Lazarus Dot (chapter 8): A Felix Hoenniker medical murder mystery

I would highly recommend Rick’s, despite what happened between me and Addie that night. It’s not for everyone, though. First of all, it’s not an easy place to find. It’s buried on a backstreet in Secaucus. If you make a wrong turn off Route 3, you’ll be driving in circles for hours, and GPS (with all those route recalculations) just seems to make matters worse. Another thing: Rick’s doesn’t take credit. They don’t take cash either. Only bullion: gold or silver. You’ve got to leave a deposit with the cashier (who’s ensconced behind bullet proof glass) before the maitre’d will seat you. The minimum is pretty steep: Half an ounce of gold or three pounds of silver. 

While the cashier weighed out my deposit, I scoped out the place. Black-lacquered paneling and soft light pouring from Tiffany fixtures gave the room an intimate feel, despite its large size. The maitre’d, who had a Clark-Gable-mustache and slicked back hair, eyed me hungrily. I Slipped him a one-ounce silver ingot (which mollified his appetite) and he led me to a good table, near the stage. I settled into a high-backed clamshell seat. The blue velvet wrapped me in privacy and was as soft as a lover’s kiss. 

A waiter appeared before my table; a white napkin draped over his sleeve. His tuxedo put the one I wore at my wedding to shame and I’d bet dollars to donuts his bow tie wasn’t a clip on. He bowed his head in the ideal combination of deference and contempt. “What may I bring the gentleman to drink?”

“In a place like this, you’ve got no choice but martini.”

“Very good, sir.” 

“You own the place?” I asked

“Sir?”

I gestured towards his name tag. 

“Oh.” His smirk told me I was the only one not privy to the inside joke. “You’ll find we’re all named Rick here.”

After the third sip of the cocktail (icy shards still somehow swirling around in the gin) the buzz took hold of my brain. It was a mellow kind of buzz; the sounds of the expansive room (clinking silverware, animated conversation and tinkling laughter) mellowly expanded and contracted like an accordion. You know the kind.

I ordered the Osso Buco. The price was listed in the menu .03/3. In other words, the Osso Buco would set me back either .03 ounces of gold or 3 ounces of  silver. It was worth every gram. The meat melted on my tongue and the flavors smashed my palate like a pirate ship slamming against rocks in a storm.

The performances began when the clock struck midnight. Swaying like a willow, under a blue spotlight, I could swear the first guy who climbed onto the stage was George Michael, you know, the guy from Wham. But he’s dead. So, it couldn’t be him. Anyway, this crooner poured his heart into the microphone. Not-George-Michael wasn’t singing one of Wham’s early cotton candy songs either. He was belting out One More Try. You’d recognize it if it came on the radio: a sad song about star crossed lovers just trying to find some peace. 

Rick appeared. Another martini (priced at .01/1) was precariously balanced upon his tray. I’m no lightweight, but each cocktail packed a wallop like a mule’s kick. “I need a breath of air,” I gasped. 

“Very good, sir.” Rick smirked and pulled back the table without spilling a drop of gin. 

I stumbled past the bar on my search for the exit. On another stage (much smaller than the one in the dining room) a veritable Goliath blew sax beneath a blue spot light. I could swear it was Clarence Clemens, you know, the guy who played in Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band. But, of course, it couldn’t be him. He's dead. 

Not-Clarence launched into an instrumental rendition of Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street. His eyes were glued to a figure who leaned against the bar. She was striking; tall for a woman, with long braids hanging down her broad back. That hair reminded me of Holly, my favorite bartender. But it couldn’t be her. Holly’s hair was golden and silky. This lady’s hair was coarse and faded; the color of autumn hay. 

Still, I crept a little closer. Those couldn’t be Holly’s hands. They were the liver-spotted, veiny hands of a much older woman and the knuckles were gnarled by arthritis. I leaned against the bar to get a gander at her profile. The skin sagged from her high cheekbones and there were deep wrinkles around her— 

She must have felt the weight of my stare. She turned towards me.

The sadness in her sky-blue eyes blanketed me like a mist and made it more than a little hard to breathe. “Holly?”

She covered her wrinkled face with her arthritic hands. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it really you?” I asked. “What happened to you?” I was smart enough not to add, ‘you look forty years older than the last time I saw you.’ “And what happened to Azazel’s?”

