Trafford Publishing: Faustus In Pasquack

Here is the full reference card for this book...

If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

Faustus In Pasquack

by B.B. Rotmil

320 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0165; ISBN 1-55369-352-3; US$28.00, C$30.80, EUR23.00, £16.00

A novel of contemporary suburban mores in America.

Read more!

about the book about the author sample excerpt - Chapter One catalogue info

About the Book

To avoid the humiliation and dishonor of discovery of a brief affair with a precocious nymphet Mayor Eagan of the small bedroom community of Pasquack was forced into an alliance with Provenzone (Satan), a colorful character of Sicilian ancestry who viewed sexual dalliances as a mark of one's manliness rather than one or morality. This alliance of differing cultures traps Eagan into an obligation which, according to Provenzone's set of values is a requirement of Sicilian honor but to Eagan's Catholic upbringing, is unacceptable. In the context of his societal mores, however, he gives serious thought to transgress even this hallowed code because he would rather be accused of murder than be tainted by the crime of ruining the morals of a minor - who also happens to be the classmate of his daughter. It is a psycho-drama of mystery and suspense tinged with humor and pathos. The author presents a believable story of saints and sinners in an environment rich with local color of the post war suburbia with its American angst about sexual doings outside the master bedroom, to bring the tale to a most surprising climax.

About the Author

B.B. Rotmil was born in Strasbourg Alsace Lorraine, in France on December 1926 from German/Polish Jewish parents. At the age of seven the family moved to Metz and on to Paris and then, at age 12 in 1937 to Vienna shortly before the Anschluss and Chrystallnacht. The father was an art broker who dealt with various clienteles in Paris, Vienna and Brussels. The family was caught in the horrors of the Nazi abominations and World War II. He and his younger brother were the only survivors of the family of five and, after the war, Bernard settled in and around Westchester and Rockland Counties, in New York, got his degree from NYU served in the US Army Corp of Engineers Technical Intelligence in Europe 1953-54 and joined IBM in 1957 from whence he retired after thirty years. He wrote several novels of which PASQUACK is the first to be published. He has extensive collections of essays and poetry and did translations of the post war German poet, Paul Celan. Some of his work has been published on his website www.bernardrotmil.com. He is also the editor and publisher of a Newsletter dedicated to the Jewish Survivors of the Holocaust residing in and around Rockland County. Bernard has also produced several noteworthy sculptures. Laying aside his tumultuous childhood and teenage years he prefers to write about his beloved country of America and in particular the lower Hudson Valley region and the New York metropolitan area. His characters are composites of friends he knew and are drawn from his experience as a corporate type, living and raising children in a bedroom community by the Hudson. In no way are these characters to be construed as representing real live people in the mode of Thomas Wolfe's pseudo-autobiographies. His stories are mysteries and suspense but they are also social commentaries which can be read at several levels but with all the pathos and ironies inherent in the human condition. His ultimate aim is simply that the reader enjoys his work and after reading the last chapter he closes and replaces the book on his bookshelf feeling he got his money's worth.

