Hits

By Stephen Allen Frey

Warren Harris is a frustrated,aspiring songwriter.He works in the family funeral home and is expected to take over the family business.Only he wants to write hit songs
and make it big in the music business.Warren's father reveals a secret ledger containing names of local low life scumbags.Warren learns he's required to perform two mob type hits using names from the ledger,or his father has to snuffed instead.He relents and agrees to do the hits on names from the ledger.He also has eyes for Ms.Lily from the local diner.They become very close romantically and spend exciting encounters at the Harris lakeside cabin.Mayhem ensues after Warrens' attempt to eliminate a Leon Rizzo;a criminal and drug pusher.After forcing Leon to eat a pizza that's been poisoned,Warren has a change of heart after hearing Leon's tale of his horrible upbringing.But while they're in route to the emergency room,Leon dies leaving Warren to dispose of the body along the way.As things progress from bad to worse,Warren feels as if his dreams are slipping away.But he won't give up.He won't give up!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Allen Frey
• Release date: Aug 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311801081

Stephen Allen Frey

Stephen Frey is a Nashville based singer/songwriter and author.Stephen has written with such greats as Buzz Cason/Dickie Lee/& Alfons Kettner.With recordings by Irish singing star Mary Duff and Jeff Cook of the country super group Alabama.Stephen has played almost every venue in Nashville,including coveted Spotlight Artist nights at the world famous BlueBird Cafe.Stephen also fronted a pop/americana duo called Beggarz Opera with renowned author Sterling Whitaker.

Book preview

HITS

A Dark Comedy

By

Stephen A. Frey

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Stephen A. Frey

Formatting and cover design by Caligraphics

Chapter 1 Earnest

Chapter 2 The Connection

Chapter 3 Robbery & Passion

Chapter 4 That Damned Ledger

Chapter 5 Kinky Lakeside Sex

Chapter 6 Not Nic!

Chapter 7 The Funeral

Chapter 8 Leon

Chapter 9 The Hit

Chapter 10 Pressure

Chapter 11 It Hits The Fan

Chapter 12 Chaos Is Perfection

Chapter One: Earnest

The scalpel blade glided effortlessly, like a hot knife through butter, across the corpse’s neck. The thin flesh fell apart to reveal the jugular vein and carotid artery. Inserting a long steel rod, called a trocar, I began the embalming process in earnest. Ernest Salazar, that is, eighty-two years young.

Soon he would turn a very rosy pink and look better than he had in years, before cancer ravaged his burly frame. For at least forty-eight hours Earnest would be a star! Every friend, family member, and acquaintance who cared enough would come just to see him one last time. He’d be cried over, discussed, and pawed at. And finally, he’d be deposited in a big hole. It seems so pointless to me personally, but I guess for most people, it’s necessary to grieve.

Warren, are you listening to me? my father demanded.

I didn’t hear you . . . what’d you say, Dad?

"I said, can you hand me my cold drink?"

‘Okay, just hold your horses, please,’ I answered.

I reached over Earnest, retrieved a half-full can of bargain cola and held it over my left shoulder. Dad took the can and goosed me in the side.

"Hey, I’m doing delicate work here! Are you trying to kill poor Earnest again?" I joked.

Dad let out a loud guffaw and took a swig of his hot soda. That tastes like cow piss! he said, spitting into the trash can.

What does cow piss taste like, Dad? I teased.

‘Now son, don’t you give me grief," Dad admonished.

You know, Dad, this old embalming room could really use some straightening up. towels on the floor, finger prints all over the instrument cabinets’ front doors. I can’t even see what’s in there anymore! There’s Windex under the sink, paper towels, same place, I rambled, reaching behind to turn off the formaldehyde pump.

Whoa, calm down . . . what’s your problem tonight? Dad interrupted.

C’mon, Dad . . . a body a month? How are we getting by? I inquired, cutting to the chase.

Warren, first of all, we’re not having just ‘a body a month’. Last month we did 3 funerals. And I scrimp and save. I ain’t stupid, son! Dad ranted, defending his wounded pride. I suddenly felt stupid myself, for making my father feel less than what he was; a decent, hard-working man.

