Absolutely!: The Novel Collection

By Thomas Marshall Penick

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479752911

Book preview

CONTENTS

HUMM HARPER

1967 WEST AFRICA

HUMM HARPER

It started innocently enough, a cursorily polite letter from the Nobel Committee in Sweden, purely a response to a simple enquiry that I had ventured forth. They gave me the parameters for the initial investigation, or, I should say, consideration for the Nobel Prize in Literature for 2011. I had 6 years left. I knew what I had to do. I knew from whence I came, who indeed I was and to where I goeth. The ball was in play. The motion was dependent on my ocean. My heart leaped with eagerness when the envelope arrived in my mailbox. I was foreordained, anointed, blessed, the chosen one, and I knew that. It was almost as though I had already achieved the elusive milestone. You asked me what I wrote. I, somewhat briefly, mentioned one or two elements. I write whatever there is to be written. I put pen to paper, in any sense or style, as suits my purpose.

Another day in L.A. A blue-sky, white—cloud sun-kissed afternoon. School is letting out. The children are at play. It is 3:15 p.m. Swarms of students are everywhere; they stream onto a bus through the windows, front door and in from the rear. It is the late ’60’s.

The BUS DRIVER, FRANK HARPER, trim, youthful, and strong at 41, looks in his rearview mirrors, sees the mass of humanity swarming onto his bus, strokes his thick mustache, massages hair, rises in one motion from his seat in the front and to the rear, directs his voice. His face now a dark cloud of angry fury as the veins swell from his temples and his eyebrows come together as one.

FRANK

The hell! Get off this bus!

An electric moment, absolute stillness, utter quiet as the culprits look to the ground. BUSTED. DEFLATED. CHECKED IN THEIR TRACKS. Then, as if on signal, the young men who tried to sneak aboard without paying, exit the bus the same way they came.

Frank, in the front, brow wrinkled, undaunted, defying all comers, hazel-green eyes glitter with fury.

An old lady enters, tired from the market, says aloud, to no one in particular, but to all within earshot.

OLD LADY

Got me a DRIVING MAN, today.

A young lady smiles, already seated, crosses her legs and wets her lips, looks in the mirror and holds on the driver.

Frank in the mirror, not giving an inch, sees the look, and gets even stronger, not saying a word, eyebrows forming an angry black line, punctuating the moment without dropping one dime.

In Jerry’s Market, later that day, a small boy reads a comic book on the rack. Feet clad in tennis shoes, knapsack on the ground. It is Frank’s second job. He is wrapping meat for an elderly lady; he’s behind the counter, in the frozen meat section.

Frank looks up into the oval overhead mirror, hanging from the ceiling, notices the little boy secreting a comic book under his shirt.

FRANK

There you are, Mrs. Perry, $4.49

MRS. PERRY

We’ve been eating chicken so long,

I just had to try something else.

Frank nods sympathetically, rings the cash register. Mrs. Perry smiles at him, turns and walks out the door.

The little boy is eating a butterfinger candy bar, drops the wrapper on the floor and peeks over the top of the comic book at Frank.

Frank knows the boy is looking at him but gives no sign that he is aware of the lad. Frank wipes his hands on the front of his already dirty apron, arranges the canned goods on the shelf behind the counter.

With his back to the boy, Frank addresses himself to the youngster.

FRANK

Youngster.

KID

Yes?

FRANK

Like to read, don’t cha?

Boy nods vigorously. Frank turns, walks closer to the boy, stands over him, looming large, somewhat forbidding in manner and tone.

Sensing this, the boy stands quickly, scrambling to his feet. As he does, the comic book falls from its hiding place.

The boy, scared silly, sickly smile slowly spreading, gracing his face.

Eyes darting, to the left, then the right. In front, Frank looming, no way for an exit, no path to scurry onto. CAUGHT.

Frank bends down, glances at the cover.

FRANK

Comics. That’s how I learned to read. Course that’s not all you intend to do, is it? Spend your time reading the funnies?

KID

Unh, unh. I mean, no sir!

I look at the pictures, too.

FRANK

Need a job? I gotta have a helper around this place. What’s your name?

