The Projectionist: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Porter stopped mid-stride and turned to face the woman. "Say again?"

"My name is Debra Pendergast."

He walked back toward her, eyes locked onto her face now, looking for some resemblance that he'd missed. He saw none. "Am I to assume it's coincidence that you have the same last name as my wife?"

She laughed. "Of course not, silly."

"So?" Porter held his hands out, palms up, waiting.

"Well, it's complicated," she said. "It might be better to talk about it tonight over dinner." That big smile was back.

"Damn it, woman! Who? Are? You?"

Her smile switched off like a light and she blew a long sigh. "Porter," she said, "I'm sorry. I know I'm acting strange but the fact is, this situation is strange. Quite."

"That much I've gathered. Now spit it out."

She scrunched her face up, pointed her eyes left and right a few times, and finally said, "I'm Alice's sister."

"She didn't have a sister."

"Well, obviously she does."

Porter was ready to let loose on the woman and call pure B.S., but he stopped. Not that long ago, he would've sworn on a three-foot stack of Gideon Bibles that Alice didn't have a lawyer, didn'ty have her own will. "If that's so, why didn't I ever hear of you in forty years?"

"Like I said, it's complicated."

"Complicated?"

"Complicated. Very."

"Then simplify for this dim old man, how about it?"

"Are you sure we can't do this over dinner? It's a long story."

"Give me the short version now, and I'll meet you tonight for the full tale. Otherwise, I'm done with this game."

She sighed again. "You never heard of me because I didn't exist when you knew Alice."

He stared at her for a good fifteen seconds, trying to process that. Processing failed. "I knew her for forty years. You're what, fifty-five or so?"

"Fifty-nine, but thank you." The smile.

"That would mean you were nineteen when I met Alice. She was sixteen. That makes you her older sister, so how in Hades is it that you didn't exist?"

"I told you it was complicated. And I gave you what you asked for."

"Huh?"

"The short version, Porter. You now have the short version, and if you want the whole thing, meet me at the diner at seven." She gave a curt little nod that said the conversation was over whether he liked it or not, and crisply turned and walked away.

#

At seven that evening, Porter was nowhere near the Diebold Diner. He had meant to be. He wanted to hear the rest of the crazy woman's story for entertainment if nothing else. But, he thought, shit just happens, don't it? He motioned for Harold to pour him another.

"Geez, Porter. You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, because I've known you for at least twenty years and ain't never seen you take a drink? And now you're wasted?"

"I didn't know you were my daddy," Porter said. Then he thought about Harold being his daddy and since Harold was younger than Porter, that would really take some doing, now wouldn't it? He burst out laughing, slapping the bar over and over. He saw the look on Harold's face. "Don't look at me like I'm crazy. I'm not. Believe me, you don't know crazy."

"You need me to give you a ride home, man? It won't hurt for me to lock up for five minutes."

"Home? Why hell no!"

"Sorry, Porter. I can't serve you any more drinks tonight."

Porter started to get angry, but he wasn't the angry-drunk type and started laughing again instead. After another round of yucking it up and slapping the bar, a brilliant idea occurred to him. "You know what, Harold?"

"What?"

"You can give me a ride."

"Good," Harold said. "Let's get you home."

"Not home. I have a dinner date, by God."

Harold looked dubious. "Uh, who with?"

"Alice's sister."

"Alice had a sister?"

"Nope. Let's go."

<<<<>>>> 

The Projectionist: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Porter sat in his booth at the Diebold Diner, nursing a cup of coffee while he waited for his breakfast. He loved the smell of this place in the morning, the air so rich with bacon and eggs and freshly baked biscuits that his mouth watered.

Carolyn topped off his coffee and said, "Food's almost ready." He nodded and she moved on to the next booth.

Porter added a spoon of sugar and when he looked up, he gave a little start. A woman was standing right beside his booth. A stranger, which was itself strange in the Diebold Diner where everybody knew everybody. She looked to be in her fifties, maybe middle, maybe closer to sixty. The dress she wore was white, crisp looking, somehow elegant and therefore as out of place here as she was.

"Do you mind?" she said, gesturing at the empty seat across from him.

"I suppose not." What the crap?

She smiled and slid into the old booth, then stuck her hand out. "I'm Debra."

Her hand was soft as a powder puff, warm. "Porter," he said.

"I understand I have you to thank for showing that wonderful classic last night." Her voice was old Southern, the drawl pronounced and precise.

More like his dead wife to thank, but he said, "Yeah, I guess so. Glad you enjoyed it."

Carolyn showed up with his breakfast and while Porter was surely curious about this woman, he was also hungry and preferred his food hot. So he dug in. If she had something to say, no reason he couldn't listen with his mouth full. But she didn't say a word. She sat looking at him while he ate, her debutante smile locked in place.

About a third of the way through his meal, he couldn't stand it any more. "Debra, why are you here?"

"In Diebold, you mean?"

"In my booth. While I'm trying to eat breakfast."

"To meet you, of course."

