

  Getting in, I heard her call, “See you for dinner, six-ish.”

  “See ya.”

  * * *

  Driving to my apartment, the free day not so free, feeling a little guilty that I had lied to Peggy about editing tape, my emotions were mixed. Mixed, because, even though I knew, having been to annual TV12 station picnics, the upcoming last one—takeover by S&W pending, booze, live band, dancing, booze, summer heat, booze—had disaste
r written all over it. I knew I should skip it, but I needed all the help I could get with the rent, bar tabs, petrol for Winston, and besides, could never refuse a good disaster. As solace I conjugated, get there late, leave early, less time in the intersection.

  * * *

  At my apartment, I took a hot shower and selected my attire—white polo shirt, Wranglers, and my sienna cowboy boots.

  Before leaving for the picnic I called Peggy and told her it looked like the editing was going to take longer than expected … maybe see her tomorrow … she hung up.

  * * *

  Arrived the designated Percy Priest Lake picnic area, many parked cars scattered around. I parked Winston under a large oak and away from other car doors. Getting out I considered putting the top up, but in the shade, Winston could breathe better with the top down so I let it down.

  I looked across the water and thought, that's where I and a forgotten lady, a million years ago, went for a swim, said things … how dumb that was, but that was so long ago I had forgotten it.

  I observed shades of pink in the sky, high cirrus clouds, and distant strains from a fiddle echoed “The Tennessee Waltz” through the muggy air.

  Standing beside Winston, that long-ago-forgotten-lady strong in me, from afar I felt like another person as I studied, across the stunted sea, summer cottages the size of quarters. The water looked like broad Monet strokes of blue and white with reflections of puffy white clouds. Elms and poplars and white birch slummed randomly on a soft hide of green grass that flowed down to the edge of the lake where weeping willows bowed over, seeming to lap at the water. Nearly hidden by the willows, lazily absorbing the premature waves, a beat-up wooden skiff bobbed its head above the water. A rope strained between the bow and a wobbly dock. Out a little further a white sail carried a sloop over the rippling glitter. Honeysuckle and magnolia smells baked in the thick sorghum air.

  The other person thought: mating, separating, mitosis, sucking and buzzing and humming and the quiet noises of the sun absorbing, a speck, a now, a seed, sweet saccharin flowing, nipping and budding, odors on a wind and through it, one with union and being—time interruptus—and over there is where we swam….

  With an eerie aura of impending doom, that other person left.

  * * *

  Stepping down a grassy slope, I noted a gaggle or so of people dressed in a rainbow of short shorts, swim suits, T-shirts, halters, hats, and sunglasses. They played volleyball, softball, and some frolicked in the lake.

  In the middle of it all, the park’s familiar whitewashed octagon gazebo was decorated in red, white, and blue crepe paper. Stretched above the step to the gazebo stage, on a long piece of white paper, red lettering read: Annual TV12 Summer Picnic.

  Closer, I saw that the earlier strains of The Tennessee Waltz came from Peggy's Felix The Cat band, The Billy Boys. Set up on the gazebo, I surmised Berry had instructed Joe Galbo, before Peggy was fired, to book them with the idea that Peggy would sing a number or two—best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, get fucked up … whatever.

  I noticed Billy Boy fiddle player, Larry, fiddle the last of The Tennessee Waltz, the quartet paused, then exploded into “Rocky Top”. A dozen or so dancers began gyrating on a wooden dance floor in front of the gazebo.

  Walking around and through the crowd, I exchanged mixed hellos with Berry's wife, Adele, and Bobbi, Joy, P.J., then moved on.

  I saw Sago with Whitney. I went up to them. Sago had a sad face on. Actually tragic. I asked him why. He said he saw, in a dream, last night, a raven on the branch of a tall dead tree. He looked at me deeply. Not good. He also saw evil spirits on, in, and around an Indian blanket under that tall dead tree. He said I should leave, invited me to The Green Onion for a drink with him and Whitney. I laughed. He asked again. I declined. He shook his head and said he and Whitney were going without me.

  After he left, making my way around the crowd, I noticed, under a tree, on a large Indian blanket, lying on her stomach, the Kitten from Felix The Cat, Neon. More interesting, kneeling beside her, Snakebite rubbed lotion on her back.

  Neon in zebra bikini, top straps undone, feet in the air, orange painted toe nails twitching, her skinny settee looked like two Krystal hamburger buns. Behind enormous rose-colored sunglasses, she appeared to be sleeping.

  Closer, I noticed a bottle of Coppertone suntan lotion. I also noticed a fifth of Meyer's Rum, a six-pack of Coke, a package of red plastic cups, a small white ice chest, and, arm’s length from the chest, cigarette in his mouth, busy rubbing Neon's back was Snakebite. Decked out in just skinned looking leather goods, wide brimmed white hat, and familiar wraparound sunglasses, his face and hands (covered with I assume Coppertone) looked like the white of a partially cooked poached egg.

  I figured, get it over with. I stepped to the side of the blanket.