Sample Excerpt - Chapter One

It had been almost three o'clock that afternoon when he had received the "All's clear" signal and he had an hour and a half to drive into the city and park his car, arriving shortly before the end of regular office hours and before the security detail would take over and the after-hour requirement that visitors sign is in effect. His Company, the Compusys Co., was the landlord of this building and he had a security pass to enter it and that was the principal reason the Provenzones had asked him for this favor; he had owed them one. Thus it was that, like a robot, he had followed all stages of the sequence exactly as required but that he should find himself in that position; he the Mayor of that small hamlet of Pasquack, a pillar of that community, was unbelievable. If he walked into a publisher's office and offered him a plot like this one he'd be thrown out on his ears.
This was serious business and he was tense. He now felt these rare moments when every gesture and thought seem triggered by forces outside oneself, where free will is held captive by what has preceded and where all consequences now seem unavoidable; every thought becomes pre-ordained; every action is accepted as palpable destiny. Fear loses reality and surroundings become distant as if consciousness were constricted into an inner eye. It is akin to a dream yet it is within the reach of the senses and within measurable time.
Nervously, he checked his wristwatch.
It was getting rather late. He had taken an additional fifteen minutes to make it to the top floor and get into that janitor's closet right next to the small private room leading to the hall housing the suites reserved for executives of the Kelly organization. Not that he had decided to go through with this stupidity. He would talk to Kelly and get the right answers to who killed Michaels, and he could still bug out and leave everything as it was. He was no professional killer and he had so told Antony Provenzone and Antony knew it. But he did owe them a big one. Yet he was also willing to bear the risk of calling off this mission. He would tell them that he had gone as far as he could already and he still had serious doubts as to whether Kelly was in on this Michael Provenzone - the youngest son of Antony - rub out. He found it hard to believe that Kelly would ever get himself involved in that sort of action. Sure Kelly had a nasty reputation but not this. That's Hollywood stuff. The Provenzones would have to see it his way, else, fuck'em. He'd find another way to repay his debt.
Eagan allowed himself the thought, however hopeless, that he might even warn Kelly about the great danger that threatened him from the Provenzone family. They wanted revenge at all cost. After all Kelly was Eagan's best buddy in the old days and he had more that bound him to Kelly than what bound him to the Provenzones. All he needed from Kelly was some explanation as to who might have done the job and Provenzone could then take care of the bastard. He wouldn't need Eagan taking care of it and he would be even with Antony.
Kelly was known to transact his most discrete business late in the evening; staying in his office until as late as midnight and Eagan knew exactly where that office was; only two doors down where he now hid himself. According to the agreed plan it was absolutely essential that everything observe a strict time line and now he had a few minutes left before the moment of truth.
Almost dozing off he froze a moment. Out in the hallway he heard the sound of the cleaning woman dumping waste baskets into an immense wheeled garbage collector. Eagan checked his watch; it was about time to resume the sequence. He closed the door he had used to enter and he was ready to exit through the other door leading into the hallway where Kelly's office was situated. It was an auxiliary hallway which Kelly used to come and go in private, rather than be seen going through the main entrance and receptionist area. Kelly had to be security conscious and needed to be wary of guests as he had many enemies who put a price on his head. His receptionist was a male who also served as his personal bodyguard.
Eagan had reached a point of no return. If the cleaning woman came through to his side of the door he would have to act fast. He would have to abort this mission and escape from where he came in and come back some other day. A mistake here would be fatal. She was emptying the waste baskets and apparently had no immediate need to take this route and he felt relieved. He was ready. The rubber gloves were on and he had done everything in the right sequence; at least, so far. There was one thing he always felt confident about and that was his ability to communicate, to cut through all that verbiage and make sense. That's why he was such a successful politician. Sure, he hadn't spoken to Bob Kelly for years, but he knew Bob well enough. He knew exactly what to say.
"Listen Bob, the only reason I've come here is because you were my buddy in the old days and that counts for something. I know you got yourself in a lot of hot water but that is none of my business. Yea, I knew you as a kid and I am here to do you a favor and I mean a real favor; just keep quiet and do what I tell you and don't screw it up for the rest of us. I don't want that receptionist of yours in here." He could already see Bob Kelly's face, snorting sideways, "What can you do for me man? I told you I don't like jerks with sweaty palms that keep apologizing for being alive."
That's the way Bob Kelly communicated, and the best answer is to shrug it off. Just give him that half smile and just let it lay. Eagan had learned a long time ago that Bob Kelly, like most of these gogethers, A types that walk on water, are all very vain. You could reach them through good old blarney and that's something Eagan could hand out plenty. "Bob, listen," he might then say with the kindest voice. "You and I, we were kids together; we played on the same football and baseball teams, and we won us a few didn't we?"
