Painting Memphis

By Robert M. Hahn

As Christmas approached,Hope wished for Donovan to propose. He seemed like such a great man and he treated her son as if he were his own. Of course putting a bullet in your boyfriend's heart, hardly ever leads to the sound of wedding bells. Donovan had been so full of promises. Well promises and lies. Good thing for Hope, she'd been the better shot. Now a new monster stalks Hope and her son. Liam, Donovan's psychotic brother and partner in the family's cocaine business will stop at nothing to claim his revenge. No one is safe including Hope's new boss turned love interest the talented painter, Asher Stone. Thankfully Hope has a few allies of her own. But can Asher help slay the monster or will Liam be the one painting Seattle a bright shade of red.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365452888

Book preview

Painting Memphis

Painting Memphis

Contact

To contact Robert M. Hahn, please visit his website at robertmhahn.com

Acknowledgments

I would first like to thank you, the reader. Without you, I could not do what I enjoy most in this life. Thank you endlessly!

As with all of my books, this work was a labor of love, hate, anxiety, and ultimately the great pleasure of typing the last word and seeing the whole damned thing finally completed to a level at which I feel it’s worth sharing. To my wonderful, patient, brilliant wife Alicia; thank you from the bottom of my heart for putting up with me and for your unwavering help and support through it all! I love you more than a wordsmith knows how to say.

To my Father-In-Law, Mr. Bill Bugbee and my Sister-In-Law, Tina Edwards; thank you both for allowing me to pick your brains as often as I do.

To the wonderful folks affectionately known as my Proofreading Team, Alicia Bugbee, Tammy Davis, Sandy Zimmerman, and Patty Hahn; without you I’d be a mess. Thank you for all of your work and support!

To the following incredible people for their support in promoting my books; Sue Ann Smith, Debby Bugbee, Barbara Winters Scarpa, Francis Medel Silvas, Tammy Davis, Rebecca Foster, Brenda Parrot, Jolene Nobles, and Andrew and Jamie Chase and many others who have helped along the way; you are the biggest reason for my success! The words Thank you will never be enough!

Without each of you, my words mean little.

Dedication

Painting Memphis is dedicated to my three Moms; Sue Ann Smith, Marti Wright-Hahn, and Debby Bugbee.

Dedicated as well to all the world’s parents who never had to be, including Leroy Coffee, Rebecca and Brian Foster, Thomas Pop Stallings, and Larry Smith. You are all incredible people and I am a better man for having you in my life!

Prologue

She gazed in the mirror, barely able to stifle the burning tears that where quickly forming in her eyes. Hope. She spoke the name aloud. My name is Hope. She wiped away a tear and stared at her freshly dyed, blonde hair. And you are James. She began to sob. Say it. Say your name.

I don’t like it. The young boy looked up at her. I want something cool, like Luke Skywalker Jr. or maybe Elvis.

Finally she managed a slight smile. He’d always been able to make her laugh when he knew she needed to.

Your nuts. She grinned at him. Alright, she relented, Luke it is. But you can forget about being Skywalker Jr.

And you’re Hope, this time?

Good, Luke, But I’ll always be Mom to you. Now, how old are you, Luke?

Sixteen!

Wrong answer, bud.

Fine. Luke huffed. I’m five. But I still don’t get why I have to be younger.

Trust me kiddo, when you get older you won’t mind losing a year or two.

Luke stepped closer to the mirror. You look funny. He said with child-like honesty.

Oh, yeah? Hope felt her eyes dampen once more. You don’t like me as a blonde?

It’s alright I guess. Can I dye my hair too?

We already did.

I know, but a green Mohawk would be better.

Green? She laughed. I don’t think so. We’re trying to blend in remember?

I know. But I still don’t get why we have to do this again, though.

I’m sorry, Baby. I know it isn’t fair. Hopefully this is the last time.

You should get a husband.

A husband? Hope’s eyes grew wide and she nearly laughed at him. Why?

Then we wouldn’t have to move again. He’d be strong and he’d beat up the bad guys, and he’d let me have a Mohawk and maybe a dog, and a pool, and...

She saw the sadness form on his face. You just want a normal life, huh? One day, I promise. Alright, Luke, she took a last look at herself, it’s time to go.

One

The noise was deafening. The sound, an unrelenting and piercing barrage, carried like thunderous waves intending to assault his ears and mind. Escape could not be found.

He should have called in sick, should have simply not shown, or perhaps better still, faked his own death. He should have done something, anything not to be here.

He stood, hidden in the darkness and pulled lightly on the curtain. He peered, unnoticed, into the swarm of unfamiliar faces that filled the Executive Suite of the Grand Augustine Hotel. Soon his name would be called and his soul would be pried open for these strangers to examine as though they had even the simplest idea of what they were actually witnessing.

None of them knew his work. To them, it was a pretty picture; something to simply hang on a wall and view with passing glances, until it could be bragged about when others where around. The irony that these people loved his creations without understanding their story wasn’t the cause of his anxiety however.

It was the fame he loathed; the notion that he should be loved by strangers who knew nothing of him as a man beyond his talent. It was, he hated most, the applause of a name and a few delicately placed brushstrokes.

