Chapter 1: The Old House

Harry got the grate open and wormed into the dimly lit basement. He looked around for his number one pain in the ass, Fernando Garcia. The bully and small time hood had made Harry’s misery his hobby. There had been insults, petty thefts, and even beatings. Fernando hated all gringos. He hated literate ones even more. Harry was both and an easy mark so Garcia fucked with him All the time. Harry had just bought “The Assassins of Gor” and was determined to read the damn thing in peace before the cholo son of a bitch could tear it up like he’d done with every other book he caught in Harry’s pocket since school let out for summer. Harry thought the abandoned house would be a great place to hide.

Garcia was nowhere in sight. In fact, no one was around. Everyone avoided the weather worn Victorian. It had been empty for years. The county couldn’t even sell it off for back taxes. It seemed no one wanted anything to do with old man Rutger’s house.

Harry fished his penlight out of his backpack for a look around. He was shocked by what he saw. Instead of the expected rubble of over a decade of neglect the place looked like the owner just stepped out for an ice cream. Oh, there was a fine layer of dust, but the raccoons hadn’t set up shop. In fact, the neighborhood riff raff had NOT looted. In that forgotten part of the city if it wasn’t chained down and guarded it could very well grow wings and fly away. Harry nosed through the racks of Mason jars full of preserves and forgotten odds and ends till he’d made a circuit of the room. He came to the laundry room door and that room, aside from ten years of dust was the same as the first. The next door was locked, with a hasp and a heavy Yale lock.

Harry passed on that and made his way up the stairs. He had selected this hideout because it was well back from the street. The three story house sat in the middle of a four-acre plot. Knowing this, he tested his weight on each stair. A rotted board could be fatal. In the kitchen he found the sundries for culinary delight. He did spy a Kitchenaid mixer he knew cost several hundred dollars because the bakery he worked at had two. One got fried and the boss let everyone know just how much the fucker cost before sacking Harry. There was also, on a brass hook, a fat ring off keys, which Harry took.

He passed up the kitchen cabinets and opened the door to the garage. His breath jammed in his throat. Lined up in front him, illuminated by the morning light of dusty and intact windows were a 1967 Cadillac El Dorado coupé in metal flake green, Rolls Royce limo from just after WWII in gleaming black lacquer under the dust, a gull wing 1957 Mercedes Benz coupé in flaming red, and a British Racing Green 1967 Jaguar XKE roadster. “Jesus fucking Christ! Jackpot!” he exclaimed.

Then it occurred to the fifteen-year old misfit that none of those automotive works of art belonged to him. Neither did the Vincent Black Shadow parked on its center stand in the workshop area with its complete Craftsman Master Mechanic tool chest.

“I can’t believe no one claimed this stuff!” he mused to himself, “Or the house. This joint is huge!” Off in the corner was a flight of iron stairs leading up to a sort of garret. Harry opened the door to find a room of a completely different flavor. It was decorated like something out of the Arabian Nights. In one corner, seated under a lamp with a Quran open in his lap was the mummified corpse of a small man. He even wore a Fez over his silk robe. It looked like he fell asleep in the chair. But he was long gone.

Harry spied something odd on the side table, without knowing why he took it and shoved it in his fatigue pants pocket. Before he left he turned, “Sorry to bother you, Sir. I’ll let you rest, okay?” Without an answer he shut the door behind him. He found the correct key and locked the door.

Through the kitchen he found a dining room with a huge cherry wood table, nice chairs and a Sterling candelabra that must have weighed ten pounds.

There we’re two doors, Harry chose the far one first only to pick his jaw up from the floor again. It was a library, some thirty feet by thirty feet. The walls were lined with books. The center piece was a sixteen-foot snooker table. Harry licked his chops at that. Snooker was his game. Fuck Space Invaders! Harry was a pinball pool shark.

There was an oil portrait of a seated man, standing rigidly at attention to his left hand was the little guy in the Fez. Opposite that the cue rack. But the room was three stories tall! And full of books! “Fuck me! It will take a month to inventory all those books!”

There was plenty of light from the windows, all of which were sound, so Harry sat his pack down, selected a cue to shoot a practice game. Ten enjoyable minutes later he reached for the triangle to reset the table after carefully brushing the expanse of fine green felt clean when a sound nearly made him piss his pants.

It was only a book from the shelf. He must have disturbed it somehow. The words on the page jumped at him, “Abandoned Real Estate may be purchased from the county by entering a bid with the County Treasurer. If no competing bids are entered within ten business days said property will be deeded to the bidder along with all appertuninces and chattels extant on the property at the time of purchase.”

Looking at the spine he noted it was the State Code dated 1970. He replaced the book and went to rack the balls when his thigh burned. “Shit!” he cursed as yanked the offending object out of his pocket. It was the necklace from the little guy’s table. It was a misty black ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life, about two inches long. The necklace itself was simple braided threads. He tied it around his neck and felt the urge to sit. He got a soda pop and a Marlboro from his pack. He downed half the pop and lit up. He sat. He thought. When he snubbed out what he determined was his last cigarette of his life he knew what to do next. Harry left the library for the equally opulent foyer with its sweeping staircase, marble floor and floor length mirror.

Spying himself in it he felt he looked like a fucking bum. His attire was unkempt and came from second hand thrift stores. Even his felony fliers had seen better days. He was half a year over due for a haircut and looked like he never owned a comb in his life, “This will change, too, goddammit!” he spat. After finding the front door key he opened the door to see a thunderstorm coming from the southwest. Again without thinking he snatched an umbrella from the elephant’s foot stand by the door by feel and locked the door behind him.