The Little Kingdoms

By Andrew R. H. Mowatt

Its 1993. Americas shocked by the World Trade Center bombing and the botched raid on the Branch Davidian Compound. Both Main Street and Wall Street struggle with recession.

College graduate, Richard Carnegie, arrives in New York with a promising opportunity at Moodys Investor Services. Hes asked to house-sit for an aunt in Ozone Park, Queens. The homes empty; except for Tony, the upstairs tenant, a widower. Tonys outdated mindset both amuses and irritates Richard. Tonys estrangement from family adds to his bitterness.

On the first day of work, while riding the subway, Richard meets Ester Chan. They quickly bond over their love for tennis and finance. A relationship is formed. Richard soon discovers that Esters tastes are both expensive and risqu. An affair leads into habits that would shock Richards family back home. However, the closer they grow, the less hes able to break her spell.

With the pressures and the excesses of their rising lust, Richard is unaware of the hidden vice around him. Esters connections and power pull him deeper into a world that he cannot control, leading to a life-altering event, and a miracle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491772256

Andrew R. H. Mowatt

Biography Andrew Mowatt is the author of the novels Severed Branch, Cast the First Stone, and The Little Kingdoms. In his spare time, he enjoys travel and cycling. He currently lives in New York City.

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The Little Kingdoms

Copyright © 2015 Andrew R. H. Mowatt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7224-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7225-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  08/10/2015

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

ALSO BY ANDREW R. H. MOWATT

Severed Branch

Cast the First Stone

Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it…

Mark Twain

Dedicated to Patricia

Chapter 1

I don’t think I was completely naive back then. No, not really. To come to the big city at that time, you needed a certain edge and mindset that placed you apart from the rest; more a gift of potential than any actual achievement.

Manhattan beckoned with its siren songs, bright lights, money-making potential, and shifting culture. The thrill and challenge intoxicated me. I just had to be part of it, despite the warnings from my friends in the sleepy town where I had grown up.

Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread, they had said. In some respects that turned out to be the truth, but not in the way they intended.

Globalization. World domination. Capital funding. Bonuses. I imagined myself on the 40th floor of a gleaming skyscraper in the heart of the financial district, looking down on the worker ants below.

Mechanization and automation used to be industrial, but by then, it had seeped into every aspect of modern life. The home PC was becoming a reality to even the most skeptical Luddite. New manuals were replacing dusty manuscripts on shelves and these works were written in binary code. High performance computing and algorithms were upgrading everything that was once one dimensional and inefficient, yet gaps still remained between the organic and technological.

I was not a very religious young man at that time although my father was an ordained vicar. The parables and the stories of scripture were not foreign to me either, but my focus was more on applying my newly-learned programming skills and econometric model building to finance in hopes of catching the modern wave.

It was in that blind enthusiasm to join the party and dip into the bull market buffet that I foolishly missed the making of a majestic event. It was only years later that the impact of those events made me realize that the subtleties of life and the order of things goes well beyond the limitations of machines and programs. It was an extraordinary gift to me that revealed certain fundamental decencies are still at work in this complicated world.

Chapter 2

I was born of humble Scottish roots in New York State to a teacher mother and clergyman father. My grandfather had fled a family scandal in Scotland for America in the late 1920’s with a boy that nobody seemed to want: my father.

As my clan was never prosperous, after I graduated high school, I chose the U.S. Navy. The SeaBees seemed to be my proper calling. Driving a bulldozer on some wind-swept island sounded appealing!

The next thing I knew, we were invading Panama. The 1989 invasion turned me off to the concept of ground warfare. Somebody else, with a propensity to kill and the ability to live as a drowned rat, could step into my place. I politely collected a few service ribbons and transferred to the fleet at sea. Later, I earned the much coveted American G.I. Bill, and in 1990, I enrolled at a prestigious institute of Troy, NY.

In May 1993, I was completing my senior year. The internet was still a rumor amongst academics, and the FBI had just botched its raid on the Branch Dividian compound in Waco, Texas. It was just a few months after the bombing of the World Trade Center.

A couple of semesters earlier, a Navy ROTC captain on campus had offered me a scholarship that would cancel my ballooning college debt. He suggested that I take up a nuclear engineering major; since such graduates would go on to serve aboard submarines and that’s where the modern Navy was headed: nuclear and clandestine. Who could turn that sort of thing down?

Life, though, has a funny way of altering events. I was still only a college junior, and a midshipman aboard an aging Vietnam-era submarine doing my obliged summer cruise, when I was summoned to the captain’s office.