And now, Mr. Asher Stone. His agent’s voice announced him as the curtain slipped from his hand exposing both himself and three cloth covered canvases, which as he had dreaded, where met with cheers before they were even unveiled.

He forced a polite smile and waved, wishing that he were invisible. At least, Asher knew, the paintings would take the focus away from himself, even if only for a moment. He walked to the first canvas and gently removed its sheet, revealing the image of a silver and gray stream flowing calmly amongst large snow covered trees. It was cold and depressing, and again the applause from the crowd grew louder. He had painted it during a moment of self-loathing when he read that an ex-girlfriend had married some millionaire rock star from Denmark.

Quickly, Asher unveiled the next painting. A more welcoming scene appeared this time showing a warm spring day with clear blue skies that hung above a field of bright orange tulips that appeared to waft in a gently blowing breeze. Again cheers met his ears and Asher almost laughed at the hilarious intrusion. Only he would ever know that the sky had originally been a tsunami and the flowers the orange glow of a city about to be demolished. He hadn’t been upset when he’d painted the horrible scene, he recalled, he’d simply grown weary of painting the same dribble that these idiots now clapped for.

The third piece, though met with the same applause as the others, had unlike them, brought him much joy to create. Well, Asher smiled silently to the crowd, a bitter-sweet kind of joy. A lighthouse, trimmed in red and white stripes, stood atop a large cliff face and gazed toward the open sea with a colorful and welcoming glow. Asher hadn’t minded the cheers that followed its unveiling.

For an hour, Asher withstood the barrage of all too familiar comments followed by several dozen handshakes that made him question if he would ever be able to paint again. Such was the normalcy of these events however, and he knew they were the loathed but necessary evil of his craft.

Asher spied the bright red neon of an exit sign and made a hasty retreat. A long hallway, mainly used by caterers led to a tiny parking area and loading ramp where a large No Smoking sign hung above a small coffee can that contained sand and a few half smoked cigarettes. He pulled a pack of Benson and Hedges from his pocket and began to puff rapidly as the snow and biting wind sent snake-like chills crawling through his body.

Those things will kill ya’ you know. Thomas Brinkly’s unmistakably raspy voice called from behind a vendor’s parked delivery truck.

Hypocrite. Asher smiled as his friend and agent appeared, smoking a large, finely crafted cigar.

Good show tonight, Ash.

Thanks, Tom. Asher took a long drag and stared at his watch. We about done here?

Not too much longer. Tom tried to reassure him. I promised Jerry Cartwright that you’d spend five minutes.

I thanked you too soon. Asher took a much longer pull from his cigarette.

Come on, Ash. Tom persisted. I kept the crowd small this time, put you in a nice hotel room, and didn’t even harp on how quickly you tried to escape this time. Five minutes, Ash. That’s all I’ll make you do.

Not a moment more.

I know, Ash. I can’t stand Jerry either but...

Can’t stand who? An unpleasant sounding woman’s voice asked.

Jones. Thomas answered quickly. Jerry Jones. I just can’t stand the Cowboys.

Right. Jerry Cartwright intentionally pulled her black hair from her face and rolled her eyes at him as she approached. The Cowboys. Hello, Mr. Stone.

Mrs. Cartwright. Asher accepted an awkward handshake.

Jerry is fine. She smiled. Especially after all these years.

Well then. Tom snuffed out his cigar. I told him he only needs to give you five minutes. See you tomorrow, Ash.

It was nice to see you too, Thomas. Jerry let her sarcasm hang in the air as she watched him disappear into the hotel. Shall we? She motioned for Asher to follow her into the sanctuary of the building as well.

Jerry led him to a small, empty room just beyond the front desk where a short table and gaudy twin accent chairs, too large for the room greeted them. For a moment, Jerry rummaged through the inside of her purse.

Seems I forgot to bring a pen. She announced as she set a small white tablet on the table. Excuse me for just a moment.

Her absence provided Asher just enough time to recall why he dreaded the name Jerry Cartwright. Their careers had begun nearly simultaneously. He, the up and comer of the American art world and she, the eager young journalist, hell bent on faking it as a well-respected reporter in the art and music scene. Unfortunately for him, they had both just happened to be starting their careers in Chicago and furthermore and even more unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long before their paths had crossed. The music scene had, not surprisingly, dumped her quickly but not before she had managed to combine both her knowledges of the art and music world, composing a nausea-conjuring fluff piece about one Asher Stone, and how his ex-girlfriend  must have preferred the hardened sound of guitar-licks to his own tenderly painted brush strokes.

Sorry ‘bout that. Jerry’s owl-like screech approached as she returned. Now, just a few questions.

Shoot. Asher tried to sound moderately less annoyed than he was.

  Well let’s see. Jerry squinted at her tablet.

The questions came quickly and Asher struggled to provide the who’s, what’s, and why’s as fluidly as he could. But it was Jerry’s final question, the one she had purposefully saved for last, that had left him with a golf ball sized lump in his throat.