KID

Sonny.

Six months later, in another section within Jerry’s Market, SONNY, gangly, wide-eyed and innocent, now neatly dressed, hair styled to a T, busily opens cartons with an INDUSTRIAL RAZOR BLADE.

Phone rings in the mid-distance. Sonny hears it ring. Calls to Frank.

SONNY

Frank! Phone ringing.

Frank, lifting the cradle, putting the device to his ear, speaks gently into the receiver.

FRANK

Okay, links and potatoes. Right. Anything else, Honey?

Lackadaisically listening, yet fully alert, jots a few notes on his pad, then looks up as the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of a new customer. A man with a gray suede leather jacket, hard looking and mean, eyes within an impregnable mask, chillingly cold. Hands forming fists and hat slanted to the right.

Frank signals for Sonny to move behind the counter.

Sonny obeys, gets to a broom leaning against the back wall. Sweeps slowly, keeping an eye on his partner and both eyes on the man. blade at the ready, in his hip pocket.

Frank continues to talk in the same manner on the phone, not missing a beat, drops his right hand below the counter, opens the drawer, pulls out a Smith & Wesson, Peacemaker X-Factor, six shooter extraordinaire. Well-oiled Revolver waiting to be used. Six silver bullets lying beside. Three got chosen. Picked up by its owner, two inserted in their chambers, one put in pocket.

THE OVERHEAD MIRROR. A witness to the action. Sonny on the back wall. Frank in the front. It is a mean day, a mean time.

The customer’s time had come. He’d arrived at the door, opened it and was there. Nobody had asked him, or extended an invitation. He was there for the taking. There for the kill.

Your blood or mine.

The air hung heavy. Signs all pointed in the same direction, all pointing to the nut, as the molded man, now casually picks, choosing some dinners, frozen, and pimps coldly down the aisle, seemingly not caring, not concerned in the least, as to whether or not his behavior is noted or given a whit about.

FRANK

HUMM coming home for dinner? Yeah, (laughs richly) people. The world owes them a living. He’ll learn. Hit a brick wall…

Sonny takes his cue, stoops, moves away from the wall, broom in his right hand, left hand stroking the razor in his hip pocket, creeping to the far aisle. One eye on the overhead mirror, the other on the mean man coming down the center lane.

The customer boldly striding, down the center aisle.

Looks at Frank as he talks on the horn, then, arrogantly, purposefully, moves to the door. Dinners tucked into his waist, steaks still sloppy, dripping blood on the floor.

Sonny still silently coming, towards the center aisle.

The overhead mirror not missing a beat, reflecting the time off the mean sky.

The pistol pointing pointblank at the floor.

As Frank holds with his arm relaxed; it snuggles smoothly against his right leg, as he sets the telephone on the counter.

The mean man reaches the door, right hand in pocket. The left holding onto the beef, pulling the jacket tight about his waist.

FRANK

Friend!

The mean man, dirty, rude and unkempt, stops. Pivots lightly on the balls of his feet.

CUSTOMER

Talkin’ at me?

FRANK

I’m talking to ya. Aren’t you forgetting something?

Sonny stops in his tracks, still crouching low, ready to act. Looks from one to the other, small eyes wide open as he moves a stray carton of milk to a higher place. The small movement jars the silence of the moment somehow and the mean man by the door responds:

CUSTOMER

Nah, I didn’t wanna buy nuthin’.

The mean man smiles crookedly, dastardly daring Frank to say anything further. He opens the door, the bells tinkle, chiming, rhyming, sending a signal, a pulse through the air.

Like electricity flowing through a live wire.

Frank raises his right arm, holds the pistol aloft.

Cocks the hammer.

The mean man removes his right hand from his inside front pocket, pulls out a ROSCOE, big enough to handle, snaps a quick shot at Frank standing there, the SOUND of the gun bounces around the room, lodging a bullet 2 feet into the wall, just near Frank’s head. Another loud report from the weapon in gear, this time shatters the wood round the rafters, way off target, out of control.

Completely misses Frank, just standing in place.

