Time and Chance (12 page)

“Your daddy never got
uptight about that.”

He kicked his desk. “I
don't give a fuck what daddy did. I'm running the show now and that's that.”

“How was New York?”

“Super. What are we
doing about this weather?”

“Not much we can do,
God and all.”

He hit his desk with a
right cross. “Goddamn it, you know what I mean. The sky is falling in, flooding
everywhere, and where is our news director?”

What can you say?

Berry adjusted his cufflinks.
“And another thing, I told them down there in your la la land newsroom, kill
the coverage on them do-gooders picketing Mike Walker's amusement joints.”

Recalling Friday
night's conversation with Angelo about bartering various and assorted items for
TV advertising,
it’s all getting closer to the bone
, I thought and said,
“Why so?”

“That Rev is just
looking for donations, had a hard on for Snakebite forever, wife is a horny
bitch.”

“Snakebite is not
married.”

“Not Snakebite! The
Rev's wife! Jesus Christ, are you awake?”

“Oh.”

“Lay off Snakebite,
got it?”

“Got it.” I don't got
it, never had it, don't want it. I smiled and sipped the last of my coffee.

Berry paused for a
moment, folded his arms, and, still inspecting me (I think he liked me and I
liked him too when he wasn't the asshole that it looked like he might be
today), changed the subject, “You see The Tennessean, article on Galbo?”

“I think, as I recall,
I did. Got any coffee?”

“Behind the bar, where
it always is.”

“Want some?”

“Do I want some.”

I started toward the
bar.

He said, “You read
that part, about our ratings decline … anonymous source.”

Filling my cup from
his white Cupper pot behind the bar, “I think I did see that … news ratings are
up though.”

Ignoring that, he
said, “We got us a mole in that newsroom of yours and I'm going to find it and
fucking kill it.”

I walked around and
sat at the bar.

Berry ambled to his
picture window and looking out, seemed to be in deep thought.

Gray rainy Monday
morning light lolling through the plate glass, mixed with the soft glow from
the office lighting, I noticed a new smell. “What's that smell?”

Still looking out the
window, “Gucci for Men.”

“New York?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Fifty bucks an
ounce.”

“Heavy.”

Like he was going to
say something, he turned to face me but we both noticed Judy at the entrance.

Holding a folder in
her right hand, she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Frazer.”

He turned. “What is
it?”

“Bobbi, accounting,
she needs you to sign these checks.”

“Put them on my desk.”
Judy put them in the middle of his desk, left, and Berry's private line buzzed.
He strutted from the window, picked up, and said, “Frazer.”

As he listened, he darkened
then sputtered: “Whaddaya mean L&L Meats won't deliver the short ribs …
C.O.D. for what? …what!”

Listening, he sat
behind his desk, rested the phone between shoulder and cheek, and signed the
checks Judy had dropped off.

I assumed he was
involved with somebody at The Berry Inn, so while he yakked, signed checks, I
lit a Salem and studied the back bar—glass shelves, assortment of cocktail
glasses, bottles of liquor—and saw, in the mirror behind, me peeking around a
bottle of Jack Daniels.

Paused, I heard Berry
say, “Okay, let me know.” He slammed the receiver and yelled, “Judy.”

She entered and Berry
snapped, “Tell Bobbi to call Bernard at The Berry Inn, he needs a check for
L&L Meats.”

“Yes sir.” She took
the signed checks and left.

Berry swiveled his
chair to the credenza behind his desk, grabbed a white hand towel (Southern
Linen supplied a dozen towels three times a week), wiped his face and neck,
then threw the towel into a wicker basket on the floor beside his desk. Just
then his private line buzzed. He picked up, brightened, and turned his back to
me. I listened to him coo: “Hi there, just thinking about you. Got it covered …
sure … of course … yes … talked to him … yes … tonight, yes.”

Listening, couldn't
know for sure, I smelled, in addition to Berry's sweet Gucci fragrance,
something else in the air. Faint odor like a whiff coming in your open car
window as you drive along in the summer—dead, ripe, and bloated.

I put Salem out in an
orange TV12 ashtray, unrested my mug from the bar, walked to the sofa, slapped
a cushion, settled into the lushness, and rested my soggy left loafer on
Berry's coffee table.

His back still turned
to me, he said, “Yes, yes … six-thirty, Berry Inn … you bet, bye.” He hung up,
wiped his lips like he had forgotten, for a moment, I was there, turned to me,
looked at my soggy loafer on his coffee table and said, “Get your goddamn foot
off my coffee table.”

“Sorry, forgot.” I
crossed my legs.

He glanced back at the
clock on the wall.

So did I. Little after
10:15.

He yelled, “Judy!”

She appeared at the
door. “Yes, Mr. Frazer.”

“Did Galbo get in
yet?”

“No sir, I don't think
so. I left word with P.J.”

“Tell her to try him
again.”

“I'll check.” She
left.

Shaking his head, he stood,
walked to his window, and put his hands on the sill. Looking out at the rain,
he seemed to be in deep thought, then glanced at the parking lot below. “You
parked in Galbo's slot.”

“So late, I didn't
figure he'd be coming in.”

“What were you standing
in the rain for?”

“When?”

“This morning, when
you got out of that foreign piece of junk.”

“Taking a shower.”

Turning, Berry thrust
his right index at me but the ringing of his phone foiled the attack. He
stepped to his desk and switched the speaker on. “Frazer.”

Judy: “Mr. Frazer.”

“Yes, Judy.”

“Mr. Galbo is stuck in
traffic.”