Do you worry, Mr. Stone, Jerry almost smiled at him, that your simplistic nature scenes will soon become tired rhetoric? Have we seen all that you have to offer as an artist? For five years, you have provided us with flowers and streams, clouds and snowfall, sunshine and rain. She eyed him as though he were a free sample of day old ice cream. Is there anything new you have yet to reveal to the masses or have you given us your all?

  The question had not come from Jerry’s preplanned notes on her tablet. She had not needed to remember to ask it. She had finally bested him and the eager grin on her face told him she knew it as well. He had no answer to give.

I don’t understand it, Thomas. Asher held the phone in one hand, a copy of The Windy City Reader in the other. Why is it Jerry’s mission to destroy me? He glanced at the article’s headline once more and read it aloud. Asher Stone: Brushstrokes of Blandness. By Jerry Cartwright

I’m sorry Ash. Thomas answered. I truly am.

It’s not your fault, Tom. I just...

It kind of is, Ash. My fault, I mean. At least in a way it is.

I don’t follow. Asher set the paper down.

It isn’t you that Jerry is so eager to take down. It’s me.

Why?

Oldest reason in the book, Ash. Revenge.

Revenge? For what?

I dated Jerry in college. Well only a couple of dates, really. It did not end well. I thought it was no big thing at the time but ever since, she’s gone after every artist I’ve tried to work with.

And your just telling me now? Why would you even agree to let her interview me?

Because if I don’t, the articles are much worse. Jerry paused. And I thought maybe you’d be the one to finally settle her down.

Well it didn’t work. Asher’s anger grew. So tell me, Mr. Agent, what do I do now? The city’s art world is going to read this crap this morning and I’m bound to take a big time hit.

Ash, I’ve known you for four years, I’ve known the city much longer. It’s rare that talent lasts here.

What are you saying, Tom?

You’re a trend, Ash and well, we both know what happens with trends.

Are you saying I should quit? Ash felt the blood begin to rush to his forehead.

No, Ash. I’m not suggesting you quit, I’m suggesting that maybe Jerry’s right for once. It’s time for you to go home, Ash. Go back to Seattle where the art scene is more accepting. Back to the place those images you paint are inspired by.

You’re kidding right? Asher knew what was coming next. And if I stay in Chicago?

You’ll be doing it alone, Ash. I’m Sorry.

Is this how it always goes, Tom? Jerry takes down your artist and you drop ‘em as soon as the story breaks? I thought you were my friend, Tom.

I was your agent first, Ash. I run a business too and I’m sorry but my reputation is only as good as the clients I represent. Besides, you were homesick anyway. Your paintings gave that much away. Go home, Ash. Take the money you made in Chicago and go home.

The phone was silent now; there was no goodbye and good luck from a man, a friend, Ash had once trusted completely. He stared through the window to the city below. Though he hated to admit that it was true, his career as an artist in Chicago was over. It was also true, he now realized, that the city had never fully accepted him as one of their own, nor himself as theirs. He would send for his things. There was no need to spend a moment more trying to sell paintings of fields and forests to a city built of concrete and brick.

TWO

You still haven’t told me where we’re going. Luke looked up at her from the passenger seat.

West. Hope focused on the highway as a heavy rain pelted against the windshield. I’m not exactly sure where, just yet.

West is good. Luke answered as he gave a clown green hair in his coloring book. Maybe I’ll be a cowboy with a horse named Ninja.

Ninja? She was genuinely intrigued.

Yep, Ninja.

Will he have green hair?

No! Luke looked at her again. That’s just silly, Mom.

Oh. I’m sorry.

It would be blue.

Oh, okay that sounds nice.

It would have been purple but boys aren’t supposed to like purple.

Well, I think you can like whatever you like.

I like green Mohawks.

I know you do. The rain was falling heavier and Hope glanced at the car’s clock. We should stop soon.

I like pizza. Luke hinted with the candor of his age.

Oh? Hope sighed. I’ll see what I can do.

A large blue sign approached, proclaiming that the next exit would hold not only a few motels but a Franco’s Pizzeria and Hope saw Luke’s excitement form in his light brown eyes.

Okay. She answered without having to be asked.

She drove slowly past the three motels, straining to examine each car in the parking lot as best she could. She doubled back through a vacant gas station and selected the motel across from Franco’s. She pulled the tan Ford Taurus to a rest just beyond the glow of the brightly lit office.

Just my son and myself. She answered the polite manager who looked as though she could use some rest herself. Ground floor would be great. She glanced backward toward Luke and watched as he browsed a large stand which held numerous pamphlets of North Dakota’s seemingly vast attractions.

Room seven is open on the end. The woman held up a key. Will that be okay?

Perfect. Thank you. Do you know if Franco’s delivers?

They do. I have a number around here somewhere.

Thank you again. Hope answered, accepting both a Franco’s flier and her room key.

***

In the end, it had been a need for a long moment of solitude that had led Asher to drive rather than fly. He had packed only what he would need for the journey, assuming he would send for the rest of his things, though not entirely concerned about them. The rented Volkswagen’s clock read 11:19 and he could feel the weight of his brow bearing down onto his eyelids.

The next exit would hold a few motels and, as he presumed, a few less than extraordinary restaurants. He didn’t bother to explore