The Player

by Joe Cosentino

  I almost felt sorry for him. “Leander, I think you loaned me the journal, unconsciously hoping I would read your article and figure this out. I believe you want to stop your feelings of guilt from destroying you. Let’s go see Shawnee. You can tell him your story.”

  “I’m not telling Shawnee anything.” He rocked back and forth. “And you can’t prove a thing.”

  “Actually, I can. I taped your confession.”

  He stamped his foot like a child. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Leander, a filmmaker should know how easy it is to tape somebody with your cell phone. But I don’t have to use the recording. Shawnee’s apartment is right downstairs. If you’re honest with him about what you did to Alexandria, and I vouch for you, he’ll ask the district attorney to go easy on you. And Alexandria’s family can know the truth and begin the healing process. So can you.”

  He ran past me into the living room, searching frantically.

  As I entered the living room, I said, “You’ll never find my phone, Leander.”

  “You’re right.” All his exercising paid off as he tackled me onto the floor. Struggling, we rolled around on top of each other. I elbowed him in the stomach. As he gasped for air, I yanked his arms behind him, pressing my knee against his back. When he couldn’t get free, he slammed the heel of his shoe into my groin. I screamed out in pain. Leander dove on top of me and then sat on my stomach. His hand pinned my wrists together, and his knees held down my thighs. I tried to get free, but his rage seemed to make him even stronger. “I didn’t want to kill Alexandria, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. All she cared about was money for her due loans. I had to strangle her. The camera was my invention, not hers!”

  “It isn’t too late to turn yourself in, Leander. If you confess, Shawnee can ask for leniency.”

  “I’m not going to prison now. After all this time, with my new camera my film career will finally take off. And I can stop teaching self-centered, entitled, untalented college kids.” His face loomed over mine like a distorted image in a fun house mirror. “You should have let me seduce you into submission, gay boy. But now that you know my secret, what else can I do but kill you too, and then search this place until I find your phone?” His hands covered my throat. As his fingers squeezed the breath out of me, I tried unsuccessfully to scream for help, thrashing around underneath him, unable to free myself. He pressed harder into me, and I felt my body sinking into the floor. As his hands clamped tighter around my throat, my breathing was totally cut off. Tiny white stars floated throughout my vision. I thought about Freddy and how I really did love him. I wondered if after I was dead, we would be together as ghosts. Spotting the player piano in my peripheral vision, I used my last bit of energy to drop my fist onto the left pedal, then onto the right.

  I heard the opening of Gershwin’s “The Man I Love.” Suddenly, the lights flickered and the room chilled. I watched in shock as Leander flew across the room. Gasping and choking, I sucked in much-needed air and rubbed my sore throat. I saw Freddy knock Leander out cold onto the floor. Then Freddy ran over and kneeled at my side. Lifting me to my knees and resting my back against his chest, he said, “Are you all right?”

  Nodding and still breathing heavily, I rasped out, “You saved my life.”

  We shared a long embrace.

  Then I asked him, “Where did you learn to punch like that?”

  “Jack Dempsey and I—”

  “I’d rather not know.” I rested my head on his chest.

  He stroked my hair. “I’d like to know who I just knocked out.”

  “That’s my neighbor, Leander Bryce.”

  Freddy grimaced. “Ah, the one with the new camera. After reading Leander’s article, I assumed Alexandria was his financial backer. Following her pattern, I guessed she tricked him into signing over the patent and profits to her.”

  I said between gasps for air, “You left Leander’s article on the table for me to read.”

  Wrapping his arms around me, he said, “You had mentioned Leander was a film director, and he didn’t wave back to you when you happened to wave at him a second time on the night Alexandria was murdered. I figured out your view of Leander from his window was actually a film you were watching—while Leander murdered Alexandria in the hallway with the scarf he stole from Alexander’s hall closet.”

  I nodded. “After I read Leander’s article, I remembered the film equipment I had seen in Leander’s apartment.”

