first two Handwritten pages to Hudson City novel (i'll eventually post the whole novel elsewhere)
The telephone rang as if from another time, that old-fashioned
ring I forgot I had set for my cell phone.
it seemed to connect
with some dream my drinking had inspired. So, when I open my eyes to the dark I
forgot when and where I was.
The only light in the room came from that phone which I had
left face up on the nightstand. This was just bright enough for me to make out
the face of the old fashioned clock management had furnished the room with.
It said 3:45.
And this was not in the afternoon.
But night or day, calls did not indicate good news.
I groped for the phone
catching it just before it cycled into message mode.
“Yeah?” I mumbled into the screen still unable to get used
to the idea that it had no real mouthpiece.
“It’s Rocco, a gruff voice said. “Are you sober?””
What kind of fucking crack is thst?’ I asked, just awake
enough to be angry
“I need you sober and your ass down here,” Rocco said.
“Can’t it wait until morning?
“It is morning.”
“You know what the fuck I mean,” I said. “Don’t be a wise guy,
I hate wise guys.”
“I got a friend of yours down here and I need you to get him
out.”
“Friend? what friend?
“Your columnist friend.”
“You mean Nathaniel?” I said, forming a picture of the
rotund middle age men in my mind, 60 years out of touch with the times, a Dashell Hammond who had a vision of Hudson
City that came out of post World War II. He knew the city better than anyone I knew but
always painted it in terms of old Italians Irish and Germans at a time when
blacks and Latinos had taken over that turf.
Nat at Rocco’s motel surprised me, something totally out of
character for a man who still went to church twice a week and to confession
with a clear conscience.
“So, what do you need me for?” I asked.
“He is in no condition to go home.”
“So, call a cab.”
“You mean an ambulance or a hearse. He’s dead,” Rocco said. “Now
get your ass down here. I don’t need the headlines about this.”
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