Haskell himself, p.1
Haskell Himself, page 1
⯊ ⯊ ⯊ ⯊ ⯊ ⯊
Haskell
Himself
a novel
by
Gary Seigel
FROM THE TINY ACORN…
GROWS THE MIGHTY OAK
This is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
HASKELL HIMSELF. Copyright © 2020 Gary Seigel. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. For information, address
Acorn Publishing, LLC, 3943 Irvine Blvd. Ste. 218, Irvine, CA 92602
www.acornpublishingllc.com
Cover art by Damonza
Interior design by Debra Cranfield Kennedy
Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1-947392-67-0 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 978-1-947392-66-3 (paperback)
⯊⯊⯊
For Gordon
K__1__L
FRESH CARDS NEVER HURT
New York City, September 10, 1966
Miss Hogan told me to keep the gun aimed at her while she stared into the black hole of the gun’s barrel.
“Perfect, Haskell,” she said. Her thick Boston accent unintentionally gave her words a melodic kindness. “Smell the fear. You own that pistol. You’re in charge, right?”
I nodded my head.
“Now, stick the gun back into the holster, and let’s see it one more time. I’d like a little more firmness in the jaw and maybe more tension in the hips.”
I straightened my spine and tightened my leg muscles.
“Remember, this guy does not value human life. He’s a thug, and all he cares about is survival. You’re not a sixteen-year-old in New York City anymore. You are a tall, thirty-seven-year-old Nevadan cowboy, an uncivilized killer and disruptor of order, surviving in the rough and tough 1840s. Got it?”
I am a tall cowboy, in his mid-thirties, who confronts the Sheriff who murdered his father. Miss Hogan plays the Lawman. Despite any personal qualms I may have about shooting someone in cold blood, I cannot let that interfere with my line reading. I am a vicious, amoral person who knows what he has to do.
I shoved the gun hard into the holster and closed my eyes. Don’t worry about practicing the piano. You’ll be ready by the December recital. Better not forget to stop at the drug store to pick up Mom’s prescriptions and my zit cream. Oh, and with my senior year starting in one week, I better talk to Mom about paying my school fees and tuition. For some reason, we got another bill in the mail marked “late.” The problem is, she comes home after midnight every night from work, and I leave so early in the morning. We’re like ships in the night. Put all that aside! I must act in the moment. I’m not Haskell Hodge. I’m Killer Murphy.
I took some more deep breaths, feeling prickly all over. I can be this villain. I can inhabit this role. Almost miraculously, I felt a smirk fall across my face.
“All right! Excellent,” shouted Miss Hogan. “Boys and girls, do you see that expression? Ah! He loves what he’s doing. That’s what separates a normal human being from a complete psychotic killer. Now, let me hear your speech.”
When I was done, Miss Hogan raised her hands above her head and clapped. “Bravo! Excellent job!” She patted me on the back. This was our last exercise of the day, and I was relieved the two-hour session was over. I was exhausted. Being bad was not easy work. “I’ll see all of you next Saturday. Have a glorious day!” She squeezed my arm. “Good job, Haskell. I’m very proud of you.”
I don’t know how I pulled it off. What made that scene particularly difficult was not only my lack of expertise with guns—I wasn’t “feeling” the Old West. No farmhouse set. No props except for the revolver and the holster. We were in my acting teacher’s studio. Just office furniture, blue countertop, an oven, a refrigerator, and a flashing Kit-Cat Klock complete with a swinging tail. John Wayne or Montgomery Cliff wouldn’t work under such conditions, but that was the point. We were supposed to use our imagination and create our role out of nothing. Be the character. Inhabit his space. This was called Method Acting. I had been taking the workshop for six months, and I’d finally received some praise.
I used the bathroom to change my shirt. By the time I made it to the stairs, the rest of my group had zipped off somewhere, probably for pizza in the Village, without asking if I wanted to join them.
Miss Hogan must have seen the disappointment on my face because she put her arm around me.
“As time passes, they’ll warm up,” she said. “Don’t let it bother you. You’re talented. You really get into the roles. Today, I think you kind of frightened them. Who knew there was a psychopath lurking under those thick glasses? You’re a delight to have in my class, and you’ll be going places.”
That was good enough for me. Miss Hogan was not one to dole out compliments freely, so by that afternoon, I decided not to allow myself to feel left out. It was their loss.
I nearly skipped down 14th Street, grabbing a sandwich at Nick’s, stopping for a half hour to peruse the discount books at the Strand, then into the subway, up into Midtown, landing just outside the Waldorf Astoria where my mom was attending the annual Real Estate Conference of the Five Burroughs of New York City. She’d be there all afternoon, and I thought I’d surprise her.
Arriving at the end of lunch, I easily spotted her among the three dozen tables in the banquet room, the only woman wearing a bright red summer dress, her blonde hair wound into a tight chignon.