Porter looked confused, rightly so, but she said nothing more, just kept smiling. He stared at her a few moments, then forked a big bite of biscuit and gravy into his mouth. While he chewed, he mused on the fact that in times past, this bizarre situation would've made him a self-conscious wreck. Now? He didn't give a happy damn and bit off half a strip of bacon. "Hope you're enjoying the experience," he said around the bacon.

And that's the way it continued: Porter chowing down. Strange Debra watching him and smiling. When all the biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, and grits were gone, Porter placed a ten on the table and stood. He gave the lady a polite nod, turned, walked away. He was almost to the door when he noticed footsteps behind him. Her footsteps, no doubt. She followed him outside but not down the sidewalk. Instead she stopped just outside the door and called out: "Porter, it was very nice to meet you."

He looked back without breaking stride. "Likewise."

"Might you be free for dinner this evening?"

Porter stopped and turned around. "What are you talking about? Why would I want to have dinner with you? So you can stare at me through that meal too?"

"I'm sorry about that, truly I am. I promise to be more...forthcoming. In fact, you and I have a great many things to talk about."

"For the life of me, I can't imagine a one of them," Porter said. "But thanks anyway."

"If you change your mind, I'm staying at the Oak Vista motel. Just call and ask them to ring the room of Debra Pendergast."

Come In!

An off-the-cuff short story that in a way inspired my novel Pawnbroker. I hope it makes you smile!

Come In!

 I'm a pawnbroker. Forget what you've seen on TV. I don't sit behind a cage. No stubby cigar. No glasses with the swingaway jeweler's loupe on the right side. Or left. I don't wear glasses, okay? And please, please, please--for the love of all that's good and right--forget that Men In Black pawnbroker who grows new heads! Sheesh.

I'm in the South. Remember what you've seen on TV. I do have an inordinate number of customers with double-decker names: Jimmy Lee. Lula Mae. The ubiquitous Billy Bob, who happens to be the first customer this morning. Has a wife named Jo Lee. Oh please, I know what you're thinking. Try to grow up.

I raise my coffee cup, take that first glorious sip, the fresh steam blessing my nostrils. Billy Bob pushes on the front door. The one with the foot-tall fluorescent orange letters: P U L L.

"Five bucks on three," Lung Fao says. Lung Fao is the assistant manager. Real name John Harris. I call him Lung Fao because I like the way it sounds.

Billy Bob peers through the glass to see if we're open. Checks his watch. Ten past, so we should be open, the look says. He could see a lot better if not for them dang letters. P. U. L. L. "Five on five," I say.

"Y'all so mean to Billy Bob." This would be Gloria Hightower, the soft-hearted clerk who thinks we shouldn't make book on how many attempts it will take William Robert Larkee to open the door. Boys being boys. Leave us alone. Thank you.

Billy Bob will not be denied and pulls to glory on the count of four. The door chime sounds its melodious tones--it's made by the Melodious Tones Door Chime Company, Inc.--and in he comes. He's carrying two bulging plastic bags, a blue one from Wal-Mart, a white one that says THANK YOU three times. Lung Fao leans in close. "Buck says he needs to get the lights turned back on."

Billy Bob's moving slow this morning, giving me time to work, so I scan the bags from a distance. Wal-Mart buys good bags, the kind you can't see through in order to identify their contents from thirty feet away for gambling purposes. That really chaps my cheeks.

The white one, though, now that's a bag, Chief. Flimsy. One split seam already. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU. No, thank you, Mr. Bag Maker. Loaded with videotapes. Not Disneys, either. Just plain old run-of-the-bourgeois-mill VHS, one of Billy Bob's staple collateral pledges now that we stopped taking his Betamax movies. Betamax was actually a better format, I'll give you that, but it's another story for another day, a seedy tale of marketing blunders and corporate arrogance by Sony. Blunders, hell. More like an evisceration. The point is, Billy Bob is reluctant to embrace new technology. And to take baths.

VHS. Video Home System. At least fourteen tapes, no more than twenty. There'll be a Jean Claude Hot Damn in there, maybe two. Stephen Seagal will be well represented. Bet your gravy and biscuits on that.

Speaking of betting, that opaque Wal-Mart bag is quickly becoming the bane of my existence. I can just see some smarmy Wal-Mart Bag Buyer in his office, sitting on the edge of his desk, sample bags in his sweaty, hairless, puffy, pale clubs, rubbing them back and forth between plump thumb and plumper forefinger while some skinny Bag Seller sits there hoping he'll choose the thicker one because his commission will be $14.88 per month higher if he sells the thick bag, by gosherino, and then he'll be able to bowl in the league, baby. Selfish jerk.

I'm disappointed to the nines, I won't lie, but I don't make blind bets. For a fleeting moment, I get the urge to let go, be a man on the edge, take Lung Fao's bet anyway. Something in my gut says he's wrong. It's not getting the lights turned back on. DUI ticket? Maybe. Bail out Jo Lee? Could be. Medicine for the grandbaby? Strong possibility there. I can almost smell the Keflex. But I manage to contain myself. Discipline. That's why I own the shop, Sugar.

