swung Winston's
right door open.
She had changed from
her singing outfit to a white dress that hung loosely from thin strings that
dangled over her shoulder. A deep V sliced her honey dew nobleness in half. Her
dress hem stopped an inch above her knees. Nice bare knees, legs, and her
ankles rode high on white stiletto heels. I looked up. She had noted the look,
smiled, and slipped into Winston. She put her purse on the floor, pulled her
dress to mid-thigh, slammed the door, and said, “Where'd ya get this little ol’
car?”
“Cracker Jacks.”
She pinched my arm,
“Silly,” and squiggled her settee in the seat.
I thought Winston
might blush as a spurt of leathery extract broke the essence of ginger
marmalade for a brief breathtaking moment.
“I got a convertible
too,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Cadillac … cinnamon
apple.”
I wondered where her
cinnamon apple Cadillac might be. I mean, a couple Felix The Cat employees,
departing for the night, might notice a cinnamon apple Cadillac not being gone.
She read my mind,
“Snakebite had me a limo tonight, I told the driver I had another ride.”
I bit Salem's filter.
She slid her left hand
over, squeezed my thigh, and purred, “Get on I-65 south, Belle Meade.”
CHAPTER 10
Real Time
Sunday, April 15
01:45:12 A.M. CDT
Busy washing glasses,
Angelo Rich frowned at the ringing of the house telephone. After eight rings,
glances from Stella, he picked up and grumbled, “Felix The Cat.” Brightening
quickly, he said, “Snakebite, how … great great … ah, ah, she went home … yeah …
big night … said she was beat … I doan know … I … yeah, I guess so, limo guy
was great, she went up The Haute Cuisine stairs, I was busy … how's the new
club going?”
Angelo grimaced,
looked at the receiver, listened again, “Hello….” shrugged and hung up.
CHAPTER 11
Jack’s Time
South on I-65, Winston
purring at 55 mph, sweet honeysuckle air swirling around Ms. Peggy's ginger
marmalade, all in all I felt like you do in a time warp and you begin thinking
life is not that complicated. Then you wake up.
I flipped Salem into
the air and watched, in the rear view mirror, sparks bounce off the pavement.
Peggy tuned the radio
to WSM. The wind buffeting her words, she sang along with Patsy Cline's “Sweet
Dreams”.
While she sang, I
worked on the Berry and Snakebite trade-deal puzzle. For some reason that
Salvador Dali painting of a clock, sliding off a table, came to mind.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the
Salvador pretty much on the floor, Peggy's hand about an inch from pay dirt,
she directed and I turned onto some Lane in Belle Meade.
She said, “Right up
there, my drive is the second on the right. You'll see a light on the
entrance.”
I downshifted and
nodded toward an illuminated white iron gate shadowed by high dark hedge. “That
it?”
“Yes, dear.” She took
a control from her purse, pressed, and the gate swung open.
The driveway was a
soft curve up a good size grass-covered hill to a two storey white Antebellum
house that looked like the Tara mansion in Gone With The Wind and, I imagined,
Clark Gable inside getting smashed.
Peggy said, “Just pull
on up under the portico, dear, you can park there tonight.”
Tonight hanging in the
air like wet paint, I was thinking, this thing has been plowing forward like a
Tennessee Williams' play and it is way past time to slow it down, stop, and
exit.
“Penny for your
thoughts,” She said.
“I was wondering, who
cuts the grass.”
“Silly.” She squeezed
the jackpot.
Pulling under the
portico, I stopped Winston, turned to her and said, “Well, nice meeting you
Peggy, hope to see you again.”
She smacked my leg,
“Don't be silly, you, you're coming in for a nightcap.”
Think about it.
* * *
Holding me to her side
like a sack of Stop&Shop groceries, Peggy unlocked the front door and we
stepped inside. She flipped a switch
right door open.
She had changed from
her singing outfit to a white dress that hung loosely from thin strings that
dangled over her shoulder. A deep V sliced her honey dew nobleness in half. Her
dress hem stopped an inch above her knees. Nice bare knees, legs, and her
ankles rode high on white stiletto heels. I looked up. She had noted the look,
smiled, and slipped into Winston. She put her purse on the floor, pulled her
dress to mid-thigh, slammed the door, and said, “Where'd ya get this little ol’
car?”
“Cracker Jacks.”
She pinched my arm,
“Silly,” and squiggled her settee in the seat.
I thought Winston
might blush as a spurt of leathery extract broke the essence of ginger
marmalade for a brief breathtaking moment.
“I got a convertible
too,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Cadillac … cinnamon
apple.”
I wondered where her
cinnamon apple Cadillac might be. I mean, a couple Felix The Cat employees,
departing for the night, might notice a cinnamon apple Cadillac not being gone.
She read my mind,
“Snakebite had me a limo tonight, I told the driver I had another ride.”
I bit Salem's filter.
She slid her left hand
over, squeezed my thigh, and purred, “Get on I-65 south, Belle Meade.”
CHAPTER 10
Real Time
Sunday, April 15
01:45:12 A.M. CDT
Busy washing glasses,
Angelo Rich frowned at the ringing of the house telephone. After eight rings,
glances from Stella, he picked up and grumbled, “Felix The Cat.” Brightening
quickly, he said, “Snakebite, how … great great … ah, ah, she went home … yeah …
big night … said she was beat … I doan know … I … yeah, I guess so, limo guy
was great, she went up The Haute Cuisine stairs, I was busy … how's the new
club going?”
Angelo grimaced,
looked at the receiver, listened again, “Hello….” shrugged and hung up.
CHAPTER 11
Jack’s Time
South on I-65, Winston
purring at 55 mph, sweet honeysuckle air swirling around Ms. Peggy's ginger
marmalade, all in all I felt like you do in a time warp and you begin thinking
life is not that complicated. Then you wake up.
I flipped Salem into
the air and watched, in the rear view mirror, sparks bounce off the pavement.
Peggy tuned the radio
to WSM. The wind buffeting her words, she sang along with Patsy Cline's “Sweet
Dreams”.
While she sang, I
worked on the Berry and Snakebite trade-deal puzzle. For some reason that
Salvador Dali painting of a clock, sliding off a table, came to mind.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the
Salvador pretty much on the floor, Peggy's hand about an inch from pay dirt,
she directed and I turned onto some Lane in Belle Meade.
She said, “Right up
there, my drive is the second on the right. You'll see a light on the
entrance.”
I downshifted and
nodded toward an illuminated white iron gate shadowed by high dark hedge. “That
it?”
“Yes, dear.” She took
a control from her purse, pressed, and the gate swung open.
The driveway was a
soft curve up a good size grass-covered hill to a two storey white Antebellum
house that looked like the Tara mansion in Gone With The Wind and, I imagined,
Clark Gable inside getting smashed.
Peggy said, “Just pull
on up under the portico, dear, you can park there tonight.”
Tonight hanging in the
air like wet paint, I was thinking, this thing has been plowing forward like a
Tennessee Williams' play and it is way past time to slow it down, stop, and
exit.
“Penny for your
thoughts,” She said.
“I was wondering, who
cuts the grass.”
“Silly.” She squeezed
the jackpot.
Pulling under the
portico, I stopped Winston, turned to her and said, “Well, nice meeting you
Peggy, hope to see you again.”
She smacked my leg,
“Don't be silly, you, you're coming in for a nightcap.”
Think about it.
* * *
Holding me to her side
like a sack of Stop&Shop groceries, Peggy unlocked the front door and we
stepped inside. She flipped a switch
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