Murder in the 11th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “Those credit cards are made of paper.” The man pointed a gun at Lowell. “You think you’re smarter than me?”

  “I think my turtles are smarter than you.”

  “You need to be taught a lesson.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been telling my daughter here.”

  The man approached.

  “Dad?”

  “I can handle this.”

  The man began waving the gun it in Lowell’s face. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

  Lowell took his hand out of his pocket and extended his arm straight out. He was holding a piece of paper, which he let drop from his fingers. The paper drifted slowly toward the ground, distracting the gunman for only a moment, but that was all Lowell needed.

  Suddenly the gun was no longer in the mugger’s hand but in Lowell’s. He dropped it into his pocket.

  “You’re going to teach me a lesson?”

  The man dove at him, trying to punch Lowell in the mouth, but Lowell took one step to the side. As the man’s fist went past his face, Lowell grabbed the man’s arm. The man stumbled, but kept his footing. He went to grab Lowell by the throat with both hands. Lowell took the man’s wrists and turned them inward as he stepped backward, forcing the man to his knees.

  The guy looked up at Melinda, his face twisted in pain.

  “Hey, lady, what is he? A cop?”

  “No,” said Melinda, “an astrologer.”

  ***

  They were all gathered at the townhouse for dinner. Lowell told Johnny about the package the police had found, and Johnny vehemently denied any knowledge of it.

  “We believe you. We just need to find out who planted it.” Melinda smiled at Johnny. “Tomorrow, I need to see your neighbor, Paula Osgood. The prosecution has her on its witness list.”

  “Are you deposing her in your office?” Lowell sipped his beer.

  Melinda shook her head. “I thought it might be better to just do it casually. I told her I’d drop by her place. People tend to be more honest and open when they feel at ease.”

  “I don’t understand what she has to do with this,” said Johnny.

  “I have to talk to everyone on the prosecution’s list, and they’ve added Mrs. Osgood.”

  “She’s a busybody nosy pain in the butt that’s always complaining about everything and trying to start trouble with me. What does she have to do with this?”

  “That’s what I have to find out. They’re going to use every nasty means to try and destroy your character. My job is to be prepared when we enter the courtroom.”

  “Until you’ve worked in a bar, you don’t know what nasty is.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Melinda took a sip of her deli coffee, announced herself over the intercom, and walked up the three flights. A short, stocky woman with bleached hair answered the door.

  “Mrs. Osgood, how nice of you to receive me.”

  The woman snorted. “Like I had a choice.”

  She was wearing jeans at least one size too small and a tank top that exposed her generous midsection.

  They sat in the living room on the couch. Melinda turned on a small tape recorder and then took out her pad and began reading her prepared questions.

  “You know the defendant, Joanna Colbert?”

  “I certainly do. She lives across the hall from me.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of neighbor she is?”

  “It’s just like I told that prosecutor guy. She’s a loud-mouthed drunk, always coming home at two or three in the morning waking me up. She has a nasty attitude and brings home strange men. I’ve had to call the police several times complaining about noise and parties. I ain’t a saint, but there’s such a thing as being good neighbors.”

  “Mrs. Osgood, my client works nights. You are aware of that?”

  “Sure, like all whores.”

  “Actually she works as a bartender, often sixty hours a week or more, and that’s why she comes home late at night.”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Would you say that she has a temper?”

  “Like a mad dog.”

  “Has Ms. Colbert ever been aggressive with you?”

  “Lord, yes. Last year I was trying to take my garbage out and she almost threw me down the stairs. That’s when I called the cops. I had bruises for weeks.”

  “Isn’t it true that on the occasion in question it was you who actually began the altercation with my client? That you had started the day by banging on her door at eight in the morning knowing that she worked until almost four?”

  “She woke me up in the middle of the night. I felt it was only fair.”

  “And when my client asked you to stop, you threatened her, isn’t that also true?”

  “I did not,” said the woman, indignantly.

  “Didn’t you tell her that, quote, ‘Your nephew had “friends” who would take care of her’?”

  “I was afraid of her. She’s one tough bitch. Sure I told her about my nephew. She’s an animal.”

  “And wasn’t it you that tried to throw her down the stairs?”

  “I was the one that called the police, not her.”

  “But when the police came and heard both sides of the story they refused to press charges.”

  “They’re all a bunch of pussies. Said it was between us and we would have to work it out.”

  “In fact, you’ve called the police a total of fourteen times regarding my client. And in each one of those cases they left without issuing a single warrant or filing any papers beyond your initial complaint. Why is that?”

  “Because she’s skinny and has tits,” said the woman. “And that’s all men can see.”

  Melinda remained silent.

  “She’s also a hard-ass nasty woman with a lousy temper and no regard for anyone else,” continued the woman, her voice climbing to a crescendo.

