The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  THE AWFUL TRUTH ABOUT THE HERBERT QUARRY AFFAIR

  BY

  MARCO OCRAM

  A Tiny Fox Press Book

  © 2021 Marco Ocram

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by U.S.A. copyright law. For information address: Tiny Fox Press, North Port, FL.

  This is a work of fiction: Names, places, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Damonza

  ISBN: 9781946501387

  Tiny Fox Press and the book fox logo are all registered trademarks of Tiny Fox Press LLC

  Tiny Fox Press LLC

  North Port, FL

  To my lovely wife, Leona, hoping my repeated dedications do not make her blasé.

  Table Of Contents

  LESSON ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  LESSON TWO

  CHAPTER TWO

  LESSON THREE

  CHAPTER THREE

  LESSON FOUR

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LESSON FIVE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LESSON SIX

  CHAPTER SIX

  LESSON SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LESSON EIGHT

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LESSON NINE

  CHAPTER NINE

  LESSON TEN

  CHAPTER TEN

  LESSON ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LESSON TWELVE

  CHAPTER HOLD THE MAYO

  LESSON THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER LOSING THE WILL TO LIVE

  LESSON FOURTEEN

  YET ANOTHER CHAPTER

  LESSON FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER MOBIUS STRIP

  LESSON SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER CAN WE PLEASE GET BACK TO USING NUMBERS?

  LESSON SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LESSON EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LESSON NINETEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LESSON TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LESSON TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LESSON TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LESSON TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LESSON TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  LESSON TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  LESSON TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  LESSON TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LESSON TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LESSON TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LESSON THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LESSON THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  LESSON THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  LESSON THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  LESSON THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  LESSON THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  LESSON THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  LESSON THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  LESSON THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  LESSON THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  LESSON FORTY, AT LAST

  CHAPTER FORTY

  LESSON FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  LESSON FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  LESSON FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  LESSON FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  LESSON FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  LESSON FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  LESSON FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  LESSON FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  LESSON FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  LESSON ONE

  ‘Fiction is an outdated means of expression, Marco, ripe for innovation.’

  ‘What do you mean, Herbert?’

  ‘Have you heard of the artist Jackson Pollock, Marco?’

  ‘No, Herbert.’

  ‘When Pollock painted, he did not stop to think, he did not make preliminary sketches, he did not erase or revise a little here and there—he poured paint on canvas, straight from the tin, yet his works sell for millions. Tell me, Marco, who is the Pollock of literature?’

  ‘I don’t know, Herbert.’

  ‘There is no Pollock of literature—which is my point. It is your destiny, Marco, to break the mold. You have the ability to write as Pollock painted—instinctively, pouring words onto the page without thought or revision. You look surprised, Marco.’

  ‘Do some authors think when they write, Herbert?’

  CHAPTER ONE

  In which Marco names his first character

  in the manner of Jackson Pollock.

  As I started to type like Jackson Pollock, Doris Day sang Que Sera Sera in the pocket of my anorak.

  “TV personality Marco Ocram speaking. How can I help you?”

  “This is Lieutenant Como Galahad—Clarkesville County Police. You okay to talk?”

  Como Galahad?

  Cripes. Only three paragraphs in, and already I’d invented a character with a ludicrous name. That’s the challenge of creating a masterpiece without thinking—you never know what’s going to come out. Old Pollock must face it big time. Imagine he’s got Beyoncé round to have her portrait done. SPLAT—down goes a tin of paint, and there’s a stunning view of Mount Rushmore. Explain that to a disappointed diva. Well, no going back now…

  “Certainly, Lieutenant. How can I help?”

  “You know Herbert Quarry, the writer?”

  “Certainly, Lieutenant. Not a crime, I hope. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.”

  There was a disturbing moment of silence in response to my hilarious quip.

  “That depends. You been in touch with Mister Quarry in the last few days?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Not directly. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We might have exchanged an email or two—nothing more.”

  “Did they include an email from Quarry that read: ‘Lola, I need to see you. Come now. Wear the lime green dress’?”

  I pretended it did, wishing to nurture the flow of the dialogue.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Why would Quarry send you an email like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t try to be clever, Writer.”

  “I’m not being clever.”

  Which was true on several levels—one being that I’d probably forgotten some important detail of police procedure by allowing myself to be interrogated without a preamble about my rights and so on. Either that or I was dealing with a rogue cop. Yes, that was more like it—the Jackson Pollock technique was working after all. I typed another line of dialogue for my new character…

  “What did you think when you saw the email from Quarry?”

