Lonesome Town

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF TOM MENDICINO

THE BOYS FROM EIGHTH AND CARPENTER

"The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter is a heartfelt story of two loving brothers as well as a compelling crime drama all set in the changing city of Philadelphia. Tom Mendicino is a supremely gifted writer with an eye for the most telling of details, and I loved this novel!"

—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author

At the heart of this capacious and suspenseful novel is the bond between two very different brothers, but its larger context is the Italian-American family: its values, loyalties and responsibilities. Tom Mendicino writes with honesty and compassion, and the reader can’t help but root for his endearing characters.

—Christopher Castellani, author of All This Talk of Love

PROBATION

Thoughtful, textured and poignant . . . an exciting impressive debut. Written in an honest voice that’s both dully depressed and acutely, emotionally observant, the prose is compellingly painful yet frequently funny, as well. There are many moments of lyrical beauty, plus enough cinematic twists and turns to keep readers anxiously racing through the chapters (though they are best when savored).

—Time Out New York

A potent debut.

—Publishers Weekly

Achingly honest.

—Vestal McIntyre, author of Lake Overturn

Books by Tom Mendicino

PROBATION

THE BOYS FROM EIGHTH AND CARPENTER

E-Novellas

KC, AT BAT

TRAVELIN’ MAN

LONESOME TOWN

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

LONESOME TOWN

TOM MENDICINO

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF TOM MENDICINO

Books by Tom Mendicino

Title Page

NOTE

Epigraph

EPILOGUE - Teenage Idol

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page

NOTE

The author and Ricky Nelson share the same birthday, May 8th.

After David finished talking with Saul, Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself.

—1 Samuel 18:1

The last guest of the morning, the Legend himself, the greatest power forward in the local franchise’s history, isn’t scheduled until the top of the hour. None of the callers in the queue has anything of interest to add to the current topic at hand, at least nothing that can be said over the airwaves. The first commandment in broadcasting is to never, ever, allow dead air, and tormenting young Charlie Beresford for laughs is Sal Corelli’s latest favorite fallback.

Put that Ivy League education to good use, Boo-Boo.

Everyone who toils from 6 to 10

A.M

., five days a week, on Corelli and Crew, 820 on the AM dial, simulcast in stereo at 1340 FM, is saddled with a stupid nickname, the more ridiculous the better. Everyone. Even a lowly in-studio researcher like Charlie, the youngest and least experienced member of the staff and the only one who doesn’t know a fucking thing about sports except for the few bits of baseball knowledge he’d picked up during those couple of months he’d followed KC Conroy around like a lovesick puppy.

Good God, Sal. Stop torturing the poor kid, the sole female member of the Crew clucks. Her face looks like it’s been smacked flat with a cast-iron skillet, but her deep, husky voice reminds Sal’s audience, mostly men in the late forties through sixty-five demographic, of Kathleen Turner in her Jessica Rabbit days. Deirdre (aka Double D, which Sal swears is a reference to her initials, her last name being DiNardo, and not to her impressive cup size) is the voice of reason, the bemused and halfhearted scold, den mother to a pack of middle-aged men with adolescent ids, the only adult in the room. Sal’s given Boo-Boo some crazy research assignments the past few months, but Double D thinks this latest request is over the top.

The banter during the eight o’clock segment had meandered from bitching about the overpaid whiners who play for the local MLB franchise to the latest rumors swirling around NHL players who will become free agents after the interminable play-off season to Sal’s tirade about the rabbits and squirrels who treat the vegetable garden he lovingly tends at his weekend country home as their personal buffet. A fan who works as an exterminator had called in to share a trade secret that fox piss, available in both spray and pellet form, is the most effective rodent deterrent on the market. Corelli and Crew pounced on this unexpected opportunity to titillate their 5.8 AQH audience share with bawdy and off-color speculation about the best way to get savage animals to pee in a cup.

Ah, well, Sal, technically rabbits are lagomorphs, not rodents, Charlie says, setting the record straight.

Huh? What? Lagowhats? Sal sputters, playing the bombastic blowhard for comic effect.

Lagomorphs.