Look, I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to embarrass you or hurt your feelings. I just get a little depressed being around here sometimes. If I didn’t write my country songs, I guess I’d already be crazy, I offered.

"Oh yeah, your country songs. . . well, son, I don’t see nothin’ wrong with you writin’ songs. But right now, I need you here with me, to run this business, Dad responded, looking at me hard over his glasses. I can’t handle this by myself right now, my arthritis and all," he added, wringing his hands.

Dad, I ain’t going nowhere. You know you and Mama are my life! I hugged him tightly, and at the same time, had a sinking feeling. It seemed I really wasn’t going anywhere, and it ate at me like nobody’s business. But family came first, and I couldn’t let my dad down.

So, Dad, is old Earnest here the plain, or supreme? I asked, breaking the father-son moment.

Oh, he falls somewhere in between, he replied, removing his glasses and cleaning them on his apron.

We need some high-dollar funerals, to get us back on better financial ground . . . get us caught up, I added.

Well, if people don’t start checking out, we’re gonna be closing up, Dad joked.

At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Dad, I said.

If that goes, I’m really in deep doo-doo, he replied.

Turn that hose on for me, Dad, I instructed. I squirted some soap onto Earnest’s chest and lathered up his arms and neck. The cold water from the hose rinsed him sparkling clean. After toweling him down, I pulled a sheet over his torso and turned off the hose.

Have you heard Nic Nicnair’s new single, Dad?

’I’m like a puppet on a string . . . for you I’d do anything,’ Dad sang out in his deep baritone.

I can’t believe it, you’re a Nic fan! I exclaimed.

Oh, I love good country music. And Nic . . . well, he’s the king, Dad declared.

I hope to have Nic record one of my songs someday, I said, awaiting his response anxiously.

"Son, I wouldn’t pin any great hopes on that; you’re gonna set yourself up for a big heartbreak," Dad answered.

Well, I can dream. What’s wrong with that? I asked.

I’m not saying it could never happen. I’m just saying don’t get yourself caught up in a lot of false hope, Dad explained. You know, this business has been in our family for three generations. That means a lot. It’s security, Warren! It may be slow, but I can assure you, people ain’t gonna completely stop dying! he stated.

That sales pitch! How many times in my young life had I already heard it? I could quote it from memory.

You know when I’m gone, this place is yours, Dad added.

"Oh, I know, and I’m thankful . . . I’m thankful!" I replied.

Just handed to you, he added, making big sweeping gestures with his arms.

I get the picture. I’m sure Earnest gets it, too, after all that, I replied, trying to change the mood.

I pulled the sheet down over Earnest’s face and took a quick peek. He looks good, huh? I asked.

Like a new man. See, you’re good at this! Dad answered, patting me on the back. Let’s get some supper at Lane’s Diner, he suggested, slipping on his suit coat.

Yeah, I am a little hungry. Removing my apron, I tossed it on the floor.

Hey, I saw that! And you were giving me grief about being messy! Dad joked.

I’ll do a good cleaning later, I promise, I said.

Get that light, will you, son? Dad asked, stepping out into the fresh air ahead of me. I flipped off the lights and joined him in the rear parking lot.

Ah, smell that fresh air, Dad remarked, sucking deep breaths into his pickled lungs. I always feel reborn when I exit the embalming room. The formaldehyde fumes really get to me, Dad declared. They probably won’t need to embalm me. I’m pickled already! he joked, as we headed to my Chevelle.

You drive, son. I’m kinda tired today, Dad said, rubbing his lower back for dramatic flair.

We hopped in my car and lit out across town toward Lane’s. Soon I was spinning out gravel as we flew into the unpaved lot in front of the diner. It wasn’t very busy, maybe four other people besides ourselves. We slid into a booth and plopped down on the hard naugahyde seats. A classic Pearly Dalton song was playing on the jukebox. With a voice like hers, it was no wonder to me that she was the Queen of Country Music.