  “I thought Herbert had sent it by mistake. It was obviously for someone else.”

 
“You know who Lola is?”

  It was a stupid question—how was I supposed to know who she was when I’d only just made her up? However, Lieutenant Galahad wasn’t to know, so I responded with gracious equanimity.

  “I do not, Lieutenant. Perhaps you could say what this is all about,” I added, teeing up an expositional reply to let us all know what was happening. I awaited his big exposé with huge excitement.

  “This is a confidential police matter—I’ll ask the questions.” So much for the big exposé. “What did you do with the email?”

  “I replied saying I thought he’d sent it by mistake. Then I deleted it.”

  “What did you type it on?”

  “My iPad,” I said, laying the foundation for a lucrative placement deal with Apple.

  “What’s your relationship with Mister Quarry?”

  “He’s my mentor.”

  “Mentor, huh. What does he ‘ment’ you in?”

  “Writing. He’s my literary mentor.”

  “He teaches you to spell and stuff?”

  “Not exactly, Lieutenant. We go for walks on the beach, and I ask him questions about writing bestsellers.”

  “Okay, Writer, here’s how it is. We’re holding Quarry for questioning. There’s been a crime, and the facts fit him as the perp. We just need to check you out since you’re a known associate. This has been an unofficial chat, nice and easy. You get down here to Clarkesville with your iPad, and it stays unofficial. Or I come to New York, and everything gets official. Get me?”

  There was something about the way he said official which implied rough treatment of various sorts, handcuffs pinching my delicate wrists, sleep deprivation, nights in a cell with ruffians, rectal searches performed with insufficient regard for my hemorrhoids, the harsh lights of news-hungry press crews, my Bronx mom tearful as her boy is led away, scandalous intrusions by the National Enquirer, and countless other tribulations I can’t imagine quickly enough to type.

  I told him I understood.

  “Okay. Be at Clarkesville County Police HQ at three. Ask for me at the desk.”

  LESSON TWO

  ‘So, Herbert, my novel should be like a Jackson Pollock painting?’

  ‘Not quite, Marco. The chapter is the painting—a self-contained work which can be admired for its intrinsic beauty. The novel should be a collection of paintings—a gallery, if you like, in which the reader is carried, enthralled, from one object of beauty to the next.’

  ‘So, Herbert, my novel should be like a gallery of Jackson Pollock paintings?’

  ‘Yes, Marco. You look doubtful, Marco; what is it?’

  ‘It seems such a daunting challenge, Herbert.’

  ‘Nonsense, Marco. Have courage. If anyone can write a load of Pollocks, it is surely you.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  In which there is a fateful meeting.

  I took the ramp onto an expressway to Clarkesville, imagining the route to be southbound and christening it the N66—the first designation that came into my head. No doubt I would be slammed for my lack of research into US highway nomenclature, such being the tragic state of literary criticism.

  I was relieved to find that the car I had written for myself was not some knackered old Toyota but a top-of-the-range Range Rover in Midnight Black with Llama Tooth upholstery. As I familiarized myself with its minor controls, marveling at the smoothness of its tinted electric windows, I considered what sort of difficulty Herbert might be in. A violation of some traffic code, perhaps. A punch thrown at a love rival. A fracas with the paparazzi who dogged him and his celebrity consorts. Which of the many possibilities would my mind select when the time came to type it?

  With a token hint of realism, I slowed to join a line of cars waiting to clear some hold-up. A police car drew up beside me, its driver coating her thighs with crumbs from the handfuls of corn chips she was munching. Contemplating the officer’s nondescript appearance, I wondered whether Como Galahad should have some standout characteristics to allow the reader to form a vivid mental picture. Hmmmm. I would need to imagine something original but not too outlandish—perhaps a glass eye and rumpled beige coat. Or might he be the wheel-chaired victim of a callous gangland shooting?

  I was still composing variations on the theme of Lieutenant Galahad’s appearance when an approaching sign announced the Clarkesville exit. I eyed my dashboard to find the clock—I was two hours early for my appointment.

  To kill time, I bypassed the homely town of Clarkesville and followed a quiet road through trees fringing the ocean shoreline. Just beyond a viewing point, I took the familiar track that led off between rocks and curved round to a lonely beach.