  “Seems to me that you have quite a temper yourself,” said Melinda.

  “You try living across the hall from her, you’ll have one, too.”

  “I think you’ve always had this temper.”

  The woman leaned forward in the chair. “I don’t like being pushed around.” She glared at Melinda.

  “I can see that. Are you aware that someone broke into my client’s apartment and trashed it, tearing up virtually everything she owned?”

  “Really, now isn’t that just terrible.”

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “It just seems strange that you are so sensitive to noise and yet didn’t hear anything while her apartment was being trashed.”

  “I must have been out when it happened.”

  “Just one more question. You’d be very happy if Johnny Colbert moved out, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d be lying if I said no.”

  “And if she is convicted, she will no longer be your neighbor, isn’t that right?”

  “God, I pray that’s so. I hope they throw her in jail for the rest of her life.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lowell was on the office phone putting in his morning trades. “Buy ten November gold at the market and get me a price on 1400 calls.”

  “You bullish on the metals again?”

  “Somewhat. Keep an eye on the spreads. Once they start moving you can be sure this is going up.”

  “Okay,” said Roger Bowman, “I’ll watch it. How about coming down for lunch soon?”

  “Maybe when this trial is over. I’ve got my hands full right now.”

  “I understand.”

  “How are things down there?”

  “Well, I’m one of the lucky ones,” said Roger
. “I’ve still got a job.”

  “Bad, huh.”

  “Blood running in the streets. It’s the worst thing since ’29 and you, you son of a bitch, predicted the whole damn mess.”

  “Not me; astrology.”

  “Too bad nobody would listen, huh?”

  “I’m not sure it would have made any difference. Listen Roger, I’ve got a dilemma you might be able to help me with. You’re a bit of a gambler, aren’t you?”

  “I work on Wall Street, what do you think?”

  “I mean other types of gambling, you know, like games.”

  “I’ve been known to visit a casino on occasion. Why? Are you looking for a comp? I know some people at Foxwoods.”

  Lowell laughed. “Hardly. I have a client with a bit of a gambling problem and I’m trying to get a handle on it, that’s all.”

  “What’s the client’s thing?”

  “State lotteries, daily numbers, scratch-off tickets, and all that kind of crap.”

  “Oh boy,” said Roger. ”I think there’s someone you should talk to. Her name is Sally Rogers. We dated briefly about five years ago. I think she can answer most of your questions. She used to work for the state lottery commission.”

  “Who does she work for now?”

  “Gamblers Anonymous.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “Her friends started to call me Roger Rogers.”

  ***

  “Oh, hello,” she said, extending her hand. “Roger told me you were coming. Won’t you sit down?” She was an attractive woman with long brown hair and big eyes painted a subtle purple color. She was dressed in jeans and a peasant blouse, her feet were bare. Lowell smiled only a little, as his ex-wife dressed like this when they first met.

  “It was very nice of you to see me on such short notice.”

  “Don’t be silly. Anything I can do to help.”

  The apartment was a small one bedroom in a pre-war walk-up building on 28th Street off 12th Avenue. The floors slanted about a few degrees. The kitchen, what there was of it, ranged against one wall in the living room.

  Lowell sat in the only armchair in the room. Sally sat on the couch.

  “Roger tells me you’re an astrologer detective.”

  Lowell nodded.

  “Well, that’s an interesting profession. Are there many like you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How can I help you?”

  Lowell explained his situation, without mentioning his client’s name.

  “The state lotteries in this country,” she began, “are one of the unmentioned plagues that afflict our nation. Did you know that Thomas Jefferson refused to institute lotteries, calling them ‘a tax on the poor’? How right he was.”

  “So tell me a little about how this works.”

  “Well, the purpose is to raise money for education, although whose bright idea it was to connect gambling with teaching I don’t know. The plan, obviously, is to make as much money as they can. To that end the lottery hires people with all sorts of specialties, including advertisers, art designers, statistics experts, behavioral specialists, psychologists, and such.”

  “Psychologists?”

  “Sure. That’s what my master’s degree is in. They had one woman they got from N.Y.U. who specialized in addiction as a disease. After teaching for sixteen years and becoming an expert on what makes people addicts, she was offered five times her salary to bring that expertise to the lottery, where she advises them on the most addictive colors, numbers, and various games.”

  Lowell shook his head.

  Sally continued. “But they don’t really even have to bother. People will buy them anyway. These tickets are like a candy to anyone who is bipolar, has attention deficit disorder, is obsessive compulsive, angry, depressed, has a bad marriage or an overdue electric bill. The poor especially run for these things. They see it as the only way out of a terrible situation. But of course for almost all of them it just makes matters that much worse.”

  She let out a deep breath, as though she had held that one in for a long time.

