Time and Chance (5 page)

CHAPTER 9

Jack’s Time

Winston consoled,
snapped up tight, I headed through the rain up Fourth Street. After a short
puddle-jumping dash down Church Street, left under the Printer's Alley marquee,
in the distance, blinking through the rain, there it was: the familiar red and
green neon sign, sagging over the front entrance, pulsed in the likeness of
famous Felix The Cat. Felix winked on, smiled off, winked on, smiled off;
dripping wet, glowed in the mist. I wondered what interesting tidbits Felix might
tell if he could talk.

You entered Felix The
Cat lounge two ways—inside via The Haute Cuisine's sweeping red carpeted
stairway, or outside, around the corner, via fifteen cement steps crammed in a
narrow cement stairwell.

Preferring the outside
entrance, I dodged around to the side, swung to the steps, proceeded down
through soggy bits of street trash, opened the rusty red metal door, and
entered. Cozy like a distant bad memory loses its sting with time, the lounge's
brick walls oozed gray mortar. The black tile floor hid nicely under the dim
indirect lighting.

A step inside, I noted
that the establishment was, more than usual, filled with patrons and, about eye
level, a delicate and tart rutting ripeness mingled in and around the scent of
Parmesan cheese, anchovies, and cigarette smoke. Brushing some rain from my
jacket, I cased the parquet bar. Ten of the fifteen high-back bar chairs were
occupied but my favorite seat, at the far end (I liked to think of as 1A, as in
jet plane, first class) was open. I also noted that the twenty green
upholstered booths were mostly occupied. The booths encircling a modest dance
floor and several couples danced to, from the blue and red bubble Wurlitzer,
which featured C&W classics, George Jones' “The Window Up Above”. Beyond
the dance floor, on the small elevated stage, someone was adjusting a set of
drums.

Walking to my favorite
seat, I nodded to, at the service end of the bar, a petite Kitten I knew as
Neon—stunning and full-packed in Kitten outfit, her brunette hair cascaded to
middle-back, china doll white skin, petite. Another time, another place, maybe.
Terri was still too much with me.

Anyway, Neon was
absorbed in something Angelo Rich was telling her. I nodded to Angelo. He
nodded back and kept talking to Neon.

 
At 1A I put my pack of Salems, along with
Zippo, next to a Felix The Cat silver ashtray, hung my London Fog on the back
of the stool, and settled in.

Looking straight
ahead, I saw myself peeping, between the standard complement of cocktail
glasses and liquor bottles, in the mirror that extended the length of the back
bar, at myself.

I lit a Salem, noted
the Budweiser clock on the wall indicated bar time 8:10, and looked back to
where Angelo still talked to Neon. I saw he had on his green alligator cowboy
boots which put him at around five-eight. I guessed he weighed two hundred
pounds. He wore gray slacks, white long sleeve shirt, a red vest, and a bolo
tie. Quick as a seal in water, his shiny black hair, held in place with
Vitalis—you could smell the hair balm a block away. Other distinguishing
features of Angelo: quarter size brown eyes that said “I'm Italian”, a
trademark laugh, through his skinny nose “hee hee hee” followed by a snort,
Portobelo lips, and stubby fingers that sprouted polished pink manicured nails.
His right pinkie held a gold ring the size of a nickel with about a carat
diamond set in the gold. Angelo was vain about his many acquaintances,
especially TV acquaintances. And secrets with Angelo were like bread cast upon
the waters. I always thought he would have made a good news reporter. He told
me he was from 'parts unknown' and says wonn for want and whan for what and din
for didn't. Full-blooded Sicilian, he is intensely proud of his heritage.

After giving Kitten
Neon a pat on the hand, Angelo strutted down the bar and stood in front of me.
His bolo tie had a turquoise stone about the size of my Zippo. He said, “Hey,
goombah, you're all wet.”

“It's raining out.”

Smiling, “How ya
doing?”

“Great.”

He presented his right
hand in his usual I'm-handing-you-my-last dollar and see-my-pinkie-ring
fashion. “How's tings in TV land?”