"How's it going, Billy Bob?" Lung Fao says.

"Come in, Billy Bob!" Gloria sounds thrilled to see him. Gloria is a black woman about the size of a Volkswagen, always Bubbly Happy in her acres of Spandex. Pisses me off sometimes, like when I've been out all night and my eyes are all bugged-out feeling and my brain is too big for my head and I puked in the Dumpster out back, but I don't let it show. That D-word. Key to success.

Billy Bob plops his bags down on the pawn counter. For the briefest flash of a moment, I consider acting on my fury toward the Wal-Mart bag. My Kimber is locked and loaded and I can pump eight .45 slugs into that Mystery Mother of a Day-Ruiner quicker than you can...well, pretty quick. The compulsive need to take this action passes within a minute or two. See above.

It unsettles me to look at Billy Bob. He has a bulbous nose that rides a shrunken mouth that is for the most part devoid of teeth. Oh sure, you might find a molar in there somewhere, perhaps even an incisor if you looked long enough and the batteries in the flashlight endured, but I think you could call Billy Bob toothless and win in court. That's all I'm saying. He has a perpetual three- to five-day supply of stubble, and his jowls are sort of "hangy." None of these things bothers me.

But those eyes. In a word? Disconcerting. Noncommital. Beady. Frightening. One of them may be pointed your way, but the other one is just as likely to be aimed at the Taco Bell across the street.

You know those paintings--think of the Mona Lisa for a moment, not the buck-toothed smile or even those silly ears, just the eyes, stay with me now, Homer--in which the eyes seem to follow you wherever you go? You know how freaky it was when you were pawing at your first girlfriend and you looked up and saw Dead Grandma's eyes looking down at you, right there on the couch? Billy Bob's eyes aren't like that, but they're still freaky.

"Need a little money," he says.

No duh. Thought maybe he came to visit, with his fricking bags. Geez. I eyed that Wal-Mart bag. I could feel the presence of Smarmy Bag Buyer and Mr. League Bowler, who couldn't bowl 200 if his life depended on it, the kind of man who'd waste a dollar running a ball that didn't even belong to him through the ball washer while his kid eats peanut butter for lunch instead of bologna. "How much you need?" I say.

"Got to get a tie-rod end put on the van," he says.

Tie. Rod. End. I shake my head. Billy Bob Larkee waltzes into my shop, me running on one pathetic sip of Dunkin Donuts freshly-ground, and clips my wings but right. I glance at Lung Fao. He was hurting too, can't deny the pain on his young face, but he's a five-year man who still brings the diamond loans to me. I've been doing this for twenty-dadgum-four years.

"How much you need?" I repeat. So what if my tone was a little cold? As much as I don't want to, I raise my eyes toward his.

The left one acquires lock on me for a moment, releases, goes off in search of a new target. Righty shoots up, down, up, down, makes me think of Wilt Chamberlain dribbling on that court with the pretty hardwood squares--I always thought that floor should've been in Madison Square Garden, but I don't think it is--and eventually saunters up toward mine, only a little off-center.

"Well..."

Here we go. I may get him out by lunch.

"The part's seventy-eight dollars..." He pauses, looks up, wants to be sure he has my attention, which is to say he wants to be certain he's making my life as hellish as possible without killing me outright, then continues, "and the mechanic wants sixty-six dollars to put it on."

So there it is. Laid out naked as a french whore. Billy Bob wants a hundred and forty-four dollars. I yank open the Wal-Mart bag. It's filled with DVDs. Raw shock hangs in the air, not unlike the moment when another Billy Bob declared--with an admirably courageous dose of candor, I think you'll agree--that he aimed to lay open Dwight Yoakam's skull with a lawn mower blade. I process the implications of one American owning Smokey and the Bandit on Betamax, VHS, and DVD.

"You know I can't loan that much on this," I say.

"One-twenty?" Lefty's all over the place.

"Quit smoking weed. Fifty."

"Eighty? I'll put it on myself."

Yeah, right. Like he can install a tie-rod end in the first place. And like I don't have all his tools in the pawn room anyway. Good grief.

"Forty-five," I say.

"You said fifty."

"You didn't want fifty."

"Give me the fifty."

This is how our business works. Day after week after millenia. Gloria checks the tapes. Where Corvette Summer should be, she finds The Spirit of Seventeen-Seventy-Sex, a triple-X that features George Washington interrupting Betsy Ross while she tries to sew Old Glory. Shows how the Minutemen and Pocahontas really got their names. Things like that. So I've heard.

Gloria shoots him a look. "I ought to tell Jo Lee on you, you nasty old buzzard." Ha! Who's being mean to poor old Billy Bob now? Right to his face, too. One DVD is scratched. I should re-think that fifty, but I'm feeling generous and let the transaction proceed.

The licensed pawnbroker of record is required to sign each pawn ticket in Alabama, so Gloria slides it over to me. I pull out my Mont Blanc and do the deed: JOHN WAYNE LARKEE.

"Thanks, son," Billy Bob says as I hand him two twenties and a ten.

