Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “Where are you seeing her?”

  “At her job.”

  “Great.” Simpson hopped up, ready to go like a little kid. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Five

  They left the building with the detective leading the way. Andy was waiting ever patiently by the limo, and nodded respectfully at his renowned passengers. Lowell winked at Andy before getting in. “Third Avenue and 83rd Street, please.”

  As the limo made its way uptown, the three rockers discussed politics, music, and the long-term effects of the 60s. Pete and Bobby thought it was the most important cultural phenomenon in modern history. Only Dickens played it down, calling it much ado about nothing.

  “In fifty years they’ll forget all about us.”

  “How can you say that?” Bobby seemed sincerely upset.

  “Because that’s the way it is. Music stars, movie stars, superstars, politicians, what’s the difference? There will never be anyone as huge and important to movies as Charlie Chaplin. Go into a Blockbuster’s and ask someone under the age of thirty for a Chaplin film. If he ever heard of him he probably couldn’t name a single one of his movies.

  “Man, things have changed so much already. The new stars are all invented. There’s no room for originality anymore, that’s a thing of the past. How long do you think I would last on American Idol?”

  Lowell listened to this debate with bemusement. Clearly the three had kicked around the topic before. Legacy, relevance. Something those who had lived in the limelight seemed especially worried about. That, and losing their hair.

  ***

  At 83rd Street Andy pulled over to the curb. They entered Cantaloupe’s Bar and Grill and sat at the otherwise empty bar. Lowell had hoped to have this meeting before happy hour, just him and the bartender. Now, he led an entourage.

  The door to the kitchen opened and an attractive middle-aged blonde came out. When she saw the four of them sitting there she was about to tell them the bar wasn’t opened yet when Bobby said: “Kitty, is that you?”

  She looked for a moment. “Bobby? Bobby James, come here.” She scurried over and threw her arms around his neck.

  Bobby turned to the other two. “You guys know Kitty, don’t you?”

  “I knew a Kitty many years ago,” said Pete.

  “Yeah,” chuckled Dickens, “I remember a Kitty. You mean this is Kitty?”

  “I know,” she said, “father time is a bitch.”

  Dickens hugged her. “Not for you. You look great. We look like hell.”

  “You, always the sweet talker. But thank you.” Kitty went around to her side of the bar.

  She took in Lowell. “I like the ponytail. A good look for you. You could be their manager, but I bet you’re the astrologer detective Lieutenant Roland told me about.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I’ve been retained to look into the matter. And since you were the last person to see Freddie…”

  “Except for the murderer,” she interjected.

  “Of course, except for the murderer. I thought it would be a good place to start.”

  “And what are the Three Musketeers doing here?” She smiled at the three.

  “They’re helping.”

  She laughed. “Sure they are. So guys, a beer or something stronger? No, I bet it’s seltzers with lime.”

  Barron laughed and nodded.

  Kitty turned toward the detective. “You should have seen them in their heyday.”

  “So,” said Lowell, “tell me about the night Freddie died.”

  “I told the police.” She stood a glass of seltzer in front of each.

  “Well, tell me.”

  She went over the events from the time Freddie entered the bar until he left several hours later.

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “Oh I made him remember.” Her laugh filled the room.

  ”Did you see anyone who might have put something in his drink?”

  “When you’re bartending with a crowd three deep you don’t have time to notice much. I wish I’d spotted something.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” said Pete. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

  “He’s right,” said Bobby.

  “Well,” she continued, “Freddie left about eleven. I remember some guy with a European accent leaving shortly after, but I don’t know if he even went in the same direction as Freddie.”

  “Can I have your birth information?”

  Kitty laughed. “You think I killed Freddie?”

  “I don’t know who did, but right now nobody is above suspicion.”

  “Sure. I was born July 16th, 1950, just about 3:20 a.m. according to my mother, right here in New York City.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re not going to write that down?”

  “I have an excellent memory.”