"That's true." Kelly would have to admit to that.
"I mean, you were quite a stiffer in those days."
He could already see Kelly's eyes soften, it's easy to get to his ego, "Yeah, you remember that game with Ossining?" That was the game in which Kelly made a devastating open field tackle on a kick off and return. Kelly's eyes would shine with that fatuous pride and that's when Eagan would know he's got him where he wanted him.
He felt the Luger weapon weighing down in his right pocket. In the other pocket he had that bulky tube that he would slip onto the muzzle before firing, all in its appropriate moment and sequence if need be. He stepped back into the janitor closet to take another peek through the door to insure that the fat cleaning lady would be gone. Then he checked the other door through which he would make his escape.
He could remember Michael jumping into that swimming pool. He had been so carefree and happy. God, what a crazy world these Sicilians make for themselves; what a way to prove your turf! That kid had such great potential; rubbing him out just didn't make any sense at all. Eagan could understand why the old man was devastated and he really felt for that poor kid. But he had to wonder whether he, Pat Eagan, was doing all this as a payback for the Provenzones or whether his motives went much deeper than that. Was he doing it for the kids and his wife Rosie to extricate himself and them from a horrendous situation created by none other than himself?
Still, he would talk to him first, just to get a sense of what this was all about. He would be patient; he would give Kelly the benefit of the doubt; after all he knew the man rather well, although he hadn't spoken to him in years. Besides, he could not do this to anyone without some inner rationale. Yet he would not walk out of there without resolving the issue, one way or the other. Failure would endanger the Provenzones and his own family as well; this was no time to be wishy- washy; Kelly was ruthless and wily and he may have to be ready to take immediate action.
He was now in that small room and had only a few steps remaining in the prescribed sequence. It was time to take the Luger out of his pocket and carefully slip over that soft and porous bulky cylindrical silencer. He checked the ammo casing and unlocked the safety. The coast was clear and he walked into the hall and opened the door ever so slightly. He could see the back of Bob Kelly's head. His elbow rested on his desk while he held a telephone against his ear.
Kelly must have been on the phone for quite some time. He spoke in a very low, steady voice, but the words were not audible to Eagan.
Eagan pushed the door wider ajar.
He was still rather calm and collected now. There was no panic at all; he had known this guy and he would listen to his side of the story; Kelly would get his day in court; in Eagan's court that is. Hopefully, there should be no need for this rough stuff--no need at all--and he would only use it as a last resort. With confidence, he stepped right into the room.
The squeaky door caused Bob Kelly to turn around. What he saw was a gross caricature of the Bob Kelly he had known. That self-confident smirk that he knew had now become etched into his jowl oozing that arrogance of the practiced manipulator. Kelly's face had an intense, and decidedly mean scowl. It shocked Eagan. This was not that same Kelly that he had known; that obnoxious golf pal who needed always to win regardless of cost. This guy was a hardened criminal. In his eyes shone fear and distrust as well as utter contempt. That creature he was looking at now had the look of a hunted man, whose head had a price on it, placed there by the many enemies embittered by his traitorous venality; he was in fear and he knew he could be struck down by anyone at anytime.
Kelly spoke into the phone, "I'll call you back tomorrow," and he put down the receiver while ogling Eagan. He was groping for recognition. He knew the face but couldn't quite place it. "Who the hell let you in-- Mister?" he asked with rude voice. Then his eyes squinted and suddenly he had an idea. "What the-- you remind me of somebody I knew but I can't place who." Then it occurred to him. "Now wait a minute--you look like--yeah you look like an old buddy of mine- let's see, his name's Pat Eagan. It's not you Pat, is it? You're Pat Eagan aren't you?"
Eagan nodded in silence. His rubber gloved hand was in his pocket, gripping the gun. He brought up his other gloved hand to his face.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Pat? Don't you realize we got a receptionist out there so people can make appointments to see me? Who do you think you are, some big shit walking in like that? You've always been and you'll always be an ass hole and I am a busy man and I don't have the time for losers like you." His looks changed to fear, and his eyes darted. "Hey, what are you wearing rubber gloves for?"
There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Kelly was a killer. It was all over his contemptuous face. In his fanatical competitive quest to win it all he had become a cornered animal who gave no quarter and asked for none. He was at war with decency and humanity. You could plainly see it in these eyes and that voice; he had a hand in the murder of Mike--there was no question about that. He had probably killed many others. It was no longer a question of the mob controlling him; he was using the mob to do his bidding. Eagan realized he had to act fast. Kelly would call out and alert the secretary outside. If he came in this would be a shoot out he didn't want. He took the weapon out of his pocket and lifted his arm to aim straight at Kelly's head. He saw Kelly's eyes open in horror.
