Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  He had spent twenty years trading commodities and building up a massive fortune in cash and favors. He was quite willing to compromise what others thought of as morals. He had no such delusion. The world was a game to be won. If you didn’t make a hell of a lot of money, you lost. And ever since he got fat at twelve, Fat Jimmy hadn’t lost at anything. He only played games he knew he could win.

  He was one of the first tenants of the Roadway complex in Battery Park City. The terrace was the main reason. Almost as big as the living room, it was decorated by one of the top designers in the city, with a large table, a bar, and deck chairs. Exotic plants and flowers rimmed the edge. Six months a year he could barbeque and entertain his business associates and the few friends he allowed himself. Most of the time he just liked to lie under the huge umbrella, watch the markets on TV, and eat.

  When his nephew was born, Fat Jimmy was twenty years old and already two hundred fifty pounds. His sister adored Jimmy and named her child after him. As the nephew grew up and the uncle grew fatter the family began calling them Fat Jimmy and Skinny Jimmy. The names stuck. Only the family had the nerve to call him Fat Jimmy to his face, one of the many reasons he avoided family reunions. Sometimes they would call him Uncle Fatty when Skinny Jimmy was around. Fat Jimmy hated it. And he hated his nephew.

  “So now what do you want me to do, Uncle Jimmy?”

  “Nothing. I’ll handle this from now on.”

  Skinny Jimmy was about to say something. For months he’d wanted to tell off his uncle, but he was scared of the man and could never confront him. “You know…” he began.

  His uncle turned and faced him. “Did you have something you wanted to say?”

  “I…I…I…”

  “Yes, I see, I…I…I…Was that all?” He turned dismissively and continued looking at the river.

  He nephew walked back into the apartment. He went into the kitchen, overstuffed, just like everything else in his uncle’s life, and took a bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer. He poured a healthy double into a soda glass and drank it in one shot. He coughed once and then put the bottle back.

  “I’ll take care of it, you stuffed toad,” he said to the refrigerator. Then he walked out the front door.

  Fat Jimmy got up from the chair and shuffled his great bulk into the apartment. It was time to shower, a task he didn’t look forward to.

  When he was done he put on his huge bathrobe and walked back out to the terrace. Once outside he donned a pair of shorts and lay down. The sun would dry him quickly enough. He picked up the phone and dialed his nephew.

  “Hello, uncle. What do you want now?”

  Fat Jimmy didn’t like his tone of voice, but he wasn’t interested in getting into it with the boy at the moment. “I want to go uptown this afternoon, and I want you with me.”

  “Yes, uncle, I’ll be there. What time?”

  “Two o’clock. And bring me a napoleon. Get it in Little Italy at Bella Dora’s.”

  Fat Jimmy always wanted to be in the mob, he just didn’t have the balls to do what was required. When the other kids were rooting for Eliot Ness he was rooting for Al Capone. He’d known John Gotti, senior and junior. But he wasn’t cut out for it. His size would’ve made it difficult to dodge the occasional bullet often associated with that lifestyle, so he settled for running his little empire from this tiny piece of the world at the very tip of Manhattan. His years of trading commodities had shown him where the real money is. The biggest crooks didn’t squeeze people for a few bucks or break legs in a dark alley loan sharking. They did it in a suit in front of everybody. And they did it on Wall Street.

  So here he was, a wealthy man with a bit of power all about to go down the toilet because of his imbecilic nephew.

  He walked over to his desk, opened the top drawer, and took out his gold trading badge, which used to be worth something in the glory days of commodities trading. It took him ten years of hard work and bad feet to earn it. It allowed him to trade in all the pits from coffee, sugar, and cocoa, to cotton, oil, gas, gold, anything. In his heyday on the floor, traders would run out of a pit when they saw Jimmy bringing paper in. His enormous size would literally push half a dozen brokers out of the trading area during a busy session. People complained to the board, but what can you do? They couldn’t fine him for being fat and they couldn’t prevent him from trading.