  “Hey, I’m getting hungry,” blurted out Bobby.

  “There’s a surprise.” Pete gave his old friend a light punch on the shoulder.

  Kitty produced several bowls of bar nuts and pretzels. “Sorry, guys, the kitchen doesn’t open for another hour. This okay with you high rollers?”

  Bobby grabbed a handful.

  “Listen, I have to get some things ready in the back. It was great to see you all again. Stop in one night. I work Friday through Monday.” She blew them each a kiss and headed toward the kitchen.

  The three stars chimed in like schoolboys. “Bye, Kitty. Great to see you too.”

  Lowell took out his iPad. “Okay, gents, I’m sure you have other places to be. Let’s wrap up our little escapade. Can any of you think of anyone who would want the three of them dead?”

  “Except for Gene, I can’t think of many who didn’t,” said Pete. “Rock ‘n roll isn’t the nicest of businesses and Freddie and Wally weren’t the nicest guys.”

  “Can we narrow it down a bit from the entire human race?”

  “Let me think,” said Bobby. “I did a tour with Freddie once. He really was a pig in every sense of the word. So I guess maybe one of the girls he used or a boyfriend, something like that?”

  “He said he didn’t want to include the entire human race, remember?” said Pete.

  “Is there anyone who might have had a more personal relationship with any of them?”

  “Freddie fired his road manager once,” said Bobby, “and it was ugly. But he got with another band soon after. I don’t think the guy would kill him.”

  “Hey, how about that piano player?” asked Pete. “Remember that whole incident on tour? Where was that, Philly, Boston?”

  “Buffalo,” said Dickens. “That’s where it happened, as if playing in that city isn’t enough torture.”

  “What happened?” asked Lowell.

  “Oh boy,” said Pete, “that was some business.”

  “Yeah,” said Bobby, “the fight, the cops, the threatened lawsuit, whew, what a mess.”

  “So what happened?” asked an exasperated Lowell.

  “I’ll tell you what happened. Freddie threw him off stage and nearly killed him.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Pete, “it was in all the trades. What was his name? Mark, Mike, something like that.”

  “Marty,” said Bobby.

  “Yeah,” said Pete, “Marty, uh, Marty…Winebeck, that’s it, Marty Winebeck.”

  “So, what happened?” asked Lowell, yet again.

  “It was the eighties,” started Bobby. “Freddie had hired Marty to play keyboards on the Rocket Fire tour. In those days Freddie and the boys were real party animals. After a show they would return to their hotel with broads, booze, and a big bag of cocaine.”

  “They were thrown out of hotels in every major city in the world,” added Pete.

  “Yeah,” continued Bobby, “they made the rest of us look like saints. Anyway, one night in Buffalo, Freddie got way too stoned before a gig. They had to drag him away from four naked girls and out of his hotel room. By the time he got on stage he was pissed off and wasted. The concert start
ed all right, and for a few songs Freddie kept it together. Then he started to crash. A doctor was usually kept on retainer who would administer one or another substance to level him off, at least long enough to finish the gig. But this time I guess there wasn’t anyone paying attention, and about the fifth song or so Freddie stopped singing. The band kept playing through the song while Freddie meandered around the stage. Then he went over to Marty, who he never liked anyway, and started busting his balls.”

  “How?” asked Lowell.

  “Well, you know, he started by sticking his tongue out and putting his hands up into Marty’s face. Marty tried to ignore him, which just made Freddie madder. Finally he kicked the legs out from under Marty’s electric piano and the thing collapsed on the stage. The band stopped and a hush fell over the auditorium. Then Freddie smacked Marty in the face, hard. When he went to smack him a second time, Marty put up his hands and defended himself.

  “He turned to walk off the stage and Freddie grabbed him from behind and threw him off the stage, about eight feet, I would think. Marty broke his leg, and I think a collar bone or rib or something. The concert was cancelled and that was the last anyone ever heard of Marty.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a story,” said Lowell. “How did Freddie get away with it?”