I wasn’t sure what time she’d be home this evening—since she usually went out for dinner on Saturday nights with Bob, her boyfriend. I called him Old Bob because he was sixty-five years old, nearly twenty years older than Mom. I’d give her a kiss, say a hello, and maybe steal a crème brûlée off the table.
As I walked closer, I noticed half her lunch still on her plate. Balloons were strapped to her chair, and a big sign in the middle of a flower arrangement said, strangely, “Farewell, Miriam Hodge! We will miss you.”
Was she transferring offices? Did someone give her a better offer? Why hadn’t she said something? That was the problem; we were never home at the same time and didn’t communicate much with each other.
I debated whether I should move closer and join them, say “hello”, and, well, start a confrontation: Mom—what’s this all about?
On second thought, I remembered Old Bob might have been awarded a contract to build a bridge in Antwerp. Mom had been hinting that if he landed the contract, she might join him for a few weeks and tour parts of Europe, maybe take off for a month. I could deal with that. She certainly had been talking about a European vacation for as long as I could remember.
Before I was born, Mom had been an actress, starring in mostly second-rate films people would watch on double bills at drive-ins. Her Love films took place in locations all over the world. Love in Athens, Love in a Paris Post Office, and Love on the Panama Canal were her better-known pictures. They were filmed, however, in Burbank, and Mom said she was eager to see the real Eiffel Tower and the real Parthenon, not half-baked replicas built on the back lot of a studio.
Was this a bon voyage send-off? I was glad she could put aside her escrows, mountainous paper work, and late-night appointments to take a breather. Why not? I could easily live in the apartment by myself for a month. I was entering my senior year in the graduating class of 1967, and I might throw some parties. In a recent issue, Time magazine said the sexual revolution was in full swing, though you could have fooled me. Maybe having the apartment all to myself would prove advantageous. Once word got out, boys and girls from my academy, even from my theater class, might show up. We’d put on some rock and roll records, eat canapés, play charades, maybe open up a bottle of champagne, and who knows what that could lead to?
I decided I’d wait a bit until I spoke with Mom. She was jabbering away, and it seemed better not to interrupt her. Instead, I wandered past the dining area and through the enormous conference room. It was filled with separate booths. Inside each booth was a table draped with black cloth. A big banner announced the theme of the conference—“Finding Your Fortune in Real Estate.” Apparently, instead of hiring a band or a comedian, the organizers had set up two dozen psychics, each with their own space.
In one booth, I saw an old man dressed up as bumbling Professor Marvel from The Wizard of Oz, hovering over a crystal ball. Someone else shouted, “Let me read your tea leaves!” and another chanted, “Come. Have your palms read. Experience the magic and the mystery.”
I was one of only a few stragglers sauntering through the banquet room. I guess everyone else was finishing dessert. Strangely, no hotel employees stopped me. I mean, I was a teenage kid wearing hush puppies, brown corduroys, and an orange-striped shirt, while everyone else around me seemed much older and all dolled up in suits and ties. I didn’t exactly blend in.
As I headed toward the exit doors, a woman dressed Arabian-style with dark pink silk scarves, a veil, even a fake beauty mark under her left eye, called my name. “Haskell? What are you doing here?”
I drew closer. Her booth said she was Madame Scheherazade from Persia, but I knew her as Mrs. Markowitz from the mail room at Mom’s real estate office. She wore heavy rouge and blue eyeliner. The bracelets on her wrists jangled as she moved her thick, fleshy arms. If Aladdin had a Jewish grandmother, this is what she would look like.
“Good seeing you again. How’s my Haskell doing?” she asked.
“I’m fine, Madame Scheherazade.”
I thought I’d get into the spirit of this event, especially since she had created such a cozy environment. Her booth had an Indian rug on the floor, silks hanging from metal bars, and sitar music playing on a portable record player. The incense was a bit strong. I’d make this visit brief.
“You wishing your mom luck?”
“I think so.”
“Very nice. You’re such a good boy. And you’re getting so tall and skinny. What does your mom feed you?”
“Not much. I live on sandwiches.”
“Well, I bet they’re delicious.” Scheherazade laughed. “Has your mother told you anything about her trip?”
At first I thought maybe I should lie and say of course she had, I knew all about it. Instead, I stood there, shaking my head.
“She has not given me any specifics, though I assume Antwerp’s a go?” I asked.
Madame Scheherazade swiveled in her seat, set her hands on the table, and looked up toward me. “Have you two not talked about it at all?”
“Not exactly.”
“Sit, sit sit. Let’s have a little chat.”
When I didn’t move, she stood up, put her hands on my shoulders and gently pushed me into the chair. Only a small mahogany table now separated the two of us.
“I could be right. I could be wrong. I don’t know. Your mom’s telling everyone she’ll be on an extended leave from work.”
“What does that mean?”
“Now don’t get all agitated. Miriam doesn’t always think things out carefully. She says a year in Belgium. ”
“A year?”