It seemed that while I was stalking along in a three hundred foot steel tube deep under the ocean and out of touch with reality, the much hated villain—the Soviet Union—had fallen. World peace had finally broken out! Of course, this meant my potential services as a Navy officer would no longer be needed by Uncle Sam and my NROTC scholarship was withdrawn.

The interlude of the Gulf War in Iraq helped little. I was never called up to deploy. It seemed the NROTC scholarship termination was a deep stain.

The same NROTC captain back on campus who so eagerly courted me for service earlier suggested that nuclear engineering might not be a good career choice in the civilian world after all. He made it clear that I should take a ‘serious’ subject, and a school administrator mentioned that a Bachelor of Science in Economics was well within my reach. And so, I changed course.

So, in May 1993, I secured a paid internship at Moody’s Investor Services in New York City via a prominent alumnus. I greatly appreciated the offer as a majority of my class walked away from graduation unemployed.

The economy that year was barely showing a pulse after the dreadful 1991 recession.

Moody’s hinted that if I worked hard enough in the soulless pursuit of helping other people get richer, a full time position might be offered after my trial run.

Very few recruiters came to hire anyone in the spring of 1993. The dirty little secret was out: the institute was not immune to national recessions!

* * * * *

A week before graduation my dorm room phone rang and everything changed.

My mother’s eldest sister, Aunt Jean, lived in Queens with her husband Peter. Aunt Jean was always the black sheep of the family. She craved more than what her origins could offer. She would have been called a flapper back in the Roaring 20’s. She drank, she smoked, and she liked to dance with strange men. She went down to New York in the mid-1960’s and shacked up with a heating oil salesman named Peter from Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

None of the family attended her marriage to that so-called Pollock Catholic as my maternal grandfather put it. They were staunch Protestants. Nonetheless, my mother kept in touch with Aunt Jean over the years. Uncle Peter prospered. He became a senior manager and part owner of the fuel oil business. They bought a brownstone-like home in the neighborhood of Ozone Park, Queens in the 1970’s.

I admired Aunt Jean. On that night a week before graduation, it was her calling. I had not spoken to her for many years. Apparently Uncle Peter’s aging, widowed mother in Florida had suffered a stroke. As Uncle Peter was an only son, he had no choice but to drop everything and go to his mother’s aid. Aunt Jean felt obliged to accompany him.

Despite the very tempting offer from Moody’s human resources team to set me up in subsidized corporate housing near their 99 Church Street office, it was decided that I would home-sit my Aunt Jean’s and Uncle Peter’s house for the summer. My only obligation was to look after the place, pay a few bills on their behalf, and mind Aunt Jean’s cat, Oscar.

The next week, on Friday, May 14th, the pageantry went off without a hitch. My parents and younger brother were among those who observed the one hundred sixty something annual graduation within the ancient walls of the school’s Field House.

Then, I piled my worldly possessions into my rusting car and headed off to the Borough of Queens.

Chapter 3

The drive down from Troy to the suburbs of New York City could only be described as an exasperating experience for someone who had never done it before. The controlled chaos begins when you cross the restricted lanes of the dilapidated Tappan Zee Bridge. Frenzied drivers create a white-knuckled descent through the exits off the Cross Westchester Expressway. Woe to the person who has lost his way! Waving for mercy only earns curses.

Balancing a roadmap on one knee, and with my rear view obscured by my stuff stowed in the back of my ’69 Chevelle station wagon, I made my way into the teeth of the traffic, crawling along the twisty Hutchinson River Parkway until it flowed into the on-ramps of the gray Whitestone Bridge. Working the manual clutch and having to rely on drum brakes ensured my aversion to the area’s traffic for the rest of my life.

Peering over the edge of the Whitestone as I drove, I caught a glimpse of the spiky contours of Manhattan to the west, silhouetted against the hazy backdrop of a setting sun.

Mentally rehearsing the series of turns and exits that Aunt Jean had suggested, I weaved southbound on the Van Wyck expressway through Queens until the green Atlantic Avenue exit sign appeared. Getting off the inter-borough highway, I battled to cross to the lane that would let me turn into the Ozone Park neighborhood.

The shadows had grown long as I slipped under the elevated tracks of the A train whose trellis-like structure clung to the ground along busy Liberty Avenue. Next to me at a light, a Cadillac with red interior and very Italian-looking occupants blasted Frank Sinatra loudly into the night.

