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
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
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