  “And I thought movies were just for the petting pantry.” He hugged me to his chest. “Why didn’t you call the detective in the building?”

  “I wanted to question Leander first and make sure my hunch was right. And to record Leander’s confession on my phone.”

  “A phone can record someone’s voice?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s the berries!”

  I threw my arms around his back. “No, you’re the berries, Freddy.” I let the tears flow. “Before you came into my life, I felt like a castaway shipwrecked on an island of my own making. I was alone, cut off, and lifeless. How ironic that someone dead would be the person to make me feel alive. And I am alive when I’m with you, Freddy. Perhaps for the first time. And no matter how many times and ways I try to talk myself out of it, the truth is, I’m in love with you.”

  “And I’m madly in love with you, dear boy!”

  After we parted from a long kiss, I said, “I don’t care if you’re a ghost, goblin, spirit, or monster. You’re the man I love, and I want to be with you.”

  After an even longer and deeper kiss, Freddy asked, “What about all of our differences?”

  “Opposites attract.”

  “But I won’t be able to leave the house.”

  I giggled. “We’ll find something to do around here.”

  “And I can’t talk to your aunt Nia or your pal Victor.”

  “I can keep you all to myself.” I kissed the cleft in his square jaw.

  “But I’m not able to eat or drink.”

  “We’ll live on love.”

  His handsome face lit up, and we shared a tender embrace.

  Still in his arms, I asked, “Did George Gershwin write ‘The Man I Love’ about you?”

  He smiled. “Not about me. For me. I was nineteen years old. Jacob was describing the man I would one day meet. The man who would become the love of my life. And now he’s finally come along. Thinking about you, I had loaded it into the pianola.” He lifted me to my feet and held me in his capable arms. “Andre, you’re totally nerts!”

  “You’re totally nerts too, Freddy.”

  As Freddy and I made out like teenagers, Leander moaned and stirred on the floor.

  Freddy said, “I’ll take care of him. You call Shawnee.”

  “I will.”

  He stopped and winked at me. “Well done, Watson.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Holmes.”

  We shared a quick kiss and then went to work.

  Epilogue

  THREE MONTHS later, I stood in my kitchenette basking in the revelry of Aunt Nia, Shawnee, Victor, and Alexander as they sat in the dining room alcove. The table was laden with Aunt Nia’s feast. The colors of the food matched her overlay print dress. Alexander was not to be shown up in his sister’s chartreuse satin gown. In contrast, Shawnee wore his dark suit, and Victor sported a black polo shirt and jeans. Shawnee lifted his cup of Organic African Nectar tea, and the others joined him. He announced, “To the wonderful woman in my life.”

  Aunt Nia blew him a kiss.

  Shawnee happily returned it and continued. “And to our wonderful new family. Good health and happiness!”

  Alexander added, “And to Denis’s new bestselling novel: My Brother-in-Law is My Best Friend.”

  Aunt Nia chimed in, “And with Leander Bryce in prison, to no more murders in my building!”

  Alexander and Victor chanted in unison, “Hear! Hear!” After everyone clicked cups, Alexander added, “Actually, it’s Victor’s building. Or it will
be one day.”

  Victor added, “Until then, I’m glad I have a job acting in your law firm’s role-plays.”

  The lovebirds shared a kiss.

  Freddy stood next to me in the kitchenette behind the refrigerator and said, “If we have to share my home, I’m glad it’s with such a lolapazaza group.”

  I kissed his cheek. Then as I brought Aunt Nia’s last casserole dish to the table, I said to my guests, “Actually, the original owner lived in the entire building with his family. This was his sitting room. I have his player piano.”

  Victor asked, “What was his name?”

  “Frederick Birtwistle.”

  Aunt Nia explained to Shawnee, “Andre’s been talking to Chester at the antique store.”

  Shawnee asked me, “What was Birtwistle like?”

  Back in the kitchenette next to Freddy, I replied, “Tall, very good-looking, from a wealthy family, and a bit of player. Until age thirty when he found the love of his life.”