  But now most of the pits were closed anyway, having gone electronic, and the others were sure to follow soon. People would trade the world’s wealth from their own offices. The concept of open free-enterprise had taken a strange twist in this new world of computers. He had sold most of his seats recently when the mergers and buyouts took place and the prices went through the roof. But that wasn’t enough for him. The anger and frustration he had felt most of his life could not be quelled with something as simple as money. He needed to feel powerful and to be feared. On the floor he had felt both. Now he only felt lonely and impotent.

  At a quarter to two the nephew arrived. He let himself in and went out to the patio and joined his uncle, who had fallen asleep on the lounge chair.

  “Uncle Jimmy, wake up.”

  Jimmy stirred. “Huh? What time is it?”

  “Almost two.”

  “What? Why didn’t you wake me earlier? I’ve got to get dressed.”

  He waddled into the apartment and entered his bedroom just as the buzzer rang. “Pick up the house phone in the kitchen,” he shouted, “and tell them we’ll be right out.”

  Skinny Jimmy did so and then went out to the terrace to make himself a drink. He decided to switch to Tangueray and tonic, mixed himself a strong cocktail, and added a lime wedge. He took a sip. Refreshing.

  A few minutes later Fat Jimmy came out onto the terrace. The transformation was remarkable. There stood a large, but extremely well-dressed man. The suit was cream-colored, with a pink handkerchief, the shirt light beige, the shoes and socks a matching dark brown, and the hat an off-white panama. He smelled of lilacs and gardenias and seemed to practically dance his way onto the patio.

  “Let’s go, we’ve got people to see.”

  His nephew downed the drink in two gulps and followed him out the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marty couldn’t hide the awe Lowell’s limousine instilled. It had more amenities than his apartment and was almost as big. Andy dropped them off at Marty’s apartment. Marty bounded up the flights of stairs, and Lowell took them more slowly. Despite all of his walking, stairs got to his upper leg muscles.

  Lowell waited until they were settled in Marty’s room. He wanted the musician to feel at ease and unthreatened.

  Marty gestured for him to sit on the futon.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” said Lowell.

  “Yeah, shit happens.”

  “They took your stash, huh?”

  The musician laughed. “Oh don’t worry about that. I learned years ago never to put all your eggs in one basket.” He walked over to the wall next to his computer table and removed a small piece of the wood molding. Behind it was a space containing another small box, which he took out, replacing the piece of wood. “You won’t tell your friend the lieutenant about this, will you?”

  “Scout’s honor.” Lowell raised three fingers.

  “Yeah, live long and prosper.”

  He opened the box and took out a small baggie and a pipe. After loading the substance in, he took a lighter from his pocket and inhaled what looked to the astrologer like a very large amount. He held it for a few seconds, and then blew it out. A moment later he coughed a few times. “Boy, I needed that! Want a hit?” He extended his arm and offering the pipe to Lowell.

  Lowell laughed and shook his head. “No thanks.”

  “You ever smoke?” Marty took another puff.

  “Sure, years ago. But I don’t think it would fit my lifestyle now.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, feel free. You know, in the early days you could smoke this shit and it would take away your memory, at
least temporarily. Everybody that worked for the government or the AMA said it would lead to senility and make you stupid. But, hell, even that was a lot of bullshit. Turns out marijuana actually prevents Alzheimer’s.”

  He took another puff. “Hell, it even shrinks lung cancer in rats. They’re studying it now to see if it can be used as a tumor blocker. But it’s still illegal.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” said Lowell.

  “What’s to tell?” He waved his arms around. “What you see is what there is. I’m a poor, aging musician with just enough faith or stupidity to continue to struggle.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “What am I going to do, work in a shoe store?”

  “A lot of people do.”