  “The power of rock and roll,” said Bobby. “They took Marty to the hospital and the cops were called. They interviewed Marty and Freddie and decided it was an internal problem within the band. They didn’t find enough evidence, so they said, to warrant a criminal investigation. My guess is that the chief of police was driving a new car within a few weeks.”

  “Huh, so if everyone knew it was Freddie’s fault, why did it hurt Marty’s career?”

  “Because Freddie had a lot of clout back then, and this business is a lot smaller than you would think. Most of the New York acts had known each other for years. Nobody wanted to get in the middle of a feud with Freddie, so they didn’t hire Marty anymore. “

  “If I remember correctly,” interjected Pete, “I think he was set to play with Redfish after his leg healed, and Freddie stopped it.”

  “That’s right,” continued Bobby. “Wally refused to hire him at the last minute. Marty tried to sue Freddie, but it didn’t go anywhere.”

  Lowell tapped in some notes on his iPad. “Marty Winebeck, any of you know where I can reach him?”

  They all shrugged.

  “Look,” said Dickens, “I’d love to play cops and robbers, but I want to get back upstate and play some music. Working on an album.”

  “Yeah,” said Bobby, “I’ve got to get out to the Island. We’re expecting company.”

  Pete looked at Dickens. “You have a name for the album yet?”

  “City Lights.” He beamed. “Chaplin’s best film.”

  “Listen,” interjected Lowell, “there may be questions I need to ask you guys.”

  “No problem,” said Dickens. “Here’s my cell number.”

  The other two also gave him numbers.

  They each made a quick phone call and within fifteen minutes three private cars had swept them off in different directions.

  Lowell watched them drive off, relieved. Free to work on his own again, he made for his nearby townhouse, straight to the kitchen. Cold beer and chilled glass in hand, he then parked himself in his favorite chair in the living room. In the past he would have headed for his basement office, but now, with his IPad, he could work anywhere in comfort.

  He tapped in the name Marty Winebeck and hit Enter. There was a botanist named Marty Winebeck, and someone in the Caribbean who ran a resort. But no music man.

  Chapter Six

  The long, summer holiday weekends in Manhattan have a surreal quality about them. While Times Square would be packed with tourists, neighborhood streets are deserted. Restaurants and bars are empty. There are no lines for the movies. You can leisurely dine al fresco at the café of your choice. And shopping in the supermarkets is a relative pleasure, except for the prices and the lack of choices.

  As Marty Winebeck walked along the empty sidewalks toward the subway it occurred to him, not for the first time, that this is what the city would look like after a plague, lots of real estate and not a lot of bodies to fill it. If the bird flu came I could probably get a real deal on a one-bedroom, he chuckled to himself, assuming I survived.

  This was a long weekend. This year July 4th fell on a Tuesday. Today was Monday and anyone who could get away with it was taking off today as well. It was a four day mini-holiday, five for those who played hooky on Friday. It was a very long weekend.

  Manhattan on a holiday weekend could be the most wonderful time, if you had money and people to spend it with. But Marty was broke and had very few friends. A musician’s life consists mostly of work, recovering from work, or looking for work. It often took longer to land a gig than most of them lasted. If you found steady employment you held on to it for dear life.

  Marty had been luckier than most musicians. Every summer for seven years he had played a weekend job in the Hamptons where he would pick up lots of private parties to supplement his income, a musician’s paradise. He had no contract with the club, so every spring he held his breath to see if they were hiring him back, and every spring they had, until this year. A new owner had brought his own piano player with him.

  It was the summer that had supported most of the rest of the year. He was able to survive the autumn in New York City, a less than fruitful time for live acts, if he was careful about spending his summer income. By Thanksgiving, Christmas parties would be booked and he could usually make it through the long, cold winter, living off the remnants of the holidays, just barely surviving until the summer began. How was he going to make it until Christmas? He couldn’t make it through July.

