Time and Chance (6 page)

A hundred bucks being
a lot to me, I raised an eyebrow. “The Kid makes fifty thousand dollar bets?”

Quick nod: “Five, ten
games some days.”

“That's a lot of
large.”

“And the Kid loses
nine times out of ten, dumb, chases his bets.”

“Don't we all?” I
looked around. “Speaking of Snakebite, he upstairs?”

“Out of town, Memphis,
opening a new joint, Pink Poodle Two.”

“Another challenge.”

“He says it's a
ballbuster, remodeling a warehouse, hundred stool bar, three dance stages,
private booths,” he winked, “all first class … shooting for a July 1 grand
opening.”

“Doesn't seem nice,
going to miss Ms. Peggy's premiere tonight, she and he being … you know, going
steady.”

“Whaddaya-gonna-do,
business is business, know whan I mean, price of cheese keeps going up.”
Changing gears again, polishing the parquet in front of me, Angelo said softly,
“I also hear, Snakebite whans his cash P.D.Q.”

The skip paused me,
“Cash?”

“Whan the Kid owes.”

“Oh.”

Deepening intrigue,
“Snakebite said the Kid offered him some kind of TV trade deal.” Polishing
again, “Hey Jack, how's that trade stuff work in TV land?”

“Same as in days of
yore, you have something I want, I have something you want, instead of cash, we
trade wants.”

“Wha’s that mean?”

“Say you own a car
dealership.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Say I own a TV
station.”

“Okay.”

“I come to you and
say, Angelo, I want to lease a car but instead of paying you money I give you
advertising time on my TV station.”

“No shit. So that's
how that works.”

“Yep.” I sipped.

 
Angelo looked like, finished with the Rosetta
Stone, he had started to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls. “So that's it,
Snakebite gets something and the Kid gets to pay off some large.”

Intrigued, I thought I'd
fish. “Sounds like the Kid’s bets are getting ahead of him.”

“Big time shit
buckets, but you din hear nutin from me.”

“Nutin.” I sipped and
waited.

Angelo narrowed his
eyes and lowered his voice. “Snakebite told me him and the Kid had worked out
one of 'em trade deals.”

“For what?”

“For the Kid's
bailout.”

“How's that?”

“Snakebite might write
off some of Berry's debt if Peggy Moore could get on TV, you know, her own
show, regular like, know whan I mean.”

“She's on TV now,
isn't she … the commercials?”

“She wonns big time,
her own TV show, you know. Promote her records. Name up in lights, neon, like
'em New York, Las Vegas guys.”

“I still don't know
who Peggy Moore is.”

His voice volume
increasing, Angelo propped his foot on the back-bar stainless steel sink and
said, “Jack, Jack, sings on Clip ‘en Snip TV commercials, has the new song out,
‘Dogwood Blossom’, Duke label.”

“Hadn't heard it.”

“Jack, you're a big TV
news director, supposed to know everything.”

“Who says that?”

“Everybody.”

“That ices it.”

“They say Moore, she's
the next Tammy Wynette.” He leaned close and cupped his mouth, “Odometer is
turned back a little, know whan I mean, hee hee hee.”
Snort
. He nodded to the stage, “You'll see, she's up at 9:00,
singing every Saturday night from now on out.” He winked, “Snakebite's says
she's the best hum he ever had.”

“Name up in lights,
huh?”

“That's what Snakebite
said.”

Wondering what Berry
might be up to, I said, “Would you go over that again in Sicilian shorthand.”

He looked around,
leaned close, and, like he had finished with the Dead Sea Scrolls, was moving
on to the Shroud of Turin, said out of the side of his mouth, “Peggy gets on
TV, the Kid gets to live, and Snakebite gets his chrome polished. Hee hee hee.”
Snort
. He looked around then pointed
his fat right index finger between my eyes. It looked like a snub-nosed 38.
“You din hear nutin from me buddy boy, know whan I mean?”