  “Amen.” Freddy put his arm around me.

  “Who was she?” Shawnee asked.

  Freddy squeezed my shoulder.

  “Birtwistle was a cake-eater.” I explained, “Cake-eater is a Roaring Twenties term for a gay man.”

  Shawnee scratched his head. “Do gay people like cake?”

  Aunt Nia glanced at him. “If so, we must all be gay.”

  They shared a laugh.

  Alexander gasped in delight. “The original owner of our building was gay!”

  “How perfect!” Victor added.

  As the others began serving themselves, I rested my head on Freddy’s shoulder. “Yes, it’s absolutely perfect. As a matter of fact, I feel Freddy’s presence with us right now.”

  Shawnee lifted his cup again. “To Freddy Birtwistle, the original owner of our humble home.”

  The others joined him. “To Freddy!”

  I echoed the group. “To Freddy.”

  Freddy took me in his arms and we shared a lengthy kiss. When we parted he said, “You’re the bee’s knees.”

  I replied, “And you’re the berries.”

  Aunt Nia called out, “The berries are for dessert. Come to the table now, Andre.”

  Freddy and I laughed in each other’s arms.

  The Country House

  Chapter One

  FREDDY AND I sat on the living room chaise, gazing out my balcony window at the sunset swirls of burgundy, peach, and sunflower. It had been a year since we’d first met. I had aged to twenty-six. However, my ghostly lover still appeared exactly as he had at the time of his death in 1935 at thirty years old: tall, lean, with slicked-back black hair, a thin nose, and peaches and cream skin. Though I wore a long white T-shirt and briefs, Freddy was dressed as usual in his black pinstriped suit with vest, white silk shirt, suspenders, bow tie, silk hanky, shined black patent leather shoes, and white spats.

  I had met Freddy after discovering an old player piano in the basement of my apartment building—Freddy’s old home. By pedaling the pianola, I somehow summoned the ghost of Freddy Birtwistle, the wealthy Roaring Twenties playboy. The fact that Freddy as a ghost couldn’t eat, drink, or leave my Art-Deco-style apartment didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He asked, “Did you enjoy the dinner I prepared for you?”

  “It was wonderful,” I replied.

  Over the year, Freddy and I had carefully navigated through uncharted territory. We had solved a murder mystery in the building, and for the first time in each of our lives fallen in love. Then there was the whole man-in-a-relationship-with-a-ghost thing. Since I am the only one who can see or hear Freddy, socializing with others is a bit of a challenge. However, our time alone together has been romantic and perfect.

  Freddy rested a strong, loving arm around my shoulders. “Happy one-year anniversary, my love.”

  “Happy anniversary, Freddy.”

  We shared a sweet kiss.

  “If I could drink, we would be floating in champagne.”

  “You intoxicate me enough.” I kissed his smooth cheek.

  “Living here with you in my family’s home, I no longer feel like a bindle punk.”

  I recalled that was Roaring Twenties speak for “nomad.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “But I wonder about my country house.”

  I cocked my head at him. “I thought your family lived here in Hoboken, close to where your father made his fortune in the railroad business.”

  “The New Jersey house was our city house. The country manse was in Cold Spring, New York.”

  “What happened to your country house after you were shot by that woman’s misinformed jealous husband?”

  He shrugged his large shoulders. “I assume the same bluenose cousin who inherited this house also snatched that one.”

  “Did you have many cousins?”

  “Two on my mother’s side: my aunt’s daughter, Tilly, and my uncle’s son, Royce. He was a greedy little bugger. Royce took over the railroad business after my father passed away and I declined the chairmanship. It would be just like him to inherit and sell my family’s houses to the highest bidder.”

  “Didn’t your father have any siblings?”

  “Just one, my father’s younger brother, Niles. My father spoke of him often with the greatest of reverence. Niles and my father were inseparable as lads. When they were out boating during a storm, the boat turned over. Niles, a stronger swimmer than my father, saved Dad and swam him to shore. Niles was also a piano player. Dad said I inherited my love of music from my uncle.”