"Thank you, Daddy," I say. "Give my love to Mama."

Web Site: Pawnbroker, a Thriller by Jerry Hatchett

Projectionist: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Porter would have been—should have been—shocked to hear Larry Walker standing there reading what sounded like another letter from the grave. But no. After weeks of grieving and wondering and crying and why-ing, his tank of high level emotional response was running on fumes. So he just stood and listened.

"From the moment the first reel of the movie runs out, wait exactly ten minutes before starting the second one."

Teddy will be having a conniption at five minutes, Porter thought.

"Don't worry about Teddy. Mr. Walker has a note for him too and he won't be bothering you this evening. Ten minutes. Trust me. All my love. Alice."

Walker refolded the letter and slipped it back into an inside pocket of his suit coat. Then he pulled out a little digital timer and handed it to Porter. "It's already set for ten minutes," Walker said. "Just push the button on the top to start the countdown." With a little shrug, Walker turned and headed down the narrow stairway.

Porter looked at the timer for a few seconds, briefly wondered if he had gone insane and was really locked up in some padded room dreaming, then said "Okay, Alice," and walked into his booth.

#

When the first reel expired, Porter immediately pushed the button. He went ahead and readied the next reel, then sat down on his stool with the timer. When the readout hit 7:00, he noticed that his heart was beating pretty fast. He shifted his gaze from the timer to the door, timer to door, back and forth, waiting to see what would happen. 5:00. Nothing. 2:00, the same nothing. The timer beeped as it hit all zeroes. Porter sat there a few seconds, shook his head, and started the projector rolling again.

As time went on and Peter O'Toole forged epic relationships on the screen, Porter felt more and more like a fool. What had he expected to happen? Alice was gone. Dead. And whatever goofy nonsense she had conjured up before she died wasn't going to change that. He couldn't imagine why she would plan this elaborate ruse, and his soul was too spent to care.

About an hour into the second reel, he walked downstairs, raised the walk-through on the countertop, and went behind the concession stand. Fixed himself a Coke while Jenny restocked the candy displays. He left the concession area with his drink and headed back toward the stairs. That's when he met Teddy coming out of the office. His hair—what he had left, anyway—was frazzled, his eyes wide. Porter headed that way; he wanted to ask what Teddy's message from Larry Walker had been. But when Teddy saw Porter? His eyes got wider. He spun around, walked back into the office, glanced back for the briefest moment at Porter, then closed the door. Porter could've sworn he heard him lock it. Could the night get any stranger?

#

When the movie was finished and Porter had shut down the projector and rewound and stowed the reels, he made his final trip down the stairs for the evening. Most of the moviegoers were gone, but a few still trickled out of the auditorium. These would be the real film lovers, the ones who sat through all the end credits and then dissected what they had just seen. Porter knew pretty much all of them and fielded a couple hey-we're-still-so-sorry-for-your-loss sad smiles when they saw him.

He entered the auditorium and went to the electrical box on the rear wall to kill the lights. The box had a little lock on it to keep out pranky teenagers. Porter reached into his pocket for his key ring but came up empty. Crap. He had probably left them in the booth. Which was itself locked. On his way to the office to grab the spare set of keys, someone behind him said, "Mr. Hamlin?"

He turned and saw a man of about fifty coming out of the auditorium. Hadn't the room been empty when he was in there? Oh well, he hadn't exactly scoured the room, had he? "Yes?" he said.

The man approached with his hand out to shake. "I'm Bill Griffin."

Porter shook his hand. "Porter Hamlin."

Griffin reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. A ReelMark business card. "This is a pretty special old theater you guys have here."

"We think so. What can I do for you, Mr. Griffin?"

"Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to say hello. Loved the showing tonight. Looks like a lot of other people did, as well."

"Not meaning to be rude, but how is it you know my name?"

"Teddy told me about you and your wife—sorry for your loss, by the way—how long you've all been here running the Magic. Almost forty years, right?"

Porter nodded. He was tired and wanted to go home, not chat it up with this vulture. "Been a long day," he said. "I better be getting home."

"Oh sure, sure, don't want to hold you up," Griffin said. He stuck his hand out again. "Glad I got to meet you, and great job with the showing tonight. I have to tell you I'm very encouraged to see this kind of turnout on a weeknight for a classic. Maybe we can talk again soon?"

Porter shook his hand, gave him a tight little smile, walked away. Griffin headed for the office.

#

In bed, Porter stared at the ceiling. He had followed Alice's instructions from the Twilight Zone, and nothing had happened. Actually worse than nothing; by doing as she asked, he had made Griffin even more interested in the Magic. Great job, Alice.

The Projectionist: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The pole was the bane of Porter's existence. Stick the letter to the suction cup. Raise the pole to the marquee. Slip the top of the letter in the channel, then the bottom. Sounded simple but the suction cup dropped the letters as often as it held them, and the long reach up to the sign was tedious to maneuver. And of course Alice couldn't have picked something with a short title. It took him an hour to spell out the details of tomorrow's showing of Lawrence of Arabia. Finally, he collapsed the pole and walked across the street to check the sign, as he did each and every time he changed it. Looking good. Happy, Alice?

