Bogart's Hat

Robert Honor

Description

In 1955 Harry Kavanagh's uncle steals a ringside seat for a championship bout in Madison Square Garden. "Hey kid, out of my seat!" It's Humphrey Bogart! Rewarding the kid for his moxie, Bogie gives him his fedora. It's 2016 and years after the death of his wife, Felicity, Harry is still grieving. When the medical examiner commits suicide, Harry suspects his wife may have been murdered. Harry tenuously re-emerges into the world in an effort to find the truth. Along the way he is roughed up by the brawny brothers he nicknames the Liverwurst Twins, nearly drowns during a Nor'easter, is threatened by a mobster, and is rescued by a shadowy woman who is known to Harry only by the scent of her perfume. Armed with an acerbic tongue and an awakening rage, the once sedentary college professor serves out his sabbatical dishing out easy violence and a lecture to anyone who has the audacity to get in his way. Harry's sidekick is his beloved Great Dane, Lolly. They're assisted by his college-age son training to be a ballet dancer, his girlfriend, and an avenging angel living off the grid. Catching a murderer and donning Bogart's hat as the ultimate reward are on Harry Kavanagh's menu and within his grasp. Robert Honor is a graduate of Moravian College and NYU. He lives in the New York City area with his family and Great Dane, Pink.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645368991
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

B ogart’s H at
Robert Honor
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-01-08
Bogart’s Hat About The Author Dedication Acknowledgment Copyright Information © Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One
About The Author