Behind me, a Honda fought back with reggae.

Of course, my car’s windows were down out of necessity as I lacked any form of air conditioning.

The driver of the Caddy increased the volume of Frank to levels that would make small birds above keel over from the shock of heart attacks. Not to be out done, Bob Marley blasted with renewed intensity.

The light ahead turned green and I quickly popped the clutch. Neither of the cars behind me followed. Glancing into the mirror I saw that both drivers were now standing outside their cars, shouting at each other.

My aunt had said that her house was on 104th Street, a quick exit off Liberty Avenue. I took an educated guess and made the turn.

I slowly crept up a block that was lined with blond brick row houses and the occasional tree. Each home had an identical stoop and an entrance a few steps above the sidewalk. None were the urban eyesores that I had imagined.

Aunt Jean said that her place had a distinct porch-like awning and gate that enclosed the front. I spotted it midway up the block on the left. It was a respectable looking residence indistinguishable from its neighbors except for its red awning.

My next challenge was to find a place to park. Of course, both sides of the street were clogged with cars. The battleship I was driving made parking difficult under any means and especially worrisome given the postage stamp-sized slots left to me.

However, to my surprise, I found a space big enough nearly in front of my aunt’s house. With much to-and-fro, I was in.

As darkness gently fell on this unassuming block, I leaned forward on the oversized steering wheel and exhaled.

Hello Queens, I have landed!

Aunt Jean had mailed me a key. A musty mothball smell greeted me as I fumbled for the light switch in the dark hallway.

I opened the door into Aunt Jean’s ground floor parlor and was immediately met by a large, yellow cat. He was quite chatty, making several meows. I scratched him on the head. This must be Oscar, the cat Aunt Jean had warned me about.

The front area evidently served as a sitting room, with several dated pieces of furniture including a plastic-covered couch. A large front window looked out onto the porch and the shadowy street beyond.

I found Aunt Jean’s hand-written note on the kitchen table in the next room. They had flown out of JFK on a flight to Miami that morning. Uncle Peter’s mother had taken a turn for the worse and Aunt Jean’s tone suggested difficult times were ahead.

The stale air within her three bedroom apartment smelled like really old potpourri and garlic. The décor, complete with faded paintings, suggested an attempt to recreate late 1960’s retro, but that didn’t matter. Far be it from me to judge. My last place, the college dorm, was just a few rock band posters away from being a glorified homeless shelter. In a town where monthly rents sometimes exceeded the annual income of some people I knew back home, it was cozy enough to suit me and above all else, it was free!

I made several trips lugging all my possessions out of the back of my beat-up station wagon. From the south, a salty breeze blew in from Jamaica Bay, bringing to my ears the roar of ascending jets at JFK airport.

In the darkness of the street, I noticed neighbors peering through their window blinds as I moved my stuff in.

When I came back out on my last trip, to my utter surprise, a man who looked to be in his late sixties was standing next to my car. He acted rather upset. Two cars up the street, half blocking the road, sat a large Cadillac with its flashers on.

Hey, hey you jackass!

I glanced over my shoulder. Surely he didn’t mean me?

Ya you! Who told ya you could take my spot?

Excuse me?

You! Who da fuck said you could park that piece of shit there?

He pointed a stubby finger at me and my rusty Chevelle.

From his appearance and mannerisms he seemed to be one of the Three Stooges in retirement. He looked like an old Italian stereotype to me, with his hunched shoulders and large belly held in by a button-up white shirt. He still had some of his hair although male pattern baldness was taking a miserable toll.

I’m sorry, I replied, keeping my temperament pleasant. Were you speaking to me?

This has been my fucking parking spot on this block for twenty-nine years. Nobody has ever taken it from me like this. Now who da fuck are you showing up here in that piece of shit and taking my place? he gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke.

I didn’t realize this spot was reserved. I came along and found it open, so I parked here.

He stepped to within a foot of me. Who da fuck do ya think you’re talking to? Get this piece of shit out of here!

I didn’t want to cause trouble but I was legally parked on a very public street.

I’m sorry sir, there must be some misunderstanding. I thought these were spaces open to anyone. I found this spot unoccupied.

I looked up the block to see if there was room elsewhere for him.

Say, there are a few open slots just up the street. Perhaps you might pull in there?

By the look in his eyes, he did not care for that suggestion at all.

In the house behind him, an equally elderly woman slid up the second floor window and parted the curtains. She poked her head just outside and stared down at us.