Naturally, here came Teddy. Out the front door, then craning his neck to look at the marquee, then crossing the street with a confused look on his face. "Porter? What on God's big green Earth are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Lawrence of Arabia?"

"It's an epic," Porter said. "First rate film."

"I know the film! Why are you putting it on the sign? We don't even have it here!"

"It's in the booth."

"Why? When? Where'd it come from?"

Porter started to tell him the truth, that he didn't have the foggiest where it came from, changed his mind. "Looks like it's been there a while is all I can tell you."

"And you just had the urge to show it, without talking to me at all? The new film we're running is selling well. We need the business, in case you haven't noticed."

"Teddy, would you say I've been a good employee here?"

"You're more than an employee, Porter, but sure. The best. What's that got to do with Lawrence of dadgum Arabia?"

Porter drew three deep breaths and said, "I need to do this. I can't explain why, but I do. You say I'm more than an employee, then cut me a little slack here and let me do what I gotta do."

Teddy drew a breath to speak, then stopped. Drew another and said, "I don't know what's going on with you, but I don't like it."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

He didn't answer. Teddy just turned and walked back across the street, slowly shaking his head.

#

The next day at 6:00 P.M., Porter had the projector loaded and ready. No trailers tonight, just the feature at 6:10 on the button. He barely had any view of anything outside the booth, so he made his way down the stairs and into the auditorium. He really didn't know what to expect, but he surely did not expect what he found:  The room was almost full. For a fifty-year-old movie. Whose only advertising had been a day on the marquee on an uncrowded Diebold day.

He left the auditorium and headed back to the stairs. Teddy spotted him and hustled over, a big smile on his face. "Wow, Porter. Looking like a good call!" He looked over his shoulder at the concession stand, where Jenny Phillips was servicing a healthy flow of customers.

"It's nice to see the room that full," Porter said. A good weeknight at the Magic was twenty-five or thirty people. The current crowd of more than a hundred was unheard of. "Well, I better get back up there."

Teddy patted him on the back. "Good call, buddy. Good call."

Porter climbed the stairs and found Larry Walker waiting on the tiny landing outside the door to the projectionist booth. What the crap?

"Porter, good to see you, good to—uh, looks like a pretty busy night."

Porter nodded, checked his watch. "I have to start the film in five minutes. Can this wait?"

Larry shook his head and pulled an envelope from inside his coat. "Afraid not. You're not the only one who has to follow some strange instructions." He opened the envelope, extracted a piece of paper. An old looking piece of paper like Alice's strange letter Porter had read in Larry's office. Then he started reading:  "My Dearest Porter. This will be brief because if Mr. Walker has done as I asked, you need to start the film in just a few minutes. So please listen carefully and do exactly as he asks you. All my love. Alice."

An interesting discovery...

Thanks to so many of you who responded to my survey on book titles! I'm humbled and sincerely grateful to y'all. (Yup, a definite Southerner I am!)

Thanks to Grateful Pieter for this awesome image. :)

Although responses are still coming in on the survey, one thing has already become clear:  The public isn't at all wild about the current descriptive blurb for Seven Unholy Days. (That current blurb is pasted below.) If you've already read the book, your suggestions on ways to improve it would be welcome. (It's easy to contact me via my website at www.jerryhatchett.com)


Technology and insanity combine to create a very bad week for the United States and the world. In this unputdownable thriller, celebrity geek Matt Decker is on top of the world until his flagship creation, the system that runs the U.S. power grid, is attacked. Chaos follows as someone sets out to create their own version of Revelation's apocalypse.

May I have two minutes of your time?

I'm experimenting with some title options and would be eternally grateful for the thoughts of a few avid readers of fiction. I promise it's quick and easy!

           Thanks!

CLICK HERE TO HELP WITH A 2-MINUTE SURVEY

Will the third time be the charm?

Tonight will be the third consecutive movie night for me and my faithful movie companion, and I'm hoping it will indeed be the charm. Night before last, we saw this gem.

How was it, you ask? Uh...well...in the words of Grumpy Cat:  NO. Unless, of course, you happen to love convoluted mashed-up storylines that flit in and out of reality and dreams and hypnotic trances and such. If you love those, you might enjoy it. (And as we say in Mississippi, bless your little heart.) Two stars, and they are dim stars at that.

Certain that our movie prowess was such that we couldn't possibly choose poorly two nights in a row, last night we grabbed our hot dogs and Cokes from the concession stand and headed into the darkened room for another cinematic adventure.

To be fair, it's been nearly 24 hours and I still can't tell you how I feel about this one. It felt like two movies. Unfortunately, the two movies didn't particularly complement each other. Or themselves. It's one of those that leaves you with the question "HUH?" as you're walking out the door. So although I've been as yet unable to come up with a star rating, I can sum up my feelings about it thusly:

Please let tonight break this ugly streak, because I've been looking forward to this one for a long time. I'll report back later on whether the third time is really the charm, or just a bunch of hooey.