Wow. That’s my boy! That’s some pretty impressive stuff! Did you get that, Double D? Sal asks with mock seriousness. I told you the kid is smarter than he looks. We’re counting on you, Boo-Boo. Okay, folks, Big Pink’s having a meltdown. We have to take a break. Don’t go away. We’ll be right back from the beautiful Borgata here in Atlantic City.

The executive producer, called Big Pink because he chugs two bottles of Pepto-Bismol every morning, starts frantically barking at the sound engineer the second the mikes are off. The girl who screens the callers is quaking from a blistering dressing-down for putting through a fan who’d been banned from the show. These live remote broadcasts are a fucking son of a bitch, a technical nightmare. Something always goes wrong, and the crackerjack studio team of Killer Joe, Gizmo, the Annihilator, and Jo-Jo, the Dog Faced Boy—ninety-six years of radio experience among them—race the clock to smooth out any glitches.

Hustle, motherfuckers! Thirty seconds to airtime! Big Pink shouts. You get the answer for Sal yet, kid? We’re going live.

Charlie’s mundane explanation that the fox piss used in vermin repellents is collected from the drainage systems of animal pens on wild game farms is a big disappointment to the potty-mouthed Corelli and Crew. Fortunately the Legend is on the line, ready to announce his prognostications for the upcoming NBA finals. The highly opinionated Hall of Famer is on fire this morning. Nothing and no one escapes his disdain and derision. The incompetence of Sixers ownership. The complete mismanagement by the team president and his bootlicking coaching staff. The frustrating diffidence of the first-round draft pick point guard. The fans love arguing with him. As always, the discourse never rises above the lowest common denominator, all scurrilous insults and ill-informed opinions. It’s a smooth ride to the ten o’clock sign-off, with Charlie being called upon only once in the segment to confirm the average number of technical fouls per quarter committed by this year’s squad. He removes his headphones at 10:01 and, standing to stretch his legs, finds himself facing an obviously irritated Big Pink.

You’re going into the studio when you get back to Philly, aren’t you? the producer asks Charlie before turning his attention to the more urgent matter of Sal’s displeasure with the sound mix of this morning’s show.

Charlie had been planning on soaking up a few rays at the Borgata pool and playing a few hands of blackjack before driving home. Billy’s doing his summer internship at Sullivan & Cromwell in New York and the only thing waiting for him at the apartment is a microwave package of Hot Pockets in the freezer and a bony stray cat he’d argued against adopting. But he recognizes it’s not a question, but a directive. Charlie makes a mental note to not be a fuck face to the lowest slug on the food chain when he becomes executive producer of a hit radio show.

I will if you need me to, he responds, doing his best impersonation of a lapdog eager to serve his lord and master.

"I’m not sure what I need yet. I have to talk to Sal about tomorrow’s show. I got the Phillies beat reporter for the Inquirer booked for the eight o’clock hour and the GM might be calling in. The Eagles’ new defensive coordinator will be here for the nine-o’clock segment. I might want you to run a few queries and prepare some stat screens this afternoon."

Charlie’s tempted to ask Big Pink if he’s aware that modern cellular communications can track him down and summon him to the studio at a moment’s notice if he’s actually going to be needed. But an open writer’s position is about to be posted, and Charlie needs the producer’s support for a promotion.

Aye-aye, sir, he says, sounding as chipper as possible and muttering obscenities under his breath as he slinks away, defeated by a superior force.

New Jersey is one motherfucking ugly place. It’s a mystery why they call it the Garden State. Where are all the goddamn gardens? Most of the state smells like an EPA hazardous waste site. The toxic industrial emissions of the refineries and chemical plants. The sulfurous rot of the coastal barrier marshes. Headache-inducing gasoline fumes from nine million registered vehicles clogging its toll roads. It’s more like a sneak preview of the Apocalypse than a botanical paradise. Goddamnit, he mutters as he wrestles with his uncooperative Levi’s, trying to retrieve the phone ringing in his pocket while speeding west fifteen miles over the posted limit on the Atlantic City Expressway.

Oh shit, he mumbles, seeing the number of the incoming call. There’s no escaping. He may as well pick up and face his punishment. The longer he waits, the worse it will be.

I know, I know. I’m so sorry. We’ll do it tonight. I promise. Anytime she wants.

"It never ceases to amaze me how well that phone of yours works when you want something, Charlie, but it always seems to be out of range whenever someone needs to reach you."

The glittering