(first few chapters of Hudson City. I have to pause on Chapter 9, partly because it comes a little too close to reality and I need to modify it. The novel is about the murder of a popular mob moll and Sam (or Dan) is blamed for the killing and must dredge through her past to find the real clear and clear his name etc... This is one of two novels and a number of short stories based on -- well, it's actually obvious.)
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 that?’ 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-aged men in my mind, 60 years out of touch with the times, a Dashiell 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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