Time and Chance (9 page)

Berry walked to Jack's
office door and, looking in, said to Joy, “Where's Carr?”

She explained that he
was not yet in, all the rain, some flooding, traffic, she was sure he would be
in shortly.

Berry slammed Jack's
door. A picture in Joy's outer office fell to the floor.

Back on the second
floor, Berry stopped at his secretary’s desk, said, “Judy, call Joe Galbo. Tell
him I want to see him, now.”

Judy—short sandy pixie
style hair, smoke-blue eyes, a thin five foot six—looked up from her typing.
“Yes sir.”

Slamming his office
door, Berry ambled across his office suite, entered his private bathroom,
removed his coat and trousers, put them on a hook, dropped his blue Jockey
briefs, and sat on the soft seat of his turquoise bidet. After a moment he
picked up, in front of him, a wall mounted telephone and pressed Snakebite
Walker's unlisted number.

No answer. He pressed
Felix The Cat's main number, waited, listened for a second then spoke: “This is
Showroom, Snakebite in? …when he be back … oh … want to do some business … why
not? … take it, I'll talk to Snakebite when he gets back … it's okay … Showroom
… thirty large, to win, Yankees, Baltimore, Pittsburgh … ten large, to win,
Mets, Minnesota, Cubs, St. Louis, A's, and Seattle … what's the point spread on
the Celtics, Lakers' game … twenty large, Lakers to win … that'll do it … Snakebite
calls in, I need to talk to him.”

Berry hung up,
finished with his toilet, and went to his marble topped sink. He squeezed
SoftSoap on his hands, washed, then, one at a time, on a gold BF monogrammed
white hand towel, dried his short lean ring-less fingers. As he dried, he
checked, one at a time his manicured nails.

Finished with his
hands, he popped out his left blue-tinted contact lens, re-wet it, put it back,
then pulled on his trousers and suit coat. He turned to the mirrored wall to
the left of the lavatory, ran his palm over his rust-red toupee, then stepped
to his office.

CHAPTER 2

Jack’s Time

I awoke to a clap of
thunder, a steady rain droning on the roof, and the essence of warm ginger
marmalade filling my nostrils. I turned and looked. The back side of Peggy
looked like a very ripe Bartlett pear. Knotted blonde hair fell over her milky
white shoulders. I followed her spine down to the dark crease that blended into
the pink sheet that partially covered her impressive, actually cavernous,
settee.

 
I squinted at Blancpain: little after 8:40
A.M., Monday April 16.

Realizing not only was
I going to be late for work, but about twenty-four hours had slipped by in a
Jack Daniels’ fog of playing doctor, cook, and bottle washer all over Peggy’s spread.
Thinking I would quietly slip out of bed, go home, change, go to work, I moved
my leg.

Peggy turned and
purred, “Kiss, kiss.”

“I gotta go.”

“Nooo.” She turned and
reached to hold him. “Kiss, kiss.”

I looked at her
eyelids smeared with shadow. Merlot, I thought and, I also noticed, in the
sober morning light, she had grown a very pointed little nose.

I sat up on the side
of the bed. “Gotta go.”

She squeezed him,
said, “I like him, Mr. Carr. I like him a lot. I think I'm going to keep him.”

I looked out the
window.

Peggy tugged. “Kiss,
kiss.”

I pecked her puckered
lips.

“Stingy.”

I kissed her.

After a moment,
pulling on my clothes, I said, “Don't bother to get up.”

“Oh Jack, this has
been soooo wonderful. I don't want you to go, darn it.”

“Gotta go.”

“I'm going to call you
in an hour, to see if you got to work okay.”

“No need to do that.”

She smiled. “I will.”

Out of somewhere a
silly selfish survival thought struck me. I said, “Say, it might be a good idea
to keep this weekend our little secret.”

“Silly.”

“Just a thought.”

CHAPTER 3

Real Time

8:45:30 A.M. CDT

Berry ambled to his
office's picture window and leaned his hip on the mahogany sill. The window
offered, nestled across the Cumberland River, a panoramic view of downtown
Nashville. Today charcoal-colored clouds shrouded the skyline and rain pelted
the window.

He scanned the misty
view then ambled across the thick maroon carpeting to his massive mahogany
desk. He looked at his gold Rolex—8:47—settled into his Moroccan leather
executive chair, and stared at his desk's top. The polished surface held a
white speaker phone, a gold pen set, and a small desk calendar with a leather
top. Monday's Wall Street Journal and The Tennessean lay to the side.

Berry turned, behind
his desk, to a mahogany credenza. He straightened a silver framed photograph of
his wife, Adele, and teenage daughter, Stephanie. Next to the photographs, a
half dozen folded white hand towels were stacked. The towels, always a fresh
supply, were weapons in his constant battle with, on his neck, forehead, and
upper lip, sweat. Next to the towels, in a brown leather case, sat his Pentax
digital camera. He took a towel and, as he wiped his face, his phone buzzed.

He flipped the speaker
on and said, “Yes.”

Judy: “Sir, Mr. Galbo is
not in yet and Mike Walker is on line two.”

“Right.” Berry punched
line two and said, “Snakebite, you old son of a gun, how ya doing?”

“Whaddaya doing,
prick, making bets, yous is shut off.”

“Mike, this is an open
line….”

“Fuck open.”

“What's the matter?”

“Why don't you get
somethin’ else on your prick TV news, ‘sides my joints being fucked over by ‘em
goddamn do-gooders, huh?”

“I thought you were
out of town….”

“Yeah, yeah, never
heard a long distance, I got eyes everywhere, you prick media guys all the
same, busting my balls.”

“Ah, Snakebite, you'll
be all right, always come out on top.”

“Fuck top. My guy said
you’s had some big fucking need ta talk.”