“It could turn out to be one month, three months. Who knows? She might get bored. You know your mother. She can’t sit for long. Right now, she’s under such stress, she’s tearing her hair out. Recently she had some very tough clients who cancelled their contract after your mom worked for months negotiating with their lawyers. It’s also been a tough year selling real estate. Anyway, she wants a break.”
I sat back and contemplated this news. If anyone deserved a break, it was my mother. She was always coming home after midnight, leaving before I went to school, staying gone most weekends for open houses and conferences. Still, it would have been nice if she had woken me up this morning and told me about her move before she announced it to the entire office.
“Mrs. Markowitz, I mean Madame Scheherazade. If she’s gone for, let’s say, an extended period of time”—a vague, maddening phrase Mom often used— “What will happen to me?”
As I pushed myself off my chair, ready for my quick escape, Madame Scheherazade interrupted. “Don’t go yet. I know you’re curious, and you’d like to speak with your mom. Perhaps this is not the best time.”
“She’s right in the other room!”
“Please, sit. Five minutes is all I ask.”
She was right. Why confront her now? My heart was beating too fast for me to speak coherently.
“Everything will be fine. You have nothing to worry about.” She shuffled a deck of cards and asked me to touch the deck with my fingers. “Let’s look into the future. Let’s see what the Universe says about all this, shall we?”
I figured, what do I have to lose? I slunk back into the folding chair. Yes, I was furious, but it would do me no good to run into the banquet room and make a scene. I probably needed a cool down.
“Do I get to stay in New York, or is she shipping me off somewhere?” I was now putting two and two together. She had been in touch with my father, whom I barely knew. Now I wondered if Mom were concocting some deal where I might live with him for a year. The last I’d heard, he was in India producing an expensive Cinerama version of Rudyard Kipling’s Gunga Din.
“There is no way I’m moving to India, I’ll tell you that right now. Mom doesn’t expect me to follow her to Antwerp, does she?”
Madame Scheherazade shook her head and laughed as she split the deck in half and skillfully shuffled the cards several times.
“I will try to answer many important questions. Please, pull one card from the deck.” She took my card and four others placing them faceup on the table. I had seen Tarot cards before in a number of movies, but this deck’s graphic illustrations of grotesque animals and deformed human beings looked nothing like those.
She stared at the five cards on the table as if gripped with fear.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Let me shuffle them again and see what comes up.”
“What was wrong with those cards?”
“Fresh cards never hurt.”
“Didn’t you like what you saw?”
She didn’t answer. Once again, she shuffled them, had me pick a card from the deck, and lay all five facedown on the table.
“Let’s do this one step at a time, shall we?” She turned the first card over: a skeleton carrying a scythe. I assumed this was the ominous “Death” card. Couldn’t be good news.
“What is this?” I asked.
My hands were trembling. I could feel the blood flow through my veins into my head. My throat tightened and my ears burned. My mother would die in Europe. She’d board a ship that would hit icebergs and sink. Then she’d get eaten by a shark. Or she’d have one of her nervous breakdowns—the woman lives for work—and Old Bob would never know what to do for her. I was the only one capable of calming her down, leading her through breathing exercises, even talking her out of the second martini.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I asked. “This trip will ruin her. Selling real estate is her life. Even on those rare occasions when she and I might eat together at a restaurant, she’d inevitably make conversation with the husband and wife sitting across from us and end up handing them her business card, selling them on the merits of a new building going up on the East Side and speaking of it in such glowing terms, she’d have the couple begging for a brochure before we finished our salads.”
Madame Scheherazade crinkled her nose and laughed. “You’re a bit much, you know that? Your mother will not go crazy without work. It’s quite the opposite. Work is what is driving her crazy. Situated upright, this card merely means the end of one situation and transitioning into something new. No big deal.” She smiled, nodding her head, apparently quite satisfied with her explanation. “You’re about to experience change.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s find out.” She then turned over the next card, revealing a man hanging from a tree limb, upside down. I’m sure she could see the blood drain from my face as I stared at this card. Not only was the man hanging upside down, he was blindfolded, and his feet and hands were tied up.
“Now what?” I asked.
She waved her hand as if she were shooing away a fly. “Let me turn all your cards over before we draw any conclusions. The cards do not mean anything by themselves. It is the accumulation and coordination of cards that tell the story.”
Madame Scheherazade turned over the third and fourth cards. One showed a coiled snake, and the other was entitled “The Fool”, displaying a medieval jester with missing teeth.
“Now we’re going places. These cards tell an important story. The coiled snake suggests you’re asleep. Your mom has ignored you for the longest time. She’s not shared with you what’s been going on, and now is the time for you to uncoil yourself and face your future.”
“Seriously?” Anyone could have come up with that explanation.
“And the “Fool” card isn’t as bad as it appears. He often pretends he’s naïve, and yet he knows more than he lets on. In fact, he’ll embrace whatever comes his way, careless of the hardships he will face because he knows the truth.”