Post-Oblivion update:  Okay, third time was the charm. I give this one 4 stars and recommend it. There were a few loose story threads hanging in my mind at the end, but it's very entertaining, well acted, and visually nice.

The Projectionist: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

NOW – PRESENT DAY

Locked inside the projectionist room, Porter sat on his stool and stared at the two film cans as if he could burn holes in them. Where in cripes had they come from? From the exact spot Alice’s letter had said they’d be. But how did they get there? He only walked past that shelf many times a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, decade in and out. They had not been there that morning or that month or that year.

Yet there they were on the shelf, covered in a thick layer of dust, a lattice of spider webs knitted from the top can to the wall. Even the cobwebs looked old. Good hell, the spider in the middle was a dry husk, also coated in dust after no doubt having died of? ripe old age. How long did spiders live, anyway?

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on the door. "What?" Porter said.

"Porter, you okay?"

"Fine. Go away, Teddy."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Leave. Me. Alone."

A beat, then Teddy said, "It is my theater, you know?"

"As if you'd ever let anybody forget that," Porter said.

"Come on, open up. I need to talk to you."

Porter said nothing.

"It's important."

"I'm sure."

"I'm selling it."

Porter scrunched up his face for a moment, then stepped to the door and unlocked it. Opened it and looked at Teddy. "Selling what?"

Teddy walked through the door, squeezed past Porter, and sat on the stool. "The Magic."

Porter stared at him a good thirty seconds, then said, "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Maybe."

"The hell are you talking about?"

"That chain out of Knoxville wants it. ReelMark."

"Bull hockey. They're huge megaplexes. What would they do with this?" Porter spread his arms, palms up.

"They're buying several old singles in the region, say they're turning them into art cinemas."

"But you can't sell the Magic!"

"Sure I can. It's mine, the business, the building, everything in it. Been paid for a long time. I--"

Whatever Teddy said next, Porter didn't hear. Decades of memories were playing through his mind. Magical memories. Him. Alice. Teddy. The people. Everything. It was the social center of the town, had been as long as he could remember. Alice. It was the passion of her heart. This could not be happening. He interrupted Teddy and said, "No."

"Excuse me?"

"No!"

"Listen, Porter, old buddy, we—"

"Get out of my booth," Porter said.

Teddy looked dumbfounded. Didn't move. Said nothing. Just sat there with his mouth half open, staring at Porter through bug eyes as if Porter were the one going nuts. So Porter took Teddy by the arm, guided him off the stool and out the door. Then he shut the door and relocked it. Teddy started making racket outside the door again, but Porter didn't care. He had things to do.

He pulled his old ostrich feather duster from its hanger on the wall and started dusting off the film cans. A special showing of Lawrence of Arabia was indeed just what the doctor ordered. Yes sir, it sure was.

The Projectionist: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Alice often didn’t know why she did the things she did. Or at least she didn’t know at the time she did them. She just acted. Or reacted, as the case might be. Later she would ponder the "why." This morning's activity didn't take much brain power to figure out. That Porter boy was cute and quiet and sweet and never bothered a soul. She hadn't met him before but she had seen him around a lot of times and she could just tell these things about people. So when she saw that skuzz Ledbetter trip him, well, she acted. Or reacted. Whatever. It felt good.

What was funny, though? When she met Ledbetter in the hallway between third and fourth period, she'd expected him to threaten her or shove her or pull some other caveman move; instead he turned his messed-up face away and moved to the other side of the hallway. That wasn't like the bully at all. Oh well.

She daydreamed her way through fourth period, then homeroom, thinking about the theater, so excited about Lawrence of Arabia that she could barely stand it. She also found herself thinking more than once about Porter, which was a little silly since she didn't really know him at all and he might not think much of her anyway. Pretty much nobody else at school did. And had she embarrassed him when she knocked the scuzz down the steps? That hadn't occurred to her, which was one little problem with acting in the moment. Then she remembered something even worse:  She had winked at him! Why did she do that? Now he might think she was cheap and easy, or maybe just plain crazy.

With these things on her mind, she had an even harder time tolerating Mr. Peterson and his geometry. (Gee-AHM-uh-tree is ver-ee im-por-tant!) As it turned out, she didn't have to endure him all that long. About fifteen minutes into the class, a messenger knocked on the door and told Mr. Peterson that the principal wanted to see Alice Pendergast. Mr. Peterson sighed as if the rest of his life had just been ruined and motioned for her to go.

#

Mr. Turner's office smelled like, well, like Mr. Turner. Which is to say it smelled like Brylcreem because Mr. Turner kept so much of it slathered into his hair. Hair he was always combing, which left the whitish Brylcreem gunked up in the teeth of the black comb. It was one of those things Alice couldn't help but stare at, no matter how hard she tried. It was just that gnarly.

"Alice," he said, "I thought we agreed last week that you were going to refrain from behavior that caused these little visits of ours?"