  I killed the engine and sat in the car, suffused with a sense of shock. I’d stayed at Herbert’s countless times, but to see it now—the house Herbert himself had designed, the house in which we had spent so many glorious days—to see it festooned with police tape…it brought home to me, in a gut-wrenching way, that festooned wasn’t the right word, conveying, as it did, a sense of gaiety entirely inappropriate to the dramatic tension I was trying to build. Hoping my readers wouldn’t spot the clumsy word choice, I wandered through the small patch of garden, noticing a grave-like excavation in one of the flower beds. Muddy footprints led from the grave to Herbert’s porch, where a long-handled spade leant beside the door. Stepping through the crime scene tape, I felt behind the statue of James Joyce, where Herbert always left a key, and let myself into the house.

  Walking into Herbert’s study, I almost sensed his presence, as if the great man might appear and embrace me in welcome. There were the countless awards, the press cuttings, the photographs of Herbert with the actresses, models, artists, authors, poets, opera stars, pop singers, sportswomen, news anchors, heiresses and weather girls with whom he had been linked over the years. As my eye scanned the beautiful faces of Herbert’s exgirlfriends, it stopped at a picture I hadn’t seen before. I lifted its frame from the wall. It showed a girl of about sixteen in a lime green dress. A dedication in a distinctive hand read:

  To Herbert, with all my love, Lola.

  I scrolled back to Chapter One—yes, there was the quote from the email Herbert had sent to me:

  Lola, I need to see you. Come at once. Wear the lime green dress.

  I wondered whether I should remind the readers about it. Deciding not to bother, I perused the papers littering Herbert’s desk—the love letters, the draft novels, the uncashed checks for huge royalties—until I spotted a note in the same distinctive hand.

  Herbert, my love, meet me tonight by the bandstand. PS don't forget the condoms, as I don't want to bear your lovechild, and your repeated rantings and threats to kill me won't make me change my mind. I would rather die. I love you, Lola.

  I was pondering the implications of this remarkable memo when a giant black man stomped into the room, his gun covering my chest.

  “Down on the floor! Down on the floor! Down on the floor!”

  He bellowed the phrase as he stomped toward me, beating me to the ground with the impact of his words. His commands were redundant, however—I’d dropped to the floor at the sight of him, almost pooping my pants.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m Marco Ocram, the writer.”

  A hand patted me down before lifting me to my feet by the collar of my anorak.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” the man said. It was a good question—I had no idea. “Didn’t you understand the ‘do not cross’ on the tapes? I could’ve shot your dumb ass, and God knows what shit I’d’ve been in then.”

  I wasn’t sure his ‘I’d’ve’ was a sufficiently elegant expression for the literary tone I was struggling to set, but I decided not to push the point, partly because a nuanced discussion upon phrasing might spoil the pacey flow of the action, and partly because the speaker was about seven feet tall, about four hundred pounds, and about the meanest-looking person I’d ever seen—leaving aside my Bronx mom.

  I straigh
tened my anorak and tried to appear composed. “I’m a friend of Herbert Quarry’s. He always lets me use his house.”

  “I know exactly who you are.” He whipped out a badge. “Como Galahad, Clarkesville County Police.”

  LESSON THREE

  ‘Herbert, how should I reveal my backstory?’

  ‘How do you suggest, Marco?’

  ‘I could have a flashback chapter in which I explain how I was adopted twice, how I was brilliant at many sports until I developed my middle-ear problem, how I postulated a new fundamental particle—the tau muon— how my popular science book—The Tau Muon—was an unexpected hit, topping the bestseller lists for over a year, how I was a regular guest on network chat shows, and all the other things the reader might need to know. Would that work?’

  ‘No, Marco. You should tantalize the reader, revealing occasional glimpses of your background.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which Marco reveals untantalizing glimpses of his background and is taken into Como Galahad’s confidence.

  Without asking my permission, Como Galahad rifled through my satchel. Encountering the items within it, his face assumed three looks of varying expression: the first, prompted by a Barbara Cartland, quizzical and mildly censorious; the second, at discovering a max-pack of suppositories, somewhat more empathetic; the third derisive as he scanned my treasured photograph of Herbert—the one with the inscription ‘To my ever faithful friend, Marco. Always write the first thing that comes into your head.’

  “Always write the first thing that comes into your head. Huh. That could explain those dumbass moves of yours, Writer.”

  I snatched the precious picture from his huge hand. He, in return, snatched my iPad. Having asked me to confirm it was the device I used for emails, he performed some technical tasks I didn’t understand sufficiently to make up, then handed it back.

  “I don’t know what to make of you, Writer. You say you’re best friends with Quarry, but you don’t seem to know Lola Kellogg. Seems weird a best friend wouldn’t know about his pal’s love life.”