“Know what you mean.”
I noticed Stella come through a door that led to a back area where a dumbwaiter,
Kitten dressing room, Men's and Women's pit stops, probably a family of
roaches, few rats, were. Balancing a red plastic tray on her shoulder, she
stopped at the service bar to say something to Neon.

I took a sip and, the
ice melting nicely, I sucked on an ice chip. I didn't want to know what I
thought I had just heard about Berry, Snakebite, trade deals, and what it might
mean for TV12. Not only did I not want to know, I didn't want to think about it
so I said, “You know how many wives Solomon had?”

“Sol Yidda, the
diamond guy, up on Church Street?”

“No, no, Solomon, you
know, the Bible.”

“Maybe you shouldn't
drink tonight, know whan I mean? You get too deep in that philosophy shit and
start arguing and I can't understand you, get loud.”

From Wurlitzer,
Diamond Rio sang “Sweet Summer”.

Just then Stella
arrived with my dinner and said, “Here ya be Jackson.”

Said Angelo, “Put 'em
right there.”

She plopped a large
platter of oysters and shrimp in front of me, dropped a red plastic basket
filled with Club Crackers next to the plate, finished the setting with a white
cloth napkin, and blew a meaty “enjoy” in my face.

“Thank you.” I said.

She sucked a back
molar and left.

Said Angelo,
“Solomon's wives, huh. Whan's that again?”

“Solomon, Old
Testament, wisest of the wise.”

Deep concern on
Angelo's face, “I got a customer.” Angelo left.

I ate.

* * *

Eating, I confirmed
one thing I like about shrimp and oysters: shrimp don't fill you up, more room
for drinking; oysters go down fast, more time for drinking.

I ate a shrimp as an
electric guitar wailed an intro, and, from Wurlitzer, a husky female voice
filled the room:

“Wheeen it's spa-ring time in Tennessee, spa-ring
time in Tennessee, And the dogwood blossoms bloom, dogwood blossoms bloom, I
cur-riiie for you, die for you, my heart bleeds for you, in my lonely, lonely
room….”

The lyrics reminded me
of Aunt Jane's Legend of the Dogwood sermon. She told me the dogwood's white
blossoms, like tiny crosses, had the bloody nail prints of Christ's crucifixion
and the blossoms were fragrant and beautiful to remind us that good things come
from suffering.

I swallowed an oyster
and said to myself in the mirror, “Such is the way to immortality, that's the
mystery, huh?” I ate a shrimp, “Suffer now, suffer later, SUFFER SUFFER SUFFER.
How come all this FUCKING SUFFERING?”

Angelo appeared out of
nowhere, his face hanging a foot from mine, he stared at me. “Goombah, you
gotta keep it down tonight, Moore's gonna be singing.”

Not that hungry,
finished eating, I pushed my plate forward.

“Whan a matter?”

“Nothing.” I pushed my
glass forward. “Fill me up.”

“You gonna miss the
show.”

“Angelo, when it comes
to missing things, I have a long standing agreement with Mr. D., I won't tell
on him if he won't tell me what I missed.”

“Sure, sure, sure.
Scottish king.” He scooped ice in my glass.

I lit a Salem and
Wurlitzer pulsed with the mellow sounds of Hank Williams Jr.'s “Ain't
Misbehavin’”.

I said to Angelo “You
figure out how many wives Solomon had?”

“I don't know.”

“Seven hundred.”

Pouring Jack Daniels,
“No kidding. How'd he do it?” Angelo said and I noticed him pause as the house
lights dimmed. “Here we go,” he said as he reached under the bar and turned
Wurlitzer's sound off. He nodded toward the stage. “There she goes, Peggy
Moore.”

I took a look. In a
spotlight's sharp beam, from where I sat, thirty feet away, ascending the
stage, a female—major lemon blonde hair to the middle of her back, white cowboy
hat, brilliant cherry lips, white vest, long sleeve crimson shirt with
rhinestone buttons, noble (actually regal) cleavage, tight white jeans,
significant settee, nice legs poured in the jeans, red boots tipped with
silver. Like a Monet, I had the feeling distance helped.

I then noticed,
climbing in around the spotlight's edges, four (I assume) males, dressed in
mostly black, taking their places behind Peggy.

