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Jackson?” She wrenched a safety match free and lit her
cigarette.
    Angelo said, “Stella
and Peggy are like this.” Angelo twisted his index and middle fingers like a
puffy pretzel. “So, you better be good.” He winked at Stella.
    Stella put her hands
on her hips and gave Angelo a dry ice smile.
    I let my eyes wonder
to Stella's purple camera. I was reminded of Berry's picture-taking hobby.
Everybody's taking pictures, I thought. A thousand years from now, they won't
have any trouble piecing together how we did all this. I said, “What's with the
camera?”
    Angelo said, “Stella's
gonna take pictures of Peggy's premiere.”
    I said to Stella, “You
and Berry Frazer have something in common.”
    “Wa’s ‘at?” She said
through a stream of cigarette smoke.
    “Berry's hobby is
photography.”
    “Hah.” She smiled that
smirk again and I surmised it was something between I-got-your-number, don't-mess-with-me,
and I-know-more-than-you-think. She sashayed toward the other end of the bar.
      Following her long quarter horse gait, I said
to Angelo. “I think Stella likes me.”
    Angelo checked Stella
at the far end of the bar, leaned closer, twisted his fingers in that pretzel
again, and whispered, “She's a switch hitter.”
    “No thanks.” I dragged
Salem and exhaled, “Nice place to open a bar.”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Angelo manipulated a Jack Daniels bottle, flipped a four ounce tumbler glass,
and poured a double. Watching him reminded me of the Pope; I saw a few times on
TV, Christmas midnight mass, live from the Vatican, handling a chalice, neat
and delicate, and every motion had a purpose (Aunt Jane's Rev Molino said the
Pope was the Anti-Christ. I was sure that's why the rattlesnake got him).
      “I din know that.” Angelo dealt white Felix
The Cat cocktail napkins on the bar in front of me and placed a good looking Jack
Daniels on one.
    “What didn't you
know?” I said.
    “The Kid was a
photographer.”
    “Hobby.” I sipped and
said, “I still don't get it?”
    “Whan's that?”
    “Stella, lunch hostess
at The Berry, Snakebite’s assistant.”
    “I tol’ ya, she's
helping out, I doan know, Snakebite and Berry worked something out.” He winked,
“I think them two guys spy on each other.” He seemed to catch himself out of
school. “You din hear nutin from me.”
    “So tell me, who is
Peggy Moore?”
      “Like Stella said, does the TV commercial for
Clip ‘en Snip beauty shops, sings, has a record out,” he winked, “Snakebite
said she's the best hum he ever had. He's moonstruck, know whan I mean.”
    Peggy, Snakebite,
Stella; the relationship sounded complicated, but then, in this world of unsure
things, I know two and a half things for certain: number one, Angelo had missed
his calling, should have been a news reporter; number two, ‘hum’ in Angeloese
has nothing to do with music.
    Angelo said. “You wonn
your regular chew?” He meant food.
    I said, “Yesterday.”
    He yelled to Stella.
“Hey Stella, how 'bout bring Jack a half dozen oysters and a half dozen
shrimps, same plate, extra horseradish on the side. Basket of Club Crackers.”
    Wurlitzer clicked and
George Strait sang “All My Exes Live in Texas”.
    I noticed a dark
concern forming on Angelo's face.
    “What's the matter,
you don't like George Strait?” I said.
    “He's okay.”
    Then I recognized the
telegraphing, to me anyway, that a serious question was coming, usually related
to the local TV business.
    I tried to change the
subject. “So, expecting a big crowd tonight?”
    “Hey, Jack, saw the
paper, Galbo upped, huh?”
    “I didn't know you
could read,” I said.
    Like I had cheated at
a game of marbles, “Jaaack.”
    “Upped.” I sipped.
    “Over you?”
    “Over God.”
    “Whan's a guy like
that make?”
    “God?”
    “Stronzo, Galbo.”
    “Mulligan stew.”
    “Whan's that?”
    “Don't ask.”
    Angelo, with white bar
rag, wiping a dry highball glass, telegraphed a more serious subject