that, through a wall of floor-to-ceiling
glass, revealed the secluded back forty. She flipped another switch and, from
underwater lights, the aqua water of a guitar shaped swimming pool appeared.
Another flip turned on two pretty good sized lamps that illuminated a plush
sunken den.
She said, “Make
yourself at home, darlin’. I gotta pee pee, be right back.”
She went into a little
powder room off the entrance and I surveyed the opulence of the sunken den—sculptured
white drapes framed the windows; lamp's yellow-white glow spread over a long
white sofa, two indigo chairs, long glass coffee table, and, in the distance, a
good size television screen nestled in what looked like a small recording
studio; in the distance, four white leather stools faced a chrome and silver
cocktail bar. A pink telephone sat on the bar top. To the right of the bar, a
mammoth stone fireplace flowed up into hewn wood beams that accented the
cathedral ceiling and a staircase circled up to who knows where. Everything was
cradled in polar bear-white wall-to-wall carpet.
I heard a flush and,
in what seemed just a moment, Peggy came out humming “Sweet Dreams”. I noticed
her nose, a little red; she said with a smile, “How ya like my little ol’ shack,
darlin’.”
I fibbed, “Similar to
my place.”
“Really.” She stepped
back toward the front door and latched the security chain. “Where do you live,
honey bun?”
“Several places.”
Her arms circling me
from behind, she said, “I bet … all you TV people make just such gobbles of
money.”
“Gobbles.”
“Take that coat off
darlin’, get comfortable.” She squeezed an inch of my maximus, “Nice buns.”
I took off my London
Fog and threw it on a white wingback chair that looked like a ship's sail from
Mutiny On The Bounty.
She kicked off her high heels (toenails
matched her cherry fingernails) and, tiptoeing to the bar, said, “Want to stay
with Jack Daniels … or would you rather have something more recreational?”
“Jack Daniels is fine,
thanks anyway.” I joined her at the bar.
Mixing, “So how long
you been at TV12?”
“Hundred years.”
“Silly Jack.”
“Six.”
She sounded like she
was fishing so I threw in a line of my own. “I didn't see Snakebite tonight.”
Taking ice from a
little refrigerator, “Oh, he had to go on a business trip, Memphis, opening a
new club.”
I knew that.
She put a highball glass
on the bar with ice and a godly amount of booze. “So you work for Berry
Frazer?”
“Yes.”
Making herself a gin
and tonic, she said, “How'd he get that little ol’ TV station, hotel, all that
money?”
I wondered if she knew
more than she was letting on. I said, “Parents … left him everything.”
“He can't be very
old.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“He looks older, I
mean….”
“The rug.”
“Well….”
“The rug, I know.
Where'd you meet him?”
Tasting her gin and
tonic, “We had dinner a few nights ago, Berry, Snakebite, and little ol’ me.”
Interesting triangle,
wonder where Stella was. I asked, “Berry's hotel?”
“No, Snakebite’s The
Haute Cuisine.”
“Oh.”
She seemed in thought,
then said, “Has Berry mentioned anything to you?”
“About dinner at The
Haute Cuisine?”
“Silly. I meant has he
said anything to you about little ol’ me and TV12?”
“What would he say?”
“Oh nothing, just
thought he might have mentioned my name, said something, I'm sure he will. I'm
sworn to secrecy, crossed my heart,” she held up her drink, “cheers.”
Didn't take a Ben
Stein to figure it out but I like to fish. “What would Berry say to me about
you and TV12?”
“I shouldn't tell you …
I should tell you … I shouldn't tell you.”
“Give me a hint.”
She flared her eyes.
“It's a surprise.”
“Give me a ‘when’?”
“Sooner than you
think.”
I pondered my genius
affinity with “sooner than you thinks”.
“I ain't saying no
more ‘bout business tonight. Change
glass, revealed the secluded back forty. She flipped another switch and, from
underwater lights, the aqua water of a guitar shaped swimming pool appeared.
Another flip turned on two pretty good sized lamps that illuminated a plush
sunken den.
She said, “Make
yourself at home, darlin’. I gotta pee pee, be right back.”
She went into a little
powder room off the entrance and I surveyed the opulence of the sunken den—sculptured
white drapes framed the windows; lamp's yellow-white glow spread over a long
white sofa, two indigo chairs, long glass coffee table, and, in the distance, a
good size television screen nestled in what looked like a small recording
studio; in the distance, four white leather stools faced a chrome and silver
cocktail bar. A pink telephone sat on the bar top. To the right of the bar, a
mammoth stone fireplace flowed up into hewn wood beams that accented the
cathedral ceiling and a staircase circled up to who knows where. Everything was
cradled in polar bear-white wall-to-wall carpet.
I heard a flush and,
in what seemed just a moment, Peggy came out humming “Sweet Dreams”. I noticed
her nose, a little red; she said with a smile, “How ya like my little ol’ shack,
darlin’.”
I fibbed, “Similar to
my place.”
“Really.” She stepped
back toward the front door and latched the security chain. “Where do you live,
honey bun?”
“Several places.”
Her arms circling me
from behind, she said, “I bet … all you TV people make just such gobbles of
money.”
“Gobbles.”
“Take that coat off
darlin’, get comfortable.” She squeezed an inch of my maximus, “Nice buns.”
I took off my London
Fog and threw it on a white wingback chair that looked like a ship's sail from
Mutiny On The Bounty.
She kicked off her high heels (toenails
matched her cherry fingernails) and, tiptoeing to the bar, said, “Want to stay
with Jack Daniels … or would you rather have something more recreational?”
“Jack Daniels is fine,
thanks anyway.” I joined her at the bar.
Mixing, “So how long
you been at TV12?”
“Hundred years.”
“Silly Jack.”
“Six.”
She sounded like she
was fishing so I threw in a line of my own. “I didn't see Snakebite tonight.”
Taking ice from a
little refrigerator, “Oh, he had to go on a business trip, Memphis, opening a
new club.”
I knew that.
She put a highball glass
on the bar with ice and a godly amount of booze. “So you work for Berry
Frazer?”
“Yes.”
Making herself a gin
and tonic, she said, “How'd he get that little ol’ TV station, hotel, all that
money?”
I wondered if she knew
more than she was letting on. I said, “Parents … left him everything.”
“He can't be very
old.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“He looks older, I
mean….”
“The rug.”
“Well….”
“The rug, I know.
Where'd you meet him?”
Tasting her gin and
tonic, “We had dinner a few nights ago, Berry, Snakebite, and little ol’ me.”
Interesting triangle,
wonder where Stella was. I asked, “Berry's hotel?”
“No, Snakebite’s The
Haute Cuisine.”
“Oh.”
She seemed in thought,
then said, “Has Berry mentioned anything to you?”
“About dinner at The
Haute Cuisine?”
“Silly. I meant has he
said anything to you about little ol’ me and TV12?”
“What would he say?”
“Oh nothing, just
thought he might have mentioned my name, said something, I'm sure he will. I'm
sworn to secrecy, crossed my heart,” she held up her drink, “cheers.”
Didn't take a Ben
Stein to figure it out but I like to fish. “What would Berry say to me about
you and TV12?”
“I shouldn't tell you …
I should tell you … I shouldn't tell you.”
“Give me a hint.”
She flared her eyes.
“It's a surprise.”
“Give me a ‘when’?”
“Sooner than you
think.”
I pondered my genius
affinity with “sooner than you thinks”.
“I ain't saying no
more ‘bout business tonight. Change
Similar Books