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” she said and fled. 

I chased her into the street but she was gone, as if she’d evaporated into a beam of moonlight. “Curiouser and curiouser,” I said. 

By the time I returned to the table Not-George-Michael was gone and a baby grand piano had appeared on the stage. The pianist stepped from behind the blue velvet curtain. Applause accompanied her to the bench. She nodded haughtily. They’d all been waiting for her and she knew it. A spaghetti strap, full-length gown hugged her lithe body like a second skin.  

Music filled the air. Oh, the way she shut her eyes (so tight) and tossed her head backwards. Addie was one with the instrument; her fingers bled into the depthless ebony keys. How I wish those nimble digits were brushing my quivering flesh instead. Oh, the way her lips curled and danced with the music. A dusky hue settled upon her soft cheeks. Watching the pink blotches blossom on her elegant neck and the blue veins engorge, I felt in my guts exactly what kind of music we would make between the sheets. I’d have walked over burning coals to stroke those keys.

The notes lingered in the air after she finished the piece. I’ll never be able to hear Liszt again without my heart skipping a beat. But even the most magical moment can’t last forever. The music faded. 

I leapt onto the stage and the audience gasped. 

Addie swiveled on the lacquered bench and gazed up at me. Her David Bowie eyes glittered under the spotlight, each was a gem of a different color. “Oh, Felix,” she said. Her haughtiness melted. “I knew you’d come for me.” 

I felt like a knight in shining armor.

Her eyes fell upon my fist and I unfurled my fingers. Draped across my palm (the silver like gossamer) was the chain D.D. had made (link by link) with her own hands. Addie’s eyes widened in terror. 

An odor (like puked up rotten eggs) suddenly suffused the restaurant. Several in the audience groaned. It was as if the awful stench were crouching at the door, waiting for its moment to leap in and submerge us all. 

The fear in Addie’s eyes was gone now and they glistened with sadness and her face grew infinitely weary. “Oh, Felix,” she repeated. “I don’t know who’s the bigger fool. Me, for earnestly making a promise, which in my heart I knew I couldn’t keep. Or you, for believing it.” 

“Addie, I…”

The muscles of her face quivered as if invisible tiny horsemen were galloping across its hills and valleys. When the motion stopped she looked different, yet the same, like a more profane version of herself. “I never wanted you to see me like this, Felix,” she said and turned away. 

The tattoo at the intersection of her neck, back and shoulder grew blacker and blacker until it vacuumed up all the light around it. The symbols comprising the three intertwined rings grew crisper and sharper and ever more hypnotic. The tattoo called to me, but not all of me, just the worst parts. All shadow, no light. It would be so easy: Drifting away like a puff of smoke. So very easy. 

Addie turned her face towards me. A wicked smile curled her lip and her eyes were icy. “You can join us, you know.”

The tone in her voice was like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. “I can, Addie. But I won’t.” I’ve never been one to choose the easy path. “And you don’t need to… to… to go there, either.”

Addie popped up from the piano bench and flew into my arms. Her embrace grew tighter and tighter, like a python coiled around my spine. She reached under my shirt and raked her nails down my back. The audience oohed and ahhed as if it were all part of the show. She reached into my trousers and worked her way around, back to front. 

“Hey, we’re in public, here,” I said. Laughter filled the room. 

She found what she was looking for. The audience gasped. My mouth dropped open too. Addie was aiming Alex Whatever-ovich’s pearl handled Colt at my chest. 

“Felix,” she implored, “tell me true: Do you love me?”

I wanted to lie. I really did. And not simply because I was staring down the barrel of a gun. I almost loved her.

Someone in the audience shouted, “Say it!”

Was it such a far stretch? But bearing false witness was the only commandment I had left. If I broke that one… 

“It’s alright, Felix,” she said. “It’s for the better, really. Even if you gave me your heart. I wouldn’t have been satisfied until I had your soul.” She flipped the revolver around and stuck the business end into her mouth. Lipstick wrapped around cold steel. She pulled the trigger and splattered the black-lacquered piano with her brains.

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Bullet to Brain is the prequel to Lazarus Dot, Azazel’s Public House is the prequel to Bullet and The Mind Unlocked is a non fiction to fine tune your brain and elevate your mind.

The previous chapter to Lazarus can be found here