“I….”

“So what the fuck is
it?”

“I wanted to fill you
in….”

“Yeah, yeah, I've
heard at fill in shit before, you’s into me so far I quit countin’.”

“Mike, let's not fight….”

“Fuck you, I need some
cash.”

“It’s about the
weather, our trade deal, Peggy?”

“Yeah, well, when are
you gonna do something?”

“Soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah …
when I see it I believe it.”

“I'm meeting with her
tonight, you'll see….”

“Talk is cheap.”

“Say, when are you
coming over to The Berry, have dinner?”

“Soon as you have the
close out sale.”

Berry paused, “Mike,
we're doing great.”

“Yeah, yeah, not what
I heard … send some cash, prick.”

“Mike I told you….”

“Bye prick.”

Hearing a click, Berry
hung up, “Albino bone head.”

CHAPTER 4

Jack’s Time

Allowing Winston to
show her Grand Prix stuff, the past twenty-four or so hours that had slipped by
in a Jack Daniels’ fog of playing doctor, cook, and bottle washer with Peggy’s
spread, flashed by like grainy promo footage in a B movie:

Arrived Sunday A.M.,
saw a striptease … Sunday champagne brunch, listened to this end of several
Snakebite calls. Sunday afternoon while taking a skinny dip, the pool side door
bell chimed. After around ten minutes of chiming, Peggy went to see who it was.
I peeked around the corner of the house, a purple PT Cruiser faced Winston.
Five minutes later Peggy returned said it was Stella; sworn to secrecy, she had
sent her home. Another call from Snakebite. A late night dip … around sometime
about an hour ago, I woke up and called Joy, told her I was running a little
late. She told me that Berry had been down twice looking for me.

The now clearing up,
windshield wipers flapping, I speculated why Berry might be looking for me. I
knew he had left last Thursday for New York to meet with the CBS brass.
Sometime on these trips to New York he came back with insights on how the world
worked, or should work. It's like he went to see these wizards and the wizards
dribbled out little tidbits of wisdom they got from other wizards. More often
than not, Berry carried the tidbits back on an airplane. I had discovered,
later in life than I should have, tidbit wisdom carried around on airplanes can
be lethal, especially from New York wizards.

Then there was the
surprise that Peggy told me about.

Please be wizardry
from New York.

CHAPTER 5

Real Time

8:55:01 A.M. CDT

Berry returned from a
second trip to Jack's office, passed Judy's desk without a word, and plunked
himself down behind his desk. He pressed a switch beneath the top drawer. In a
moment, embedded in the wall beyond the sofa, a 40 inch television screen
flickered on with CBS morning fare. He listened for a moment then muted the
sound.

He glanced to the left
cuff of his shirt which extended two inches beyond the sleeve of his jacket. He
jerked the jacket sleeve then adjusted the cuff so the red embroidered BF
initials showed on top. He glanced at his Rolex—8:58.

“Son of a mother
bitch.”

Underarm sweat showing
through his jacket, he stood and, next to the desk, straightened a tan leather
reception chair. Then he walked, ten feet away, facing his desk, to his ash-white
undulating sofa. He slapped the cushions then flipped on two bulbous table
lamps that sat on mahogany end tables. A coffee table matched the end tables.

After angling his two
stuffed slate-gray chairs toward his desk, he went to, recessed in the wall
opposite his picture window, his four stool bar. A mirror reflected glass
shelves, sundry bottles of liquor, and various shaped cocktail glasses. He
opened a small drawer, retrieved a Tylox and took the capsule with a sip of
water. He then walked to photographs that hung on a fabric covered wall. The
pictures, eight by ten, were of himself posing with CBS and Hollywood TV show
celebrities. He looked at each then, at the end, he stopped at a black and
white photograph of a smiling young man and woman standing in front of a
trailer. Large red lettering on the side proclaimed:
WNAS-AM Radio Nashville.

On the bottom of the
photo's frame a small gold plate: Lamar and Libby Frazer—first radio station.

He looked up and
studied, spaced above the photographs, stuffed animal heads from animals he had
shot—Cape horn buffalo, moose, elk, big horn sheep, and a twelve point buck. He
stepped back to look at, in the corner, under a potted six foot Ficus tree, a
stuffed elephant foot. He had shot the elephant last year in Zimbabwe.

Just then his octagon
wall clock chimed 9:00 A.M..

CHAPTER 6

Jack’s Time

At my apartment, I
checked my answering machine; Sago had left a message, we needed to talk, S-Stuff.

I took a quick shower,
brushed my teeth, changed into my standard Monday work uniform—blue button down
shirt, mauve tie, tan slacks, black loafers, and blue blazer. On the way out
the door I pulled on my trench coat. I would shave (Norelco in Winston) as
usual, while driving.

I checked the time.
Little after 9:15. Twenty minute drive. I gunned Winston out of The Gray Fox
parking lot and thought of a 'late' excuse to offer Berry. I figured the worst
that could happen was one of his patented brow beatings. Firing was remote
because of a couple things: not too long ago, in what Sago described as a local
Zimbabwe blood bath, Berry terminated the sales manager and hired Joe Galbo.
Shortly after Galbo arrived both the promotion manager and the program manager
were canned. Berry combined the two jobs into one position and hired, to fill
the slot, an up and coming young kid from Providence, Rhode Island, Jay
Speaker. It didn't take a Von Braun to figure it out—the word, circulating in
broadcast spheres, had Berry, in politically correct-ese, difficult to work
for. For those of us who knew first hand, if you checked any delusions of grandeur
at the front door, you could survive. Those who could not, looked for other
jobs. I rationalized that I needed some stability right now, wasn't sure about
tomorrow let alone a career move, so I wasn't looking for a job. But I was
having a difficult time dropping my ego at the front door.