“Great, marvelous,
couldn't be better.” I extended my right hand.

He gave, also as
usual, one small pump, took everything back and I noticed, approaching us, a lady
(small purple camera dangled from a cord around her neck to just below her
gumdrop nobleness) of some unique persona that I thought I recognized.

Angelo said, “Hey
Jack, you ever met Stella Pastorini?” Angelo turned to Stella. “Stella, this is
Jack Carr, News Director, TV12 big shot.”

I looked at Stella—cropped
short luminous black hair, gold crescent earrings, blue lipstick, blue nails,
blue eye shadow, a silver ring on every finger. Her eyes, nose, and mouth,
squeezed into an oval pockmarked face, resemble a football. Three inches taller
than Angelo, she wore black leather pants, long sleeve white shirt, black vest,
and red bow tie. You couldn't see any, but I had the feeling, under there
somewhere, you would find a tattoo or two. I also had the impression that she
was much smarter than she looked. I was sure I recognized her from somewhere,
but where?

She blitzed me with a
smirky smile (long yellow-white front teeth), extended her right index finger
at my nose, and blurted a fog horn, “I know you.”

From the many times
Berry Frazer took some of we department heads to lunch at his Berry Inn’s Knife
& Fork Country Kitchen, I recognized the teeth immediately and said, “The
Berry Inn, Knife & Fork, lunch hostess, right?”

“Riiight.”

“You look different.”

“Different job,
different look.” She batted her blue lids. “Me and you, we both work for the
same fashion plate.”

Quick person that I
am, I didn't work for Snakebite, had to be Berry Frazer. “You mean Berry
Frazer?”

“You got it, Jackson.”

“I hadn't seen you in
Felix The Cat before,” I said.

Angelo said, “Stella
is Snakebite's assistant, she's helping out tonight, see how it goes, expecting
a big crowd.”

I conjugated, She’s
Snakebite's assistant and lunch hostess at my boss’s The Berry … hmmm.

Like he could read my
mind, Angelo said, “She's just helping out at The Berry.”

Stella formed a very
complex smile.

I didn't want to know
what was behind the smile so I looked around, “I noticed you're a little busier
than usual tonight, what's up?”

Angelo said, “Peggy
Moore, premiering tonight.” He nodded, “Right there, on our stage.”

“Who?” I said.

Stella, extracting
with her lips a cigarette from a pack of Pall Mall said, “Peggy Moore, Clip ‘en
Ship TV commercials, also has a single out, Duke Label, ‘Dogwood Blossoms’,
where ya been, Jackson?” She wrenched a safety match free and lit her
cigarette.

Angelo said, “Stella
and Peggy are like this.” Angelo twisted his index and middle fingers like a
puffy pretzel. “So, you better be good.” He winked at Stella.

Stella put her hands
on her hips and gave Angelo a dry ice smile.

I let my eyes wonder
to Stella's purple camera. I was reminded of Berry's picture-taking hobby.
Everybody's taking pictures, I thought. A thousand years from now, they won't
have any trouble piecing together how we did all this. I said, “What's with the
camera?”

Angelo said, “Stella's
gonna take pictures of Peggy's premiere.”

I said to Stella, “You
and Berry Frazer have something in common.”

“Wa’s ‘at?” She said
through a stream of cigarette smoke.

“Berry's hobby is
photography.”

“Hah.” She smiled that
smirk again and I surmised it was something between I-got-your-number, don't-mess-with-me,
and I-know-more-than-you-think. She sashayed toward the other end of the bar.

 
Following her long quarter horse gait, I said
to Angelo. “I think Stella likes me.”

Angelo checked Stella
at the far end of the bar, leaned closer, twisted his fingers in that pretzel
again, and whispered, “She's a switch hitter.”