Frank, don’t get into a rumble, she squawked. You haven’t taken your blood pressure pills yet. Get back in here now! Your nature show is almost on.

Suddenly he seemed ridiculous.

You, you smart ass punk, you just watch yourself! He pointed with menace at me.

Frank, hurry up and get in here!

As though to make a point, he jabbed his finger at me again.

The window slammed shut.

His balloon suddenly punctured, the hen-pecked old man rushed to his double-parked car and drove it quickly up the block.

I saw his red brake lights come on as he neatly eased the Cadillac into a spot about fifty yards further along.

I took the opportunity to grab the last of my bags and make my escape. Once inside I switched on the hall light and gazed up the flight of stairs to the second floor.

Before going upstairs, though, I peeked out the small window in the front door to see what became of Frank.

There he was, inspecting my car. I half expected him to kick out my head light or something but he only lingered for a moment then rushed into his home.

I guessed that was settled!

My stomach began to growl. Aunt Jean was a baker and her homemade bread in the counter breadbox was a real treat. In the refrigerator, I found the means to make a cold cut sandwich.

I sat at her weathered kitchen table and wondered how often I would have to clean her yellow linoleum floor.

Oscar the cat protested his exclusion from the dining festivities. He clearly hadn’t missed many meals judging by the large pouch that hung from his belly but I was told to look after him, so I gave him a can of Fancy Feast. The smell of it made me ill.

* * * * *

That Friday night, the air within Aunt Jean’s apartment was a bit oppressive. I didn’t want to run up her electric bill unnecessarily so I kept the air conditioning off. I decided to use it only at night when it was time to sleep.

Her spiky sun clock on the kitchen wall indicated 10:17pm. I had no real desire to watch television. The local news probably consisted of death and mayhem anyway. I thought I’d press my luck, sit out front on the covered porch, and get the measure of the place.

The neighborhood was quiet when I sat down on the iron bench.

An occasional car drove up the block, its headlights illuminating the lattice ironwork in front me, but nothing stirred on the sidewalk.

Grumpy Frank had obviously settled into his nature show or had passed out cold, because only the glow of a television illuminated his second floor window.

His Cadillac gleamed from the spot he’d found up the street. In comparison, my Chevelle’s faded carcass seemed to have beached itself here. I suppose until then, I had not realized how some men identified with their cars. Be it showy or plain, classic or modern, a long line of buffed and polished cruisers sat tightly parked along that block.

The rumble of the nearby El broke my concentration as it roared westbound one block south.

And then he appeared, as if I had fallen asleep for a moment and suddenly awakened. At first I didn’t realize he was there just standing outside the doorway.

It’s a warm evening, he said in a soft tone.

For a moment I thought maybe Grumpy Frank had sneaked up on me for another round of verbal jostling, but no; this guy had a bald head and very bushy, white side patches like Bozo the clown. He stood leaning against the awning upright. He had a handlebar-like moustache that nearly enveloped his upper lip, and wore a white-collared shirt open at the neck.

I took him to be in his late sixties or early seventies.

He stared straight ahead as he spoke, without moving an inch from his spot or offering his hand to shake. The name’s Tony. Tony Schiavo.

Hello Tony, I replied. You know my aunt and uncle, I assume?

It took him a few seconds to reply.

Ya kid, I suppose. They bought the house off me back in 1974. When we signed the papers I asked that they let me rent the room upstairs for me and Mary.

There was a pause.

A couple of good eggs Jean and Peter. They brought some class to the place.

He sounded sad.

Well, I’m their nephew Richard, Richard Carnegie. I’m spending the summer watching the house for them while my uncle’s mother is sick in Florida.

He nodded.

I just arrived this evening. I guess you may have heard my argument with that guy next door. I apparently stole his parking space.

Who?

Is it Frank?

He didn’t respond.

Which spot did you take?

I pointed.

The spot right here in front. That’s my beat-up station wagon.

He laughed. What did you say to him?

Nothing really. His wife yelled at him too.

Tony chuckled at the mention of the Stooge-like man’s spouse.

That’s Frankie Amanti. He’s no trouble. I’ve known him for almost thirty years now. A retired city bus driver. He’s been on pension for a few years and still he gets up at 5:30am everyday to drive his route. He doesn’t really go to the bus garage but hangs around at the coffee shop over on Liberty Avenue. Don’t worry yourself about him, kid. He’s just sore that you broke his routine.

I just saw the open parking spot and thought I was in luck.

"Don’t let it bother ya, kid. That