  He got on the Lexington Avenue subway at 86th Street and headed downtown. It was hot, ninety degrees plus, and humid as hell. The station was empty. The train was sparsely occupied, but delightfully air-conditioned.

  He reluctantly left the refreshing train at the 28th Street station and walked through the steamy heat over to 30th Street and 8th Avenue, entered a Starbucks and ordered a tall, meaning small, drip. He handed the girl two dollar bills and received nine cents change. He put the change into the tip container and took his coffee to the condiment stand. There he added two packets of sugar in the raw and some milk, stirred it all together and took a sip. He then took about a dozen more sugar packets and a large wad of Starbucks napkins and put them in them in his shoulder bag. It was the only coffee in New York that gave him the kick he needed. It galled him every time to lay out that much money, but if he was going to pay two dollars for a cup of coffee he wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

  He took his coffee and headed out the door, turned right and continued down 30th Street. He entered a nondescript building and walked through the lobby to a doorway in the back. He pushed an intercom, waited until the buzzer sounded to let him through the door and down a flight of stairs to Mars Recording Studios. This area of Manhattan had once been the center of recording and rehearsal studios, but rapidly rising rents and conversions of commercial buildings into condos had depleted the supply. Mars Studio was one of the few remaining from the old days. Their lease still had five years to go.

  “Hi, Eddie.”

  Eddie, the engineer and owner, was busy setting up the studio for their recording session. Marty had cut a deal to do all their in-house keyboard work in exchange for cheap studio time so he could record his own tunes. This was one of his sessions to work on original material.

  Eddie was on his back underneath the board plugging things in. “Hey, Marty. Did you see the paper today?”

  “No. I’m trying to quit.”

  Eddie laughed. “Well, I think you should look at this one.” He pointed to the table across the room.

  Marty stood up and walked across the room, coffee in hand. He picked up the Post and opened it to the headline. “Freddie Gets Fingered,” the rag said, in all its subtlety and
style. He sat down and read the story.

  “Holy crap.”

  Eddie stood up and twisted a few dials. “Didn’t you know him?”

  “Yeah, since high school.”

  “Jesus, ain’t that something? So, what do you think?” Eddie gave Marty the ‘okay’ sign pointing toward the piano.

  “I think it was twenty-five years too late,” he replied under his breath.

  Marty entered the recording room, sat at the Yamaha piano, and put on his headphones.

  “Sing a little for me so I can set the levels.”

  Marty put his hands on the keys and suddenly felt very much in control. It was a feeling he’d gotten all his life, whenever he played. He hadn’t been very good at sports, and was always a thin, un-macho type. His childhood was ruthless, constant ribbing from the other kids, a real outcast. It wasn’t until his eighteenth year that he began playing music seriously. The piano bench was the only place he felt truly at home and completely alive.

  He sang a few lines until Eddie interrupted him. “That’s fine. What are you recording?”

  “It’s something new. Put it on the disc for the musical.”

  Marty, like many artists, worked on several projects at a time. When inspiration or money was around you had to be ready to take advantage of the circumstances and move the venture forward. One of the ongoing projects was “The Musical,” an original idea about the music business, time travel, and the baby boomers, that he had been writing and rewriting for about a decade. It was close to finished. All he needed was lots and lots of money. At least his deal with the studio allowed him to record demos of the score, which he hoped he could use to entice potential investors. Even with serious backing putting together a musical was a long, tiring, daunting road that not many had succeeded in transiting. Without money you’re pretty much pissing in the wind.

  Marty played an F Major chord then he began to sing:

  “I came into this dream

  Such a long time ago

  It’s hard to believe

  I’m as old as I am…”

  ***

  At a quarter to five they wrapped up the session. Eddie made a rough copy of the work they had done that day so Marty could review it. He handed the CD to the singer and they said goodbye.