Dad handed me a menu.

I don’t know why I need a menu, it ain’t like I’ve never eaten here before, I said sarcastically. But thanks anyway; hell, there may be something new on here. I surveyed the contents, hoping to find one of those little slips of paper they put inside when they add something. Dad could tell that I’d had a rough day, as I caught him glancing at me and then turning away several times.

Warren, I’ve got something to discuss with you later, and I promise you, it ain’t to be taken lightly! Dad said, half under his breath.

Well, it must be something serious, from the look on your face. Why can’t we discuss it now, over supper? I asked.

Would you quit pressing . . . it’s a family secret, Warren, Dad replied. "We have to discuss it in private, believe me. Only a handful of people know the secret, and once I’ve passed it on to you, you can never reveal it to anyone except your son," Dad continued. He had finally gotten my full attention.

Do ya’ll need more time, or are you ready to order?

Why, Miss Lily, you look pretty as a petunia, Dad answered.

Hi, Miss Lily, how’s everything with you? I nodded.

Oh, I’m doin’ fine Warren, and you? Miss Lily beamed.

Oh, I’m good. Can’t complain, wouldn’t do any good anyway, right? I answered clumsily.

No, I guess not. You don’t strike me as a complainer anyway, Warren, Lily replied.

Miss Lily, I believe I’ll have the pot roast and some of your sweet tea to wash it down with, Dad interjected. He caught me eyeballing Miss Lily like a goofy kid. Boy, do you know what you want . . . to eat?" Dad teased.

Oh, I’ll have the same thing as you, only milk to drink. Strong bones and all, I replied nervously. Miss Lily had some strange effect on me. Seems like I just came to pieces whenever she came around. She was so pretty; green eyes, auburn hair and a smile that could light up any room, even this old greasy spoon.

Comin’ right up, fellas, Lilly said as she set down two glasses of water and scooted away.

My father was staring out the window, a million miles away. Sometimes he would just go into these little trances of his, and I’d often wonder what he was thinking. It wasn’t just any look he’d get, it was as if he were completely in another time and place. Most of the time I’d just remain quiet until he came back to the present.

I loved my father but knew that one day, I’d have lots of hits on the radio, and that the lavish lifestyle of a big time songwriter would take up all my time! But I was doggedly committed to helping my father and the business until that day came. I couldn’t bear to leave him right now, not in his time of need.

The dream of having hits with people like Nic Nicnair and Dale Diddely drew me like a magnet. It compelled me and was too strong to resist, no matter what the odds of making it into the limelight were.

Soon our food arrived, and I was starved!

Miss Lily, I could eat a horse! I declared as I took a big whiff of the plate of food in front of me.

That’s what I like . . . hungry men, Miss Lily giggled. Do ya’ll need anything else right now?

I think we’re all set for now, Dad answered.

Okay, let me know if I can get you anything else. And with that, Miss Lily scurried away toward the grill.

I saw how you were looking at her, Dad teased.

So, what’s not to like? She’s hot! I answered.

She’s also almost old enough to be your mother, Dad said.

She’s not that old! And besides, I like older women, I said defensively. They’re not so . . . silly and immature.

Oh, I ain’t knockin’ it. Why, if I was younger, I’d be on her like a duck on a June bug, Dad confided.

Dad! If Mom ever heard you say that, you’d get an ear full I replied, surprised by his bold comment.

Oh, hush up and eat! Dad retorted, as we both laughed and dug into our suppers.

I can’t wait to hear about this family secret of ours, I commented between bites of food.

Well, we’re gonna take a little ride out in the country when we leave here. There’s a lot I need to explain to you, and I don’t want any distractions, Dad replied.

I lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings above my head.

Those things are gonna kill you, Warren, Dad complained. I don’t know why you picked up such a habit, he added for impact. By the way, what are you always scribbling on those little napkins? More songs? he asked sarcastically.

Yes, if you must know. Song ideas I get, just out of the blue, I write ‘em down. And then later, when I’m alone at the funeral home, I work ‘em up until they’re hits, I stated