The Christmas Crooner

By Roberto Scarlato

Hope can be found in the strangest places... For Eddie DeMarco, singing just doesn't have the same joy that it had before. Struggling with alcohol and a recent loss, he's perfectly content to drown his woes and destroy his throat. But when a stranger, that's me, Charlie, sits down next to him...that's when magic happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberto Scarlato
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223846642

Roberto Scarlato

Roberto Scarlato is an author, blogger and audiobook narrator. He writes speculative fiction, mystery, suspense, thriller, romance, horror and crime. Scarlato grew up in a small suburb of Chicago, where his love of a good story was cultivated by shows like “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” and “The Twilight Zone.” A bibliomaniac from the moment he learned to read, he began weaving together his own tales at an early age.  In November 2014, Scarlato quit his day job. He now writes and narrates full time. He married his high school sweetheart in 2010 and they have a daughter.

Book preview

For Jocqueline and her mother Arona,

Two kind souls who make me believe

In the goodness of people.

-1-

7 days till Christmas

Eddie DeMarco used to be a singer.

Not anymore.

It had been five whole years since he had ever uttered a note. And while he was usually surrounded by well-wishers and carolers around this festive time of year, he staved off trying to get into the spirit of things. And no one could blame him.

At the end of 1945, just after America and the brits had prevailed in what was to be called World War II and Hitler was toast, Eddie's wife Meredith had fallen ill and died 3 days later.

The doctors had a name for it; Poliomyelitis or Polio for short. First it took her voice and then it took her life.

Eddie and Meredith used to travel as a duet and sing their hearts out. Now it seemed that whatever use there was in singing for joy was all but faded.

Now Eddie was nothing but a working stiff. He worked all day on an assembly line, soldering lightbulbs together with their inner housing or some such nonsense. It paid the bills for a newly widower bachelor.

At the end of a long hard day, Eddie would drown his sorrows at a local pub that he frequented around this time of year. He'd grab a taxi, give the poor working joe a tip, and then walk three blocks down the snowy, blanketed city of Chicago. To his friends he said it saved him money. To himself he argued that it gave him a cold slap to his face...something to remind him he was still alive and breathing.

Yes sir, Eddie was on a journey to find the bottom of a glass with a little help from his bill fold and a lot of patience.

Truth be told, when he entered the bar, shaking the snow off his shoulders as he did, adjusting hi navy blue fedora, I felt sorry for him. He reminded me of that old story of Job. Only this Job could afford his libations.

He nodded to the usual greetings at the strewn about barflies as he made his way past. Now, you see that fella at the bar dressed in a three piece with a porkpie hat and a smile. That fella would be me. Good ole Charlie.

As the hours passed and Eddie’s bill fold was shrinking, I noticed how late it had gotten. Some of the more responsible reprobates had thought it best to cut bait and get out; to find their way home and let their sweethearts lick what was left of their wounds. But not Eddie. It was just him, me, five other screws and the bartender. We could have setup our own group of tenors and baritones right there. There was an abandoned  stage in the back. A pitiful little thing. It was a seven foot wide square with about a foot of lift. A lonely microphone stood stark still. The head of the microphone was drooped down, as if in shame.

I sighed. It was now or never.

I picked up my glass and made my way gently over the five