  “Yes, and those are the ones who come to the clubs and concert halls after work and listen to people like me. This is what I do. I can’t suddenly become someone else. Do you think I’m happy living like this? I’m middle-aged, I have no health insurance, no retirement fund, and at the moment, no job. Of course I want more from my life.”

  There was a mirror hanging over the kitchen sink. He walked over to it.

  “I like him.” He pointed at the mirror. “I really do. He’s a nice guy, doesn’t hurt children or dogs, and he shouldn’t have to worry about money as much as he does. There are times I look at him and apologize for not being able to give him a better life. I know that probably sounds pretty strange to you, disassociating me from myself, but it’s true. If I could, I would take a job that would allow him, the artist, to work and create without worry. But I can’t split myself in two, as much as I wish I could. So I struggle with the basics in life and continue to write songs and sing. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with success or failure anymore. I’m way past all of that. It’s just stubbornness and the inability to accept that forty years of struggle was all for nothing.”

  He got up and walked over to the window and looked out on the deserted street. “They’re planning to truck Manhattan’s garbage across 72nd Street and up York Avenue twenty-four hours a day and ship it on out of the city on barges right up the street from here. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I am aware of the mayor’s long-term plans for the city.”

  “Do you approve?” Marty’s was ready for a fight.

  “No, I do not approve. I think that in his zeal to modernize New York and leave behind a legacy to satisfy his humongous ego, the mayor has handed the city over to the landlords and banks, and destroyed the very flavor and diversity of Manhattan. And I believe that returning the garbage to this part of the city will quite simply destroy this neighborhood and much of the Upper East Side.”

  “Hmm…” The wind sucked out of his fury…“I figured you for one of them. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Why, because I have money?”

  Marty nodded.

  “Being rich isn’t a crime in America.”

  “No, being poor is.”

  The air conditioner began to grumble. Marty walked over to it and hit it on the side. The noise got louder for a moment and then ceased.

  “If your life was so hard, why didn’t you change direction?”

  “You can’t give yourself a time limit in the arts. You have to do what you think is right until one day it’s wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lowell.

  “When I first came to New York in the seventies the first place I headed for was the Village. I had read everything there was to read about Phil Ochs, Eric Anderson, and especially Dylan. Even though I was a classical and jazz trained pianist my heart was in folk-rock. I went to Folk City every Monday night for years to play my original songs on their open-mic night. I was so good I was allowed to play three songs. Most of the acts only got to do two. Then I would walk the several miles home, often in the rain or snow, to save the bus fare. It would often take two hours or more. But I didn’t care. I thought it would fuel my art.”

  “Did it?”

  “Who knows? I had a lot of colds during those years. Eventually I did headline there, and I played the Bitter End, Kenny’s Castaway’s, and all the Village hotspots. Then I moved uptown to where they said the money was. Only I never could find it. I learned to eke out a living as a piano player and kept waiting for someone to notice me. I was always behind in my bills. I got evicted half a dozen times, and tossed out of every bank in Manhattan. One day I looked in the mirror and saw an aging hippie looking back. That’s when I realized I was out of time.”

  “What about that thing with Freddie, what really happened?”

  “Freddie was a jerk. He was always a jerk. Did you know that I knew him in high school, long before he became Rocket Fire? He was a prick then, too. He would take any woman he wanted, even if she was his best friend’s girl. He didn’t care. They liked Freddie, and he took advantage of any woman who didn’t scream rape loud enough. He was a pig.”

  “So why did you work with him?”

  “I don’t think many people realize how hard it is to be in the arts. In order to make a living, a musician must work all the time, unless you become famous. When you’re offered a gig like playing keys for Rocket Fire, with a steady income and guaranteed months on the road, you jump at it.”

  “Freddie must have wanted to help you out.”

  “Freddie never wanted to help anyone but Freddie. It was the drummer, Johnny Kanter, who recommended me for the gig. He and I were friends. We used to jam together late at night at the clubs and dug each other’s sound. Freddie didn’t want to bring me in at all. They had a big fight about it, but they couldn’t get anyone else in time, so Freddie agreed. Then in Buffalo he hooked up with Mike Tanner, the keyboardist from the Mollies. The band had just broken up and he was looking for a job, so Freddie threw me off stage and hired Mike. Nice business.”