Flashes of light
coming from bar side, I looked. Stella was busy with her purple camera.

I looked back to the
stage.

Peggy snatched the
microphone from its pedestal mount and said, “Hi there all, welcome to Felix
The Cat, I'm Peggy Moore, and these are,” she spread her left arm out, “The
Billy Boys … lead man Larry on fiddle, Jim on electric keyboard, Ken on drums,
and Lester on bass. Let's give them a big hand.”

Mild applause. A loud
two-finger whistle from Stella and another Kodak flash.

Peggy continued: “I'd
like to start off my first Saturday night here at Felix The Cat … hope there
are many more … with my latest single, recorded on Duke Label, ‘Dogwood Blossom’.
Hit it boys.”

Her boys hit it and,
with flashing three inch fingernails (matched her cherry lips), she began
tearing the atmosphere like something might be tormenting her:

“Wheeen it's spa-ring time in Tennessee, spa-ring
time in Tennessee….”

 
I then remembered that indeed I had seen Ms.
Moore before. The TV commercial, Clip ‘n Snip Beauty Shops, heard her other
single “A Night’s a Day In Between Afternoons”, too.

Looking at her, I
pondered key points confided earlier by Angelo: one, Ms. Moore is Snakebite's
main hum; two, Berry's gambling problems has him into Snakebite big time;
three, Berry and Snakebite had worked out a trade deal; four, Stella and Peggy
are like finger pretzels; and five, Ms. Peggy desires her name up in lights,
something like that.

Peggy's Dogwood
Blossoms lyrics bleeding the atmosphere, I turned to the mirror behind the back
bar and pulled at the skin below my eyes.

I said, “If you listen
to a lie are you a lie?”

Probably.

“If you live with a
lie are you a lie?”

Yes.

Angelo leaned over the
bar: “Who you talking to?”

“Nobody, just
thinking.”

“Seven hundred?”
Angelo said.

“What?”

“Solomon's wives.”

“Yep, seven hundred …
and three hundred concubines.”

“Concubines?”

“Kinda like out
calls?”

“Mamma mia.” Angelo,
snorted, took my plate of unfinished food, and left.

* * *

Between Peggy's twenty
minute gigs and slice-of-life vignettes from Wurlitzer, I sensed the evening
was unfolding like a pop-up greeting card. The big red Budweiser clock on the
wall just whizzed past 11:30, and, the lounge packed, between the haze of
cigarette smoke, dim candlelight, and Peggy's rendition of “I Fall To Pieces”,
I had a slight buzz going, and I had a feeling, when I looked, that Peggy was
conducting eye interruptus with me. I also noticed Stella had taken note of the
affair.

Peggy wrapped up her
song and announced: “Back in ten minutes, y’all, don't dare leave, hear now.”

A quick flash from
Stella's Kodak, then Wurlitzer clicked, glimmered red, yellow, green and the
Dixie Chicks sang “Cold Day in July”.

Amid applause and
whistles, Angelo, clapping his chubby palms, in front of me, said, “Hey, Jack,”
he waved to Peggy. “Wanna meet her? Her she comes.”

I looked. Peggy,
moving my way, touched outstretched hands, signed a napkin, kissed a cheek. In
a minute, next to me, her ginger marmalade perfume enveloped 1A and she smelled
warm.

She removed her white
hat and placed it on the bar. “Whew.”

Said Angelo: “Peggy,
meet Jack Carr, big shot at TV12.”

She flared her eyes
for a second—jade gemstones going way back into something primordial—and said,
“Oh, how so?”

Speechless, I quickly
noticed a detail that had been hidden by distance: under thick pancake makeup,
little spider lines radiated from the outside corners of her eyes. I too
observed her lips, glistened with that cherry gloss, were firm and fully
puckered. Silver spur earrings dangled from her pierced lobes, and more than
anything, you couldn't help notice, her regal nobleness addressed you in first
person plural.

“Well?” She flared
again, “cat got your tongue?”

I felt like a bottle
of wine at a wino convention.