He pulled the trigger and all that was heard was a small dry pop. Kelly's head instantly jerked back and then froze, leaning sideways, resting on his left shoulder, a grin etched into a slightly twitching face. A thin stream of blood started oozing out of his forehead and onto the collar of his blue shirt. His face, turned slightly, soon obtaining that look, that odd, vacant, stunned look of death frozen in time. Kelly's body was now slouched across his desk looking up at him with that empty sardonic grimace.
A strange sense of elation overcame him, that same feeling he had long ago when he heard that gurgle from the stolen Village gas entering the tank of his VW. He felt the surge of regained manhood. He was no longer the Schmuck, the She-sha-moke. He had regained that sense of control he had known as a Marine. Eagan remembered that Jap who had lifted his rifle and was about to kill him. The feeling of mastery and control was the same and it was absolute. Yes, he had kept his bargain with Provenzone and he was now a free man. "Let's see who's a schmuck now!" He had done it all by himself. They would never suspect him; he the veteran politician and Mayor of Pasquack; three time re-elected. It had worked perfectly and this crime would never be solved. Now he needed to take it all in before things would start running away of themselves; maybe a night cap at O'Leary's and a good night's sleep will do; above all act your normal self and everything would be fine by tomorrow.
The final steps of the sequence would be crucial to the success of the mission because being caught or even being seen in the building would be a disaster. Using the emergency staircase to avoid the much used elevators, he went down fifteen flights of stairs to the garage now empty of cars. There, in a corner, was that emergency exit door that could only be used from the inside. It led to an ill lit side street where no one, in the darkness of night, would notice him.
It wasn't until he had performed the last phase of the required sequence-- dropping the plastic bag holding the murder weapon in the rear of Junior's car who was waiting for him by the New York Hilton--that he started to think about what he had done. Kelly had been his boyhood chum. They did have some great times together. What prompted him to kill a man; a man he knew that well. That question loomed increasingly larger. The thought now entered that perhaps he took Provenzone's word too lightly that he had murdered his son Michael. But that fact was never proven; at least not to him. Perhaps it was Kelly that needed his help to survive that jungle that he built and had trapped himself in.
Next, his thought turned to the old ladies at the Hudson Valley Nursing Home he drove to the church bingo games, of Gold's Candy store with Harry and his wife slinging the hash, of the guys at the Legion bar and the guys at the firehouse and the little church and yes, the good Father Moran. He thought of his Rosie and Mary and Jody. As he saw Junior drive off sixth Avenue in Manhattan, he stood there frozen. It suddenly dawned on him; the immensity of what he had just done gradually sank in. He had taken a life and thus forever separated himself from all of his friends and family; he might as well have shot them all. Just shot them all; that was the feeling he had now; that he had shot them all, one after another, and perhaps he should have shot himself also.
And then he caught himself. Now wait a minute...cool it ... perhaps Provenzone and all that vengeance thing and his idylls with Nicole had very little to do with it after all. Yes, Kelly was his boyhood chum but he was also his rival at golf and at varsity football. They were friends but at a deeper level they were lifelong rivals and he did carry a deeper grudge. Both were driven to outdo the other; to show up the other. You could almost call it a sibling rivalry. He had always thought that Kelly won by cheating; that he had lost it in the struggle to beat out his rivals and enjoy that luxurious life style, while he Eagan, chafed as a minor functionary at a big corporation. That's why he was ready for this morality play; a ready fall guy for Antony Provenzone schemes. Envy? It was much deeper than that. He began to feel that it wasn't Kelly that he just murdered, it was the projection of what he could have become had he had the guts to fight it out like Kelly did, take your chances and to hell with this Boy scout mentality. Yes, have the nerve to play by Kelly's ground rules. He now realized that he was still driving that 50 miles per hour jalopy while Kelly was in his Ferrari doing over a hundred. That Ferrari that he should have had and could have driven. He had just shot his ultra-ego or... to put it more precisely... his anti-ego. That face that he had pumped that bullet into, that horrid face gnarled by years of plotting and scheming to reach the top regardless of the cost, that face he saw grimacing in terror before he shot it; that face not only could be himself; it was himself! He knew it now because he had recognized that same face when looking at himself in mirrors and in glass panes of windows as he walked by.
Oh God, have mercy on my soul, I am on the way to damnation!
Then, like an echo, it hit him again. His eyes stared into the empty clatter of the darkened city street, the humanity moving about in their own little island of nothingness, into nowhere. He screamed out, "Repent-- repent!" And the still active people of the dark stopped and looked puzzled. They presumed him to be just another one of those street evangelists and they moved on. Then they saw him fall on his knees and clasping his hands in prayer, wailing desperately, "Mary Mother of Jesus, what did I just do?"

Catalogue Information