She didn't remember the conversation that way at all. In fact, it had been more of a speech by Mr. Turner than a conversation. Alice didn't say this out loud because she had found that correcting the faulty memory of these people wasn't necessarily appreciated.

"Well?" he said.

"What did I do?"

He looked at her, drew a breath like he was about to say something, then blew that breath out and ran his hand through his hair. This made his hand Brylcreem-shiny and of course launched another combing session. "Did you or did you not shove Hank Ledbetter down the front steps this morning?"

"Oh, that," she said.

"Yes, Alice. That."

She shrugged.

"That's not an answer," Mr. Turner said.

"I pushed him."

"Why?"

"He's a bully. He tripped a guy named Porter, on purpose. Made him fall down the steps. Then pointed and laughed at what he'd done."

"And what did that have to do with you?"

"It wasn't right."

"I ask again, Alice, what did that have to do with you?"

This was a dumb conversation and Alice was about done with it. She shrugged again. This prompted another deep breath and long exhale and hand in hair and combing session.

"Three days detention," he said.

"That's not fair!"

"You think not?"

"No!"

"Maybe you'd prefer four?"

Now it was her turn to draw a speaking breath and then change her mind and hold her tongue. She did not, however, run her hand through her hair. It would not have come back slick with hair grease, but still.

"You can't wander around executing what you consider justice, Alice. If you were concerned about what you saw, you should have told a teacher."

"What happens to Ledbetter for what he did?"

"That's not your concern."

"Who told on me?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"I have a right to face my accuser. It's the American way."

"This is not a court of law and you're not on trial, Alice. And for what it's worth, it's not a democracy, either. It's high school. More like a benign dictatorship," he said, then gave her a little smile.

"Dictators are never benign," she said.

His little smile disappeared. "Alice, you should go now."

So she did.

#

Her heart sank when she checked the bulletin board and saw that Mr. Peterson was the detention teacher that week. She slogged her way to the library to serve her time, settled into a chair at the detention table, and waited. (Maybe she was supposed to have gone back to the rest of geometry class, but she figured a detention hour with Mr. Peterson was punishment enough.) The bell sounded the end of school and a couple minutes later, she got a pleasant surprise when Porter walked into the library and made his way toward her.

SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS now live on Amazon!

I'm proud to announce that Seven Unholy Days is now live and available for purchase on Amazon! Here's what New York Times bestselling author James Rollins had to say about it:

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Seven Unholy Days

Anything you can do to spread the word will be eternally appreciated!

7: A Magical Number

BlogFans, prepare yourself for a Post O'Sevens. Yes, there's a Chapter 7 to The Projectionist waiting down below for you, but don't dare skip ahead or you'll miss some Good Stuff!

In exactly 7 days, my new thriller will be released. It's called SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS, or as readers have nicknamed it, "7UD." Here's what New York Times and international bestselling author James Rollins had to say about this one:

"A simple glitch in a power grid heralds the beginning of a madman's scheme to bring about a biblical apocalypse. Written in a staccato style that will leave readers breathless and flipping pages long into the night, Hatchett's novel, SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS, is a thriller not to be missed!"  - James Rollins

7UD is near and dear to my heart. I imagined the type of story I'd most like to read, then decided to write it. It's been circulated among alpha and beta readers far and wide, and the feedback has been encouraging in an overwhelming way. (Just think about what it must take to keep Jim Rollins up at night!) Whatever you can do to spread the word will be SO appreciated!

Now, skipping any more adieu at all, here is the cover for SEVEN UNHOLY DAYS.

Seven Unholy Days (an unputdownable thriller available on April 2!)

You guys will never know how much your feedback and encouragement means. I love you!

THE PROJECTIONIST

Chapter 7

Porter huffed the school steps two at a time, checking his watch on the way. Midstride to the top step, disaster struck in the form of Hank Ledbetter’s outstretched foot. Falling forward from the trip, Porter tried to right himself, overcompensated, and tumbled backward down the old concrete steps. His lanky frame had little padding and he felt every bump on the way down. At the bottom, lying on his back, he looked up to see Ledbetter at the top of the steps, laughing so hard he was bent over with his hands on his knees.

Then the greatest thing ever happened. A girl marched right up the steps, stepped behind Ledbetter, and shoved him down the steps. He landed beside Porter and didn’t fare as well, since he fell on his face instead of his backside. Now the girl was doing exactly as Ledbetter had, bent over, belly-laughing. Now a crowd was gathering, joining in, taunting Ledbetter, having a large time at his expense. But Porter didn’t care about Ledbetter or the crowd.

His eyes were on the girl, and what a girl she was. He had seen her around school a few times. Didn’t know her name, though. She was a year behind him. Her laughing face looked like sunshine, her eyes like blue stars. She had short brown hair and a dimple on each cheek. When she finally stopped laughing at Ledbetter, she looked straight at Porter. To be certain, his normal reaction would have been to look away at the speed of light when any girl looked his way. Especially when he was lying on his back on the sidewalk. Double especially when he got there by being bullied by a jerk like Hank Ledbetter. Triple especially when the girl showed up and paid back the bully for him. But he couldn’t look away. He was...he was...captivated.