Frank extends his right arm, cool as ice, finger on the trigger, just squeezes it now. BOOM, like a cannon, his gun gets busy, gets to its job, clips the left wing of the mean man’s finger as his PINKIE drops, covered in blood.

The mean man looks down, disbelieving, face twitching in fear.

Frank on the revolver, aiming once more, this time nicking the ear of the man at the door. EAR WRITHING, ON THE TURF BUCKING, SEARCHING FOR ITS MASTER.

The mean man squealing, like a stuck pig, dropping his Roscoe, spilling his beer.

Steaks simply dropping all over the place.

Grabbing his ear, clutching his arm, not certain which to hang onto, not able to hear.

A steady ROARING from a passing train as the mean man rushes to the front of the place, trying to reach Frank, still in the same place.

Sonny moving with the ROAR, quick feet, prancing to the pace, cutting off access to the mean man’s approach, using the broom to sweep him off his feet.

Frank sets the revolver on the counter, holds the phone in his left paw, rummages in his pocket for the third bullet to replace the spent ones.

The mean man struggles to his feet once more, reaches across the counter as the last bullet slips into place and the cylinder is spun and fed into the gun.

FRANK

Come on then, you haven’t had enough!

What more do you ask? What more can I say?

You’ve come to the supper table.

Eat everything on your plate.

The mean man looks into the barrel, sees nothing but the barrel, staring him in the face… so dark it looks like a mortuary chamber, not wanting to proceed further, but yet, feeling he has to continue the pace.

Smashes against the counters, looking for another weapon, looking for an out. Scrambles against the far wall, knocking off the milk, now directly under the all-seeing mirror, hanging high.

Frank, still at the counter, not moving an inch, points his piece like radar, deep within his face, swaying to the music, listening to the grace.

Closes his eyes as if in prayer, tiny smile creeping up his face, aims his rod at the fleeing hood. Lets the missile have its gristle and squeezes one last time.

The BULLET becomes a MISSILE, a wayward one for sure, zooms to the left and then the right, destruction in its path. Levels rows of well placed stock, neatly stacked upon the shelves. Carooming off, proceeds to the eggs, crushing them, imploding some, it creeps toward the hood, wreaking destruction in its path.

As Sonny looks on horrified and ducks behind a shelf.

As the steaming projectile, belching fire and smoke, somehow changes course and heads towards the sky, twisting, snarling, smashing towards…

Frank, bowing his head, as if finishing grace, his Peacemaker busy no more.

The mean man, slipping and sliding, making his way to the door.

Sonny covering his face.

As a SONIC BOOM reverberates through the place, shuddering the market, smoldering glass from the fractured mirror, high up in the sky. Throwing shards of glass every which way but right.

Sonny, uncovering his face, looking at his hands, bloody and wet, discovering that his neck is sliced.

The mean man blows out the front door, PROPELLED by some MYSTERIOUS FORCE, aspiring would be warrior, errant lancer no more, lying face down in the street.

People stream from across the street, some slowing their cars for a quick peek.

Bodies blood sodding inquisitive for a closer look at the place, eyeing the apparent coolness and stillness etching its trace, on the mean man lying, face down in the street.

An angry red glob of blood, draining from the mean man’s ear, trickles swiftly, forming a pool on the gravy jacket shoulder as he struggles to get to his feet. chicken dinners, turkey dinners and beef steaks tumbling from his waist, decorate the sidewalk, like a bachanalian feast.

On the inside, Frank examines Sonny, sees the cuts, two slices on the neck, forming a lazy, horizontal Vee. Speaks into the phone:

FRANK

Get me HUMM, and get him right now! Sonny’s cut!

Twenty blocks away, the peeling whine of a 1965 FORD MUSTANG ZOOMING THROUGH THE GEARS. HUMM at the wheel, blending into traffic, lights not holding him back, corners taken with barely a lean and all the while moving to the head of the pack. Cops just waving him on; some looking the other way. MUSTANG THROUGH AN ALLEY, ACROSS A CITY BLOCK DRIVING ON THE SIDEWALK, PRESSING ON.

A Heathen Passage. A Mongol Horde. HUMM driving on.

