Time and Chance Read Free

the woman whose name was Stella
Pastorini. After a moment of pleasantries Chuck got back on the plane and it
taxied away for takeoff.
    Stella ushered the ‘chinchilla’
to a yellow jeep Wrangler.
    Having been fed
methamphetamine-laced soft drinks on the plane, the ‘chinchilla’ sat relaxed
and smiling as Stella drove to the M&W ranch main house. There she was
bathed, cleaned, dressed neatly in a pink dress, perfumed, and offered a Pepsi
laced with more speed.
    Stella allowed that
the girl was a lucky little lady, a nice Nashville man, rich, would take care
of her every need. Then Stella showed her to her very own room—cement walls
painted blue, low ceiling, no windows; the space had a TV, CD player,
refrigerator, toilet, and the large bed was elevated and decorated in bright
colors.
    Stella told her to
make herself comfy, goodies in the fridge, locked the steel door, peeked
through the tiny window to check on the girl, then, upstairs, Stella called
Doctor Floyd to schedule an appointment—blood work, DNA typing—for the latest
‘chinchilla’.
     

 
 
    CHAPTER 5

 
 
    Jack’s Time
    A sharp crack of
thunder woke me. I sat up on the side of my sofa-bed and checked Blancpain—6:02
P.M., Saturday, April 14.
    My mouth tasting like
talcum powder, I remember going with Sago to The Green Onion where The Petes, a
four-piece band, played to a jammed dance floor about the size of a pool table.
I also recalled, occasionally the electric keyboard man, Pete, (he and Terri
had taught me some basics) let me sit in for him. Last night, between and
during drinks, I played some jazz, blues, and Sago's steady, a lovely named
Whitney, showed up. She had a friend, name escapes me at the moment, Sago and
Whitney split, I went to friend’s apartment, left around 5:00, made a stop at
Denny’s, two up with hash browns, and got home around 11:00 A.M. and crashed.

 
    * * *

 
    I glanced out my
curtain-less sliding glass door. Rain streaked the fogged surface and lightning
illuminated the room then gave way to dim light coming through the sliding
glass. In the dimness I contemplated my surroundings: a small furnished
efficiency in a sprawling apartment complex known as The Gray Fox . My
niche had lime-green wall-to-wall shag carpet, beige walls, a former tenant’s
silver-framed print of Elvis's hit movie, Viva Las Vegas, and a white curtain
rod above the sliding glass doors. The glass doors led to my private 4x4 foot
deck which had a spectacular view of the asphalt parking lot. The furniture was
furnished furniture.
    I don't like to think,
let alone talk about it, but that “life paths you're on that is going along
duckily but fate runs a red light and you find yourself on the 'why' road with
no reason” comment, I made a little while ago, I suppose requires a short fast
explanation:
    After my soul mate,
friend, wife, classical pianist (she performed with the Nashville symphony)
Terri, the most beautiful person on the face of the earth, six months ago after
a five year war (scanned, drugged, cut, chemoed), thirty-two years old when
they discovered the breast cancer, died, she was three months pregnant with our
first child, a girl to be named Francesca after some famous composer Francesca
Caccini, I sold everything, moved here … enough!
    I got up, started a
pot of coffee and reread a sub-headline of yesterday's Tennessean that I had
picked up at Denny's: TV12 Ups Galbo, story p. 1D .
    I was familiar with
the story—known about it for a week. Other TV12 staffers had learned of it, at
a meeting in Studio B, this past Friday morning. The move concerned an event at
TV12 that the world, at least mine, was not ready for.
    I looked, below the
newspaper headline, at a 4x6 color photograph with the caption—L-R: Berry
Frazer, Joe Galbo, Jack Carr.
    As I focused more
closely on the photo, it came to mind that I looked like a lightweight standing
beside two Happy Valley giants. I studied Berry—carrot-colored hair (most of it
a