She came back down the steps and reached down a hand to help him up. He took it, stood, still staring at her.

"You okay?" she said.

"Uh, sure, yeah. Thanks."

She stuck her hand out. "I'm Alice."

He took her hand in his and in that first split second of her skin touching his, he knew he never wanted to let go. "Hamlin," he said.

"That's a funny name."

"Huh?"

"I've never known a Hamlin."

"Oh, sorry. Porter. Porter Hamlin."

She tilted her head kind of sideways. "You sure you're okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, see you later." She smiled. Paused. "Can I have my hand back now?"

"Oh, sorry." Porter let go. Alice bounded up the steps, then looked back over her shoulder just before she went through the door. And she winked. At him.

At his feet, Ledbetter groaned and rolled over onto his back. "You'll pay for that," he said.

And for the second time in five minutes, Porter didn't react like Porter. Instead, he looked down at Hank Ledbetter, with his skinned nose and skinned forehead and skinned chin, and said, "I'll pay for you tripping me?"

"Damn better believe you'll pay for that bitch, then she will too."

Third time and the most radical departure imaginable:  Without thinking, Porter cocked his leg and kicked Ledbetter in the face. Not all that hard, mind you, and he was wearing sneakers, but still. Then he laughed and climbed the steps and went inside Diebold High.

#

Porter would later remember absolutely nothing about the rest of that day. This would prove more significant than anyone could have imagined. Ever.

The Projectionist - Chapter 6!

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Now that I'm a few chapters into this work, I had to pause long enough to come up with at least a temporary cover idea, something to give it a bit of visual identity. I hope you like it.

Chapter 6

50 YEARS EARLIER

"Ah-LEE-see-ah." Each syllable hard and sharp. That's how Mr. Peterson prounounced Alicia. Some people acted weird and that was okay by her; except her name wasn't Alicia. It was Alice. So it got on her nerves sometimes. She wondered if it ever irritated anyone else. Maybe Jerry (Jer-uh-MY-ah)? Or Billy (WILL-ee-yum)? Or maybe it was only—

"Miss Pen-der-gast, are you too deep in meditation to answer when called on?"

"Hypotenuse," Alice said. Mr. Peterson looked like he wanted to fuss at her for not paying attention, but since she had answered his question with the right answer, what could he really say? So he didn't.

He moved on to someone else and Alice zoned back out for the last fourteen minutes of geometry class. When the bell rang, she gathered her books and left, steering through her chattering classmates without a word. At her locker, she spun the combination, opened the clangy door, and stowed her books before relocking it. She had no need to tote books home. She had already done all her homework except geometry, and she would come to school five minutes early tomorrow to do that.

Out the door and down the steps of Diebold High she went. Four blocks later, she was home and curled up on her bed with the new book she had checked out from the library two days earlier, To Kill A Mockingbird. Mama said she couldn't read it, that it was trash, but Daddy said she could, so that was the end of that talk. She didn't know if Daddy had read it and thought it was good, or if he knew she was going to read it anyway and just found this way easier.

The main thing was, it was a great book. And she read in a magazine that it would be a movie soon. She hadn't even finished the book and already she couldn't wait for the movie. She heard someone clomp up the first four steps of the stairs, then she silently mouthed the words in perfect time as Mama hollered, "Alice Ann, time for supper!"

#

She left home the next morning at seven o'clock. Nine minutes later, she arrived at The Tennesseean, which was probably her favorite place of anywhere. She leaned up to the door and put her hand on her forehead to block the reflection of the glass so she could see inside the dark theater, then rapped five times on the glass. She didn't have to wait long. Mr. Dan showed up in the lobby and opened the door for her.

"Good morning, Miss Alice!" he said with the same big smile he wore every morning. "How are you this beautiful day?"

"Pretty good."

"Why just pretty good?" he said, his smile fading a bit.

"Have to get to school early to finish some homework." She scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out.

"Well, what a burden, my young one," he said, the smile blooming again. "Come on, I have something to show you."

Mr. Dan relocked the door and headed toward the stairway. Alice followed, taking in the smells she loved so much; popcorn, the carpet, all of it. At the top of the stairs they went right into the corridor, not straight ahead into the balcony. Then they turned right again and made their way up the cramped stairs to the room that said Projectionist on the door.

Inside the little room, Mr. Dan hooked a thumb and pointed to a countertop beside the big projector. On the countertop were two film containers, the kind that films got delivered in. Her face lit up. "What are they?"

"Don't know," he said. "Waited so you could open them."

Now her smile was as big as his. "Thanks, Mister Dan." Alice went to the counter, grabbed the wire cutters off the little tool shelf above it, and quickly snipped the twisted wire that sealed the top container. She pulled the wire seal out and tossed it in the trash can on the floor, then started opening the latches on the container. When they were all undone, she looked back over her shoulder and said, "Here we go!" She lifted the top off the container and her eyes went wide. Squealing like a little girl, she hopped up and down and clapped, then turned around and beamed at her friend. "Come see!" she said.