“No thanks.” I dragged
Salem and exhaled, “Nice place to open a bar.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Angelo manipulated a Jack Daniels bottle, flipped a four ounce tumbler glass,
and poured a double. Watching him reminded me of the Pope; I saw a few times on
TV, Christmas midnight mass, live from the Vatican, handling a chalice, neat
and delicate, and every motion had a purpose (Aunt Jane's Rev Molino said the
Pope was the Anti-Christ. I was sure that's why the rattlesnake got him).

 
“I din know that.” Angelo dealt white Felix
The Cat cocktail napkins on the bar in front of me and placed a good looking Jack
Daniels on one.

“What didn't you
know?” I said.

“The Kid was a
photographer.”

“Hobby.” I sipped and
said, “I still don't get it?”

“Whan's that?”

“Stella, lunch hostess
at The Berry, Snakebite’s assistant.”

“I tol’ ya, she's
helping out, I doan know, Snakebite and Berry worked something out.” He winked,
“I think them two guys spy on each other.” He seemed to catch himself out of
school. “You din hear nutin from me.”

“So tell me, who is
Peggy Moore?”

 
“Like Stella said, does the TV commercial for
Clip ‘en Snip beauty shops, sings, has a record out,” he winked, “Snakebite
said she's the best hum he ever had. He's moonstruck, know whan I mean.”

Peggy, Snakebite,
Stella; the relationship sounded complicated, but then, in this world of unsure
things, I know two and a half things for certain: number one, Angelo had missed
his calling, should have been a news reporter; number two, ‘hum’ in Angeloese
has nothing to do with music.

Angelo said. “You wonn
your regular chew?” He meant food.

I said, “Yesterday.”

He yelled to Stella.
“Hey Stella, how 'bout bring Jack a half dozen oysters and a half dozen
shrimps, same plate, extra horseradish on the side. Basket of Club Crackers.”

Wurlitzer clicked and
George Strait sang “All My Exes Live in Texas”.

I noticed a dark
concern forming on Angelo's face.

“What's the matter,
you don't like George Strait?” I said.

“He's okay.”

Then I recognized the
telegraphing, to me anyway, that a serious question was coming, usually related
to the local TV business.

I tried to change the
subject. “So, expecting a big crowd tonight?”

“Hey, Jack, saw the
paper, Galbo upped, huh?”

“I didn't know you
could read,” I said.

Like I had cheated at
a game of marbles, “Jaaack.”

“Upped.” I sipped.

“Over you?”

“Over God.”

“Whan's a guy like
that make?”

“God?”

“Stronzo, Galbo.”

“Mulligan stew.”

“Whan's that?”

“Don't ask.”

Angelo, with white bar
rag, wiping a dry highball glass, telegraphed a more serious subject coming my
way. “Your boss was in last Wednesday.”

“Which one?”

“Berry Frazer.”

“Oh, Stella's too.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

Angelo frowned. “Berry
didn't say anything to me about Galbo being upped.”

“Why would he?”

“He's my pal.”

“He's everybody's
pal.”

Angelo changed gears:
“Berry had a meeting with Snakebite, upstairs.”

Upstairs meant
Snakebite's upstairs apartment office (guess who had previously told me that).
Sipping, I said, “What was the meeting about?”

Angelo's eyes narrowed
into dark pools of Sicilian intrigue. He cupped his mouth and whispered another
closet secret. “The Kid's in trouble.”

I think I mentioned, ‘the
Kid’ was one of several nicknames for Berry. I said, “Oh?”

Still closer to my
face (heavy breath), Angelo whispered like he had deciphered the Rosetta Stone:
“The Kid's into Snakebite big time.”

I conjugated ‘into’
and came up with money, as in debt. I remembered what Joy had told me about
Berry's gambling problems, but I figured that was past tense. Pretending blank,
I said, “You're kidding.”

He shook his head,
“Shit buckets, know whan I mean?”

“We talking about
Stella's and my boss, right?”

“Yeah, the Kid, Berry,
makes dumb bets, chases, loses thirty, fifty large,” he snapped his fingers, “just
like that.”

My weakness lying in
other areas, not familiar with this gaming lingo, I said. “Large?”

“Thousand bucks.”