  “Did you ever try to do anything else?”

  “Sure. I was a bicycle messenger, cookie salesman, bartender, a singing waiter, secretary, dishwasher, delivery boy, clothing salesman, a cab driver, a fruit packer, a short order cook, and a truck driver.”

  “Wow,” said Lowell, “that’s a lot of jobs.”

  “Yeah. And the next year…” He laughed.

  “If you did win the money, what would you do with it?”

  “If you had asked me ten or even five years ago there would be no doubt, I would put it all into my musical.”

  “You wrote a musical?”

  The musician nodded. “Had to. There’s no place in rock and roll for me now.”

  “And now what would you do with the money?”

  “Well, hell, now it’s worth so much money I could buy a home and put on the play. I haven’t got that much time left, so it’s now or never.”

  “Is your show any good?”

  “Why don’t you decide?” He handed Lowell a few typed pages and his MP3 player, after first cleaning the earpieces with alcohol.

  “This is a copy of part of the score and a synopsis. Why don’t you listen to it while I run down to the store for a minute? If you like the music and the story you can read the script too.”

  Lowell positioned the earpieces in place. “You don’t mind leaving me here?”

  “Why? I got nothing worth stealing. And besides,” he smiled, “I doubt that this is the first time you’ve been here alone.”

  He went out the door, closing it behind him.

  Lowell picked up the synopsis, started the CD, sat back on the futon, and listened.

  Chapter Twenty

  The band members of Rocket Fire were all married and attempting to live a semblance of a normal life, at least off the road. Some lived their lives around the New York area, others in New England, but they had held onto joint ownership of a large rambling colonial in a small town in the Hudson Valley. That was where they lived while rehearsing or recording their records. The basement was a fully equipped multi-track, state-of-the-art recording studio. They had done some of their best work there over the years.

  Andy pulled the limo into
the circular driveway and around to the front of the building. Lowell got out and walked to the front door. He was about to ring the bell when the door opened and a barefoot young woman, clad in tiny green shorts and a white tank top, bounded past him and ran across the ragged, gravel driveway as if it were made of cotton. He watched her run.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice startled him. He turned back toward the door. “David Lowell. I’m investigating Freddie Finger’s death.”

  “Oh yeah, Latner told us you’d be by. I’m Richard Polk, guitarist. Come on in.”

  He stood aside as Lowell entered the house. The man’s face clearly revealed that he was past middle-age but with his obviously dyed, shoulder length black hair, and his t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, he gave an appearance of being much younger.

  “The guys are downstairs in the studio. Come on, I’ll take you there.”

  They walked to the back of the house and down a flight of stairs. As they descended, Lowell could barely make out the muted sound of a rock song emanating from the basement. At the bottom of the stairs was a thick double door with a red light lit up on top.

  “We’ve got to wait a minute, they’re recording a track.”

  A few moments later the red light went off. Polk opened the door and they entered. The recording room had a couch and several arm chairs scattered about. The detritus of rock and roll everywhere: wires, stands, guitars, microphones, and amps strewn about. A baby grand Steinway piano looked out of place in this technological mayhem. A pinball machine and an air-hockey game stood along a far wall.

  “Hey, guys, this is that detective Latner told us would be around.”

  The drummer played a drum-roll, and then hit a cymbal. “Oh, a detective. Well, this is getting more exciting every day. Johnny Kanter.” He saluted with a drum stick. “You already met Ritchie.” He pointed to the couch where two other long-haired older men sat. “That’s George Fredrick, bass, and William Eagleton, keyboards.”

  Most of these men were several years older than Lowell, yet he felt like an old man in the company of teenagers. What a strange creature is rock ‘n roll. Forever young.