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A Moravian College and NYU graduate, Robert Honor has taught screenwriting at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. His plays have been produced in NYC; he’s currently developing a television pilot and working on his next novel. He lives in the New York City area with his family and their Great Dane.
Dedication
For Lorie, Kav, and Jack.
Copyright Information ©
Robert Honor (2021)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Honor, Robert
Bogart’s Hat
ISBN 9781645363644 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645363651 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645368991 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020923367
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
Acknowledgment
In December of 2014, I embarked on the first of eight operations: two hip, two knee, three back, and a neck operation. This weekend warrior injured himself playing basketball, mostly. Mostly – that word always brings me to this – “They mostly come at night, mostly.” One of my favorite lines from one of my favorite movies, Aliens . Credit the adorable urchin Newt for that quip, and either James Cameron or Gale Anne Hurd for writing it. There were probably a few other ways I contributed to breaking my body. Some of my hobbies included stumbling down stairs, slipping on ice, falling out of a canoe – oh, there was that skateboard accident.
Without the luxury of moving around much, getting soft, feeling weakened and then angry, I waded through and then eventually dove into this story I called Lolly & Me . By the way, the title Bogart’s Hat came to me two years in. Wandering the streets of Gravesend, Brooklyn, where my parents grew up, I spotted an elderly man sitting on a beach chair outside a bakery my grandmother used to take me to when I was five years old. I approached the gent and asked him if he knew my father. Without missing a beat, he said he played stickball with him on West 6th Street about seventy years ago. He told me about the time he snuck into the old Madison Square Garden for a heavyweight championship bout in 1955: Rocky Marciano vs. Archie Moore. He was sitting ringside feeling like he had won the Irish Sweepstakes when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He looked up, saw a fedora and a cigarette; it was Humphrey Bogart himself. “Hey, kid you’re sitting in my seat.”
Inspired by his story, Lolly & Me became Bogart’s Hat and from there I bend the truth in regard to Mr. Bogart’s hat and its significance in my story. I’ve gone back looking for the gentleman to find out his name – to thank him. No luck. So, this is the point where I must thank all those people who helped me get through. And in case I’ve forgotten to mention you, I’ll say what my old friend Christy Kelly says, “I blame myself.” I hope you’ll forgive me.
Thank you, Jeremiah Jurkiewicz, for the educational chat we had along the boardwalk, for your kindness and the discussion as we walked that brisk morning. Mark J. Honor, PA-C talked me through ER protocols. The always-exuberant Frank Rothman, thank you for sharing your expertise regarding the criminal justice system. Jim Farmer, Bayonne, New Jersey shines through thanks to you. Beth Gorrie and her fabulous non-profit organization, Staten Island OutLOUD for sponsoring my very first reading. And to Dick’s Deli, no longer around but not forgotten, because a good cup of coffee is not to be underestimated, thanks. Thank you to the debonair Jeff Gallo for reaching out to Adam Coren of J.J. Hat Center for a discussion about hats, models and years, and period styles, etc. And thank you, Adam. Thank you to my new best friend Robin Locke Monda for designing a fabulous book cover. Fred’s Restaurant at 83rd and Amsterdam appears between the pages. Owned by David Honor, my protagonist always has a good time there. To Keith Perkins, Renee James, Josh Apter, and Michael Ahn, who shared their enthusiasm for the book; they gave their time and unwavering support, thank you.
The name Venable Herman appears between the pages. He is actually Venable Herndon, one of my NYU professors back in the day. He’s long gone, and I miss him, dear sweet man. Maggie Lally and Gary Garrison for lifting me up when I was down. To the family of the late Jack LaLanne. Mr. LaLanne made me do push-ups in the street when I was a kid. I reinvent the story somewhere in the book. It was one of the most charming mornings of my young life. The real Harry Kavanagh, my great uncle, was a kind and gentle man who was always quick to laugh. Uncle Harry, I borrowed your name here, but from where you’re sitting, you already know that. Thank you to the entire production team at Austin Macauley. Thank you to Dr. Martin Quirno for putting me back together, and to my lifelong friends, the Nicholas family and the Denenbergs. I truly feel like a lucky man. Thank you, Bud. Your stories enriched my life and this effort. To Carmela, Helene and Kathleen, thank you for always supporting me; you may want to skip over the racy parts.
And thank you, Jesse Kornbluth, my very first writing teacher at NYU. Jesse would kick off his shoes and conduct the class with wit, compassion, and kindness. If Jesse had been anyone other than himself, I wouldn’t have been secure enough to write a single sentence.
There are names between the pages that belong to friends and family members. I couldn’t resist. Thank you, Moravian College, for setting me on a path; thank you, NYU, for keeping me there.
To my young men, Jack and Kav, you give me strength, make me laugh, and prop me up in so many ways – so proud of you both; you bring me so much joy. To my wife, Lorie, a passionate person with boundless energy and talent: an entrepreneur, feminist, activist, teacher, leader, mentor, mother, writer, my full-time editor, conscience, and Saturday-night fashion consultant. You are a soaring comet. I am a better person because of you.
Chapter One
“These days I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do for you.”
Jackson Browne
As far as he could tell, the pancake was ripe and ready to go. Harry Kavanagh sighed. It was a long sigh. It was more of an internal moan, meaning something like, here I am again . Another day. Harry created his pancakes from scratch with organic ingredients. He licked the tips of his fingers before delicately rolling breakfast from the griddle. The pancake never made the trip to the plate because there wasn’t one. Two-and-a-half bites later and finito , as Harry’s ancient Uncle Sebastian would bellow to the annoyance of anyone standing so close they’d catch a whiff of the garlic he’d slipped into his Cheerios. Harry had perfected the size of his pancake over the last four years. He had that kind of time. He wasn’t exactly living the life as some people suggested. Those people were usually the ones on the checkout line who coerced Harry into a conversation he didn’t want to have. He wasn’t working, and his wife and children were out of the house. Yes, his wife was out of the house. It softened the blow when he thought of it that way. Since his fingers had already been licked, Harry took the opportunity to comb his thinning eyebrows with his fingertips. Harry took a deep breath and another. It was all part of his routine on this morning and on every morning. There was no one around to mock Harry’s pancake ritual, to chew him out because he was hunched over the stove, or because he was cleaning wax out of his ear with the same fingers that combed his eyebrows and rousted his breakfast.
Harry had learned a few things since he was a fat man. He’d lost 40 pounds over the last four years, due in great part to his grief. In his humble opinion, despondency was the best diet on the market. You wouldn’t read about it between the pages of the supermarket tabloids. Harry wasn’t the type to chitchat; he certainly wouldn’t be sharing his opinion at a cocktail party. Did Harry really have to worry about being invited anywhere? No, absolutely not. Not these days. He shrugged to no one, reminding himself supermarket pancake syrup was his enemy. Well, maybe not his arch enemy, but a bad thing nonetheless. Harry learn