On the fringes of the market, reactions to the Hood:

MECHANIC

He’s bleedin’ to death.

BUSINESSMAN

Call an ambulance.

YOUNG GIRL

Ambulance coming.

TART

It’s coming. It’s coming. Sheriffs be here soon.

A young eighth grade Catholic SCHOOLBOY, in gray pants and white shirt, moves to the hood, lying in the street, places a finger on the vein sprouting blood, presses against it, stopping the flow.

Hood revives slowly, groggily. Comes to his senses.

On the border of the group, a short, burly man, surveys the proceedings. It is TREE, a member of the ASSOCIATION.

He too wears a short, gray suede leather jacket.

MRS. PENNYWEATHER

Shooting a man for stealing food? My, my, my, things are just moving too fast. If he had asked me, I would have given him bread.

TREE

That’s all he probably wanted. Bread to feed his family. For this, he’s shot in the head?

Inside the market, Frank still in his place, puts his hands on Sonny’s neck, stopping the blood.

Suddenly remembering, Sonny jerks free, runs to the doorway to retrieve the WIGGLING EAR. On his way back, picks up the PINKIE, it too, WIGGLING, still searching for its master.

Drops both in a pickle jar, puts it behind the counter.

SOUND OF AMBULANCE WAILS CLOSER AND CLOSER:

Sonny away from the counter, at the side of his partner, bleeding stopping, scarring forming.

FRANK

First chance you get, put it in formaldehyde along with the rest. The octopus, squid, kraken, Sonny, and now these make six.

THE MUSTANG PEELING AROUND THE LAST BLOCK, SOON AT THE CORNER ROARING TO A STOP. Out hops HUMM, prepared for the worst, sees Sonny within and enters the market.

Nods to his father, gives him a hug, picks up Sonny and runs out the door. Deposits the lad on the shotgun side and hurdles the door on the other side.

Mustang takes off in a big burst of speed, snaking through traffic, two riders inside, as the AMBULANCE weaves through on the other side.

Later that night inside Frank’s HOME, in an upstairs bedroom, a small, dynamic woman of 39, attractive, aquiline nose, sits in a RED VELVET CHAIR in her daughter’s room. It is MARTHA, Frank’s wife. YVONNE is the daughter, sultry smooth skin, AN EGYPTIAN QUEEN, every inch 18. RICH MAGOGANY TONES.

Another son, WARREN, 17, tall, thin and ARTSY, combs his mother’s hair in the Natural Style of the times. Massaging and kneading, taking his time, treasuring the moment. The time he spends there has value, intrinsic worth. Quite the Mother’s Boy. Every step of the way.

Other children in the room are combing their hair. An elite salon, nestled within the home.

MARTHA

Yvonne, is dinner ready? Daddy’ll be home in a minute and he’ll be starving, I’m sure.

Yvonne, mouth full of bobby pins, turns to her mother.

YVONNE

Renee has to set the table. Dinner is ready.

Downstairs, at the front door, as Frank comes through, exhausted. He closes the front door.

Upstairs as they hear the door open and close, the kids and Martha rush out of the room, down the stairs to greet their father.

Downstairs as the first wave of children hits him; he staggers a moment, recovers his balance, kisses them all; puts his arm around Martha, gives her a squeeze and a good long kiss.

Inside their Spanish bathroom, later that night, he applies Black Dye to his hair, leaves the temples gray, intact.

HARPER KITCHEN, later that night. A hectic time period. Remodeling mode. Linoleum ripped off the floor; kids knock plaster from the walls, splash hot water on the floor to make the linoleum come off easier, faster. Everyone works. AN ASIAN FIRE DRILL.

HOLLYWOOD, a little later that night. Yvonne, Warren, Hilton, Renee and Alice hawk candy bars to passersby. Youngest girl, Alice, 12, fast talking super saleswoman, spots a potential buyer.

ALICE

I know you’d like to buy the World’s Finest Chocolates.

You’ve got that kind of face, I know. I can tell you’ve just been waiting for this chance to help us out.

The male customer smiles, caught in a double blind, swayed by the effervescence of the young girl, pulls out a $5 bill, hands it