  “They’ll run out in ten-degree weather with the flu. In the middle of a snowstorm to play their lucky numbers. God forbid it comes in the one day they don’t play it. They can’t pass a store without buying at least one ticket. They have to have every scratch-off that has their favorite number. It’s as horrible a sickness as I’ve ever seen. Do you know what the odds are of winning anything worth mentioning?”

  “I do.”

  “Disgraceful isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Lowell, “But I can understand the allure of a million dollar payday, no matter how small the chance.”

  “And then if by some miracle they do win something big, more often than not it ruins their lives. Now you know why I live in a walk-up and work for Gamblers Anonymous. I didn’t sleep the whole four years I worked for them.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you know how much money the state takes in each year? Almost four billion dollars. And that’s only the scratch-off tickets. Have you seen the people line up with their lotto and a list of numbers as two pages long?”

  “I have, actually.”

  “And they say it’s all in the name of education.” Sally shook her head. “It would be cheaper to charge the poor people money to send their kids to a good school than to steal it from them this way.”

  “There’s nothing worse than wishing for something you’ll never be able to get.”

  “They have a scratch-off that costs thirty dollars. Can you believe it? You want to guess what the payoff is?”

  Lowell shook his head.

  “A million dollars a year for life. A million goddamn dollars a year, for as long as you live. It’s astounding. And all the poor bastards run to get them.”

  She took a Marlboro from a hard pack and lit it, trying to blow the smoke away from Lowell.

  “Sorry, it’s a nasty habit, I know. When I started it was still cool. Now I’m like a pariah.”

  She took a deep puff and then put it out. “Do you know what front-loading is?”

  Lowell waited.

  “When they put out a new scratch-off game, they put a lot of winners in the front packs, especially fifty and a hundred dollar winners. That way a lot of gamblers win on it and the word gets out that this is a hot game. Of course, by the time you get to the store it’s already too late. The front runners have bought them all and yours are losers.”

  She walked over to the window, opened it and tried to push the smoke outside.

  “How badly off is your client?”

  “She has an addictive personality.”

  “Alcohol or drugs?”

  “Alcohol.”

  “It’s often one or the other. It breaks down the person’s resistance to their gambling temptation. Eventually you have to deal with both. But one thing at a time. The addictions are all really the same, anyway. If we can get them into the program, we can address the other issues in time. Go on.”

  “She’s deeply in debt to credit cards and seems unable to extricate herself from the situation.”

  Sally shook her head with great exaggeration. “Credit cards. Don’t let me get started on those horrible things. Tell me something. Do you have credit cards?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, of course you do. You can’t live in America without them. They made sure of that. And do you pay them off in total every month?”

  “Absolutely,” said Lowell, “without fail.”

  “You know, in the banking business they have a name for people like you who take care of your debts each month. You know what they call you?”

  “What?”

  “Deadbeats. But you’re in the minority. I have t
o do a lot of work helping my people with their credit cards and the debts they have accumulated.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The whole purpose of credit cards is to keep the individual in debt his entire life. That’s why they used to raise your credit limit even if you were already in debt. They don’t want you, someone who pays them off every month, as a client. You won’t make them any money. That’s why you’re called a deadbeat. They want overstretched workers, soccer moms in a rush, and families with expensive health issues, anything that will keep them in debt. And of course, that’s all changed temporarily, now that the bottom fell out. It all collapsed into itself, as was bound to happen.”

  Lowell nodded, remembering his own past, before his reversal in fortune, when he, too, was in debt.

  “And many of them, regular people you would never think of as degenerates, have a gambling problem. They take cash advances off the credit cards and spend it on lotto, scratch-offs, horse racing, casinos, and the like. We’re swamped with opportunities to win huge amounts of money. Unfortunately most wind up losing much more than they can afford. They destroy their lives with this garbage.”

  “What can be done?”

  “Thankfully there are counseling programs designed to help. That’s what we try to do at Gamblers Anonymous. It’s an addiction like any other and should be treated as such. It’s up to the individual to reach out and take the aid, but it’s there in most big cities.”

  “We always were a nation of risk-takers. I guess they’ve just tapped into that need and mined it for all it’s worth.”

  She shook her head in disgust and disbelief. “Did you know that there is now a Monopoly set that has no cash? It’s all done by credit card. You transfer funds from one player to another. As Steven Stills said: teach your children well. What’s happened to America? What’s the hell has happened? You’re an astrologer.” It wasn’t a question. “What do you think is going to happen to our country? Will it get better? My mother is eighty-five and told me the other day that she never thought she’d have to live through another depression. She’s scared, and so am I. Will we be able to stabilize things and regain some sense of fair play and balance, or just watch as the middle class and the American dream continue to deteriorate?”