  Snakebite's sunglasses beading me, he said, “Whata’ you want, prick?”

  “Hi Snakebite, new hat?”

  He grabbed the brim.

  Neon sat up and tugged her bikini top over her nobleness. She took off her sunglasses and I could see she was high on something.

  I said, “Hi Neon, what's this jerk doing here?”

  Snakebite said, “Yeah, fuck off, prick, I'm a guest a’ Frazer.”

  “Nice.”

  It was then, like that first night, peripheral vision, I saw her approaching. Gillian, red plastic cup in hand. She wore an airy summer dress, yellow and green, thin straps over her shoulders. Her soft caramel colored hair fell to her bronze shoulders. Her eyes sparkled that deep rum brown. Her legs like I remember, bare feet too, beautiful in perfect barefoot weather.

  Sitting on the blanket, she glanced at me. Still there, that smile, for just a moment, but hidden, some fear like she was handcuffed to something.

  Snakebite said to me, “Hit the bricks, prick.”

  I looked at Gillian. We had once mastered, around 1 A.D., saying things without words, but it had been so long ago … she broke eye contact and bowed her head.

  Snakebite stood, “I said hit the bricks, prick.”

  I thought about assaulting his throat, but mindful what Sago had said about ravens and Indian blankets, Gillian avoiding me, I steered myself away as if this was some kind of bad joke, playing tricks with my eyes, at the bottom of a charred oak barrel.

  I maneuver through and around people and there it was—the bar. Same spot as previous years, a picnic table covered with newspaper, Big Joe stood behind, very much in charge and serving drinks. Berry straddled a folding chair backwards in front of the table.

  After a few steps I arrived bar side and Berry slurred, “Hey Jack, where ya been, late again … har har har … 'et a drink.”

  Berry wore a white tank top with a big CBS eye on the chest, white Bermuda shorts, red and white Reeboks, and no socks. His milky skin had begun to sunburn. I noted his lower lip sagging and I confirmed he was smashed. He sipped from a plastic cup.

  I said to Joe, “Jack Daniels, no ice.”

  “Got it.” Joe said. He appeared sober and wore a white butcher apron, white T-shirt, and a white baseball hat with gold military ‘scrambled eggs' on the brim. Douglas MacArthur sunglasses concealed his eyes. He chewed on an eight inch cigar, I assumed an Aliados. He picked up the Jack Daniels bottle, plunked a plastic cup on the bar and said, “Say when.”

  I said to Berry, “How was Europe?”

  “Suuupaaa.”

  “When,” I said to Joe and took my drink.

  The band struck up a version of Hound Dog and I was about to say something about how nice it was to see Snakebite, but I noticed Joe stiffen. Freeze actually, and he began sniffing the air like a bloodhound working something down wind. After a moment, looking past Berry, he mumbled something military, “Incoming.”

  I looked where Joe looked.

  Peggy, red thong bikini, high heel open-toe sandals, nobleness hanging out pretty good, white Styrofoam cup in hand, Parliament dangling from her lower lip, teetered to the bar, slurred to th
e group, “Having a ‘ittle party, are we?”

  I calculated: very drunk.

  Berry said, “‘eggy, you shouldn't be….”

  “Uck you.” She waved her paper cup and some (I assume gin and tonic) sloshed to the ground. She stuck a smile in my face, inhaled, took her cigarette between fingers, and, blowing smoke in my face, said, “Hi motherfucker.”

  I sipped and thought, time to go.

  Berry stood, wobbled, braced himself and said, “‘eggy, you should….”

  ”Uck off.” She flipped her cigarette at his feet.

  Berry tried one of his glares but, with the load he had on, it wasn't working.

  Peggy wiped a frosty look across my face and touched my arm. “Thought you was ediiitin’ with Sago?”

  I pretended I didn't hear her. Berry did. So did Joe. I turned to look at the band, slugged Mr. D., and The Billy Boys' struck up Turkey In The Straw.

  Peggy pinched my ribs and smiled, “I'm talking to you.”

  My eyes went to her bikini top, her nobleness hanging out pretty good, actually mostly, I caught myself. Too long at the look, I glanced up.

  Peggy said, “Vanilla, remember.”

  Berry said, “Why don't you just 'eave, Moore.”

  “Fuck you Sally, you ain't heard the last of Peggy Moore.”

  Berry tried another one of his glares but it still wasn't working.

  Peggy jerked my shirt collar, “I'm gonna go sing with the Billy Boys, doll, come join me.”

  What can you say?

  She started off, settee wobbling, high heels flopping, toward the band. Halfway there she looked over her shoulder and called to me, “Come on chicken.”

  As Peggy staggered up the three steps of the gazebo, The Billy Boys stopped playing, she waved and said, “Weeee, it's a party, howdy all.”

  Catcalls, jeers, a shout, “Get a job.”

  Peggy said, “’uck you,” into the microphone then said, “Let's all give Sally the finger.” She shot her middle finger toward the bar area. “Galbo too.”