Berry reddened, “I
wanta’ see him, soon as he gets in. Tell P.J.” He flipped the speaker off,
walked to his window, turned to me, eased his left hip onto the window sill,
relaxed, and said, “We covering this weather thing okay?”

“Got it covered.”

“Joe called me last
night, at home, wanted to know why you didn't have Luther in doing reports.”

“Just a weather watch,
be over by this afternoon.”

“How come all the
flooding then?”

“It's where it always
floods, low areas, this time of year.”

Berry shrugged like
his mind was elsewhere.

I said, “Joy said
something … guess Joe and Luther had a phone run-in this morning, Joe gave
Luther the day off.”

Berry shrugged again.

“I was just thinking,
Luther off, who's going to do the weather tonight?”

“That's your problem.”

“Maybe Joe can do it.”

Out of the blue, “Did
Luther sign that talent contract yet?”

“Not yet.”

“What's his holdup?”

I clicked Zippo and
lit a Salem. “Joy said you were asking about that.”

“Yes, I was. While you
were taking a shower.” He studied his fingernails. “What's his holdup?”

“Got a problem with
the non-compete clause.”

“What problem?”

“If we let him go he
can't work for another Nashville station for five years. Most contracts
stipulate six months, maybe a year….”

“Fuck most contracts.”
Berry slid off the sill, walked to the sofa, and looked down at me. “I'm not
promoting on-air talent, so they can go across the street to the competition.”

I thought I'd fish.
“Why would he go across the street? He likes it here, or until this morning, he
did.”

He kicked the side of
the sofa, “I want it signed, today.”

“Luther won't be in,
remember, Joe gave him the day off.”

He foiled his right
index finger again, “You call him, get him in here, take it over his house, I
want it signed by five o'clock today, or else.”

“Oh, okay, maybe Joe
can take it over.”

“I don't care who
takes it over, just get it signed.”

Recalling again my
conversation with Angelo about trade deals, Berry's indebtedness to Snakebite,
Peggy's comments, I think I knew but I thought I'd ask anyway, “What's the
hurry?”

Berry went back to his
window, looked out and said, “I'm going to make a change on our weather casts.”

Keep it a thought, I
reasoned, because you see, a wise person once told me, thoughts kept from
becoming words, not born into the world of real time are sometimes forgotten,
and thus they don't have to be dealt with. I said, “So, how was New York?”

He turned and leaned
back against the window sill. “I'm going to put Luther on days, morning cut-ins,
he can do the noon weather too.”

Like I said, sometime,
when you just keep your mouth shut, real time will go away. ”You go to that
corn beef and hash place in Queens?”

“Yeah.”

“Hash good.”

“Great.”

“Still serve it with
two raw eggs?”

“I'm making the change
in two weeks, time for the May ratings. We're going to need a new set. I'm
thinking, Grand ol’ Opry look.”

I conjugated, this is
real time, now, not a movie. That's when you get in trouble. When you can't
tell the difference, and the movers and shakers keep changing the definitions.
But still I couldn't believe it, so I said, “Berry, I know this is a joke
because if it's not a joke, one of us is hallucinating.”

“Must be you.”

Thinking
why am I
in this room
, I blew smoke toward the ceiling and said, “You understand,
you move him to mornings he'll quit, Channel 3 will snap him up in a second.”

“He won't quit, old
fart’s got it made, $150,000 a year, car … besides, Channel 3 doesn't have a
slot for him.”

“They'll make one.”

“Not with my non-compete,
they won't.” He smiled.

“Even if he signs the
contract, it won't stick.”

“Who says so?”

“No judge is going to
uphold that, five years, he gets nothing.”

“He gets to keep his
job, how's that.”

“Won't stick.”

“I'll make it stick.”

I realized the insane
whispering in my head was right. Funny thing, insanity, you reach to touch the
green toad and it's not there. You touch the red snake and it is there. No use
fighting it. I withdrew, “I'll talk to Luther, see if he'll sign….”

“Talk hell, tell him.”

“I'll talk to him.”

Berry faced me and
shook that index again. “You call him, get him in here, take it over there to
his house, I don't give a shit, I want that contract signed on the dotted line
by 5:00 today or else.” A nervous twitch under his left eye, he wiped his lips
with his fingers, “Don't talk to him about moving to mornings, yet.”

No doubt about it,
road kill, week old.

Berry looked out his
window like he was counting rain drops.

I walked to the window
and stood beside him. The sun struggled to break through the clearing sky.
Pretty sure of the answer, I thought I'd ask anyway because sometime in the
real world you get real answers. I wanted to hear him say it, get it into words
so I could touch it and know I wasn't nuts. I watched a rivulet of water run
down the outside of the window and said, “Okay, so I'm hallucinating, who's
going to replace Luther?”

I could hear him
smiling as he said, “I got somebody in mind”

“Let me guess.”

“You know her, Clip
‘en Snip Commercial, just started singing at Felix The Cat, has a record out,
Peggy Moore.”

It's like you know
you're going to get punched in the mouth by the Champ, see it coming, and then
it lands.

Berry said, “She's
built like a brick shit house, got it all.”

 
I began a mellow laugh that turned into a
phlegm filled cough.

“What's so funny?”
Berry said.

“Nothing, nothing.”
Bending over at the waist, I wheezed thirty packs of Salem gunk.

“You better quit
smoking.”

“I gotta quit a lot of
things.”

Berry said, “Don't say
anything to the staff yet, about Moore, we have to get some ducks in a row
first … and get that contract signed … speaking of ducks in a row, wonder if
our promotion manager is awake.” He called, “Judy.”