  “Didn’t Niles marry and have children?”

  “No.”

  My gaydar antenna shot up. “Were you and your Uncle Niles close?”

  “I never knew him. He died of heart failure before I was born.”

  It dawned on me. “Freddy, I don’t know your parents’ names.”

  He smiled in recollection. “Amelia and Leighton.”

  “And your sister was Charlotte. What beautiful names.”

  “Beautiful names for beautiful people whom I miss very much, especially when I think back to our country home.” He smiled nostalgically. “I recall my mother playing the piano in the sitting room as my father greeted guests for soirees lasting long into the night.” Smiling proudly, he added, “After they were gone, I continued the tradition of hosting extravagant balls there.”

  “I wonder if your country house has been converted into an apartment building like this one.”

  Freddy unveiled his row of white teeth. “Would your magic box be able to tell us?”

  “Probably.”

  “Andre, you’re the bee’s knees!” His soft ruby lips kissed my cheek.

  I made my way past the player piano, through the dining alcove and kitchenette, and into the bedroom, proud my furnishings from the local antique store maintained the Art Deco period style of the building. Sitting at my desk, I turned on my laptop, which Freddy called a magic box. “What was the address?”

  Looking over my shoulder, Freddy dictated everything he knew about his old residence.

  “I found it!” Reading from the screen, I announced to Freddy, “Your cousin sold the country house to a wealthy family. It was later purchased by a couple who converted it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

  Freddy gasped. “Is that a creep joint?”

  “No, it’s not a brothel! A bed-and-breakfast is a mini hotel, where guests get a room with a bed, and breakfast in the morning.”

  “That sounds like a brothel to me. Or a night in my old friend Mae West’s manse.”

  I continued reading. “The bed-and-breakfast was purchased a year ago by Cynthia and James Russell, the current innkeepers.”

  “Andre, you’re the eel’s hips!” He kissed the top of my head. “My room was the last on the second floor. Of course, I had a player piano there too.” He giggled. “I entertained scads of famous celebrities in that house. Henry Ford, missing me terribly, drove up on weekends. Jack Dempsey tried to impress me by shadow-boxing in the garage. F. Scott Fit
zgerald wrote novels about me in the study while Zelda threatened suicide in the kitchen. Old Thomas Edison phoned constantly demanding to speak with me. J. Edgar Hoover, in a jealous rage, had the house bugged.” He kissed my nose. “But none of them meant anything to me. No man stole my heart until I met you. However, since the house has sentimental value for me, let’s visit at once.”

  I cleared my throat. “Freddy, you can’t leave this apartment, because it was your living quarters, remember?”

  “Bronx cheer!” He slumped onto the bed. “Living here with you has been nerts, but I miss my parents and my sister. Visiting the old country home would bring back fond memories of the time before the influenza took them from me.”

  As an elementary school music teacher, I was free to travel, since it was late June. “I could visit for a couple of days and let you know what I find.”

  Freddy rose from the bed. “Would you?”

  I nodded.

  He lifted me to my feet and threw his arms around me. “Now you’re in the trolley!”

  “But I won’t be on a trolley, Freddy. I’ll need to take a train. Two actually.” Glancing back at the computer screen, I said, “Luckily, your old home, like this one, isn’t far away from the train station.”

  “My father would have it no other way.” He winked. “Neither would my suitors from New York City.”

  Not letting Freddy see my jealous streak, I clicked on the B and B’s website.

  Freddy grinned at the exterior of his old home. “It hasn’t changed at all! Does the magic box have any pictures of the inside?”

  I brought up the first picture.

  “That’s the grand staircase!”

  I clicked on the next photo.

  “Our sitting room!” Freddy was ecstatic. “Are there any more?”

  I clicked on the link labeled “sample bedroom—the art room.”

  Freddy cooed. “My sister’s room! Lovely in white lace. Just like Charlotte.”

  I noticed framed antique paintings on the walls and an easel in the corner of the room.