From the archive: At his death, 'Mr. Big' left gaudy north-side Indianapolis home in shambles

This story was originally posted May 9, 2012.

Of all the vacant houses that plague Indianapolis, 830 E. 80th St. is the weirdest.

It's not weed-choked or boarded-up, or even a haven for junkies and prostitutes. It's not historical, at least not in the traditional sense.

But it did house Jerry A. Hostetler, the almost-famous pimp-turned-construction mini-magnate. It's where Hostetler, just 23 when the police dubbed him "Mr. Big," made a final, absurd bid for grandeur.

And where he died, alone.

That was six years ago. The house has been empty since, stripped of some of its accoutrements by creditors. The nymph fountain — sold off. The 6-foot mermaid statue — sold off. The polar bear statue — sold off.

But the house is still plenty strange. And it's beginning to stink.

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Neighbors, who live in normal ranch houses and keep their hedges trimmed, at first were amused at the revisions Hostetler made to his once-garden-variety three-bedroom ranch — the two-story additions out back, the balconies and decks sprouting here and there (six in all), and — of all things — the gargoyles.

But now they would like to see the place bulldozed.

"You can smell the mildew and the mold," said Michele Lacy, who lives next door to the east. "The house would never pass inspection. It needs to be torn down and the lot sold."

Steve Wells, who lives next door to the west, felt the need to plant "three large trees in my back yard just to block the view of Jerry's house."

Officially, the house's owner is an 88-year-old widow on Social Security named Margaret E. Moore. Moore worked for Hostetler as a secretary. She trusted him. She said she never lived in the house, and the neighbors bear her out. Moore just paid for it.

"He was taking bankruptcy, and I felt sorry for a person," she said. "And I was a fool." Hostetler, she said, in hindsight, "was the biggest con man you ever saw — and everybody liked him."

Moore hasn't made a loan payment on the house since 2007. Last month in Marion Superior Court 2, the Bank of New York Mellon, the trustee of the mortgage-backed security that contained Moore's loan, agreed to waive the $307,000 judgment against her.

The house is scheduled to be auctioned at a sheriff's sale June 4 at Hoosier Auction, 201 N. Illinois St., Suite 190.

"Easy money" man

For most of his adult life, Hostetler was a minor celebrity around Indianapolis. Celebrity is not the right word. But he made the papers, first back in 1964 when, as "Mr. Big," he pleaded guilty to two charges of pandering, running prostitutes.

A report filed by a probation officer back in the day said: "When asked how he became involved in the business, (Hostetler) said it was difficult to pass up that easy money."

Hostetler later started a construction company that specialized in fixing fire/smoke-damaged properties and today is best known for the huge and hard-to- fathom house he built for himself in the 4900 block of East Kessler Boulevard. It is smaller than Hearst's San Simeon, smaller by far than Louis XIV's Versailles. But the idea is the same: Mas!

Starting from a three-bedroom ranch house where he lived since the '60s for a short time with a wife and infant daughter, Hostetler gradually bought up his neighbors' houses.

He cobbled them together, dug a swimming pool, dug ponds, imported fountains, added ballrooms, added life-size statues of gorillas, added — of all things — a stone grotto (into which he installed a hot tub).

By the time his creditors closed in on Kessler, a decade ago, Hostetler was up to 26,000 square feet.

The Kessler campus was sold off in chunks. Somehow Hostetler had financed it bit by bit. Some, but not all, of the house was in foreclosure.

The buyer was a Hoosier-born, Florida-based entrepreneur named Chad Folkening. Folkening lives in the house part of the year and occasionally rents it out for parties. He's contemplating converting it into a "live/work" incubator for young tech entrepreneurs.

Two summers ago, while touring the Midwest mounting a comeback (or trying to), the Baha Men, of "Who Let the Dogs Out" fame, stayed at the house for several weeks.

Wells, Hostetler's neighbor on 80th Street, finds that funny because he recalls once hearing Hostetler singing that much-maligned song (or trying to).

Hostetler did make an impression, say all who knew him. Standing 6 feet, 2 inches and usually weighing about 300 pounds, he was physically imposing. He was often wearing a medallion or two and a diamond pinkie ring or two, sometimes a ponytail, his shirt unbuttoned to the sternum.

And he could charm. "I got the impression his business dealings may be a little problematic," said Dan Kirklin, a neighbor on 80th Street. "But personally, I always liked Jerry. I'd walk the dog by his house, and he'd pat the dog and chat."

On the way down

For Hostetler, downsizing from Kessler to the 80th Street ranch house must have been hard. He was in his early 60s and was diminished. He suffered diabetes and heart disease. His kidneys were failing. He'd always been large but now was obese. Lacy put him at 500 pounds.

But he was resilient. It was soon clear the old desire for grandiosity was still strong.

The little ranch on 80th began a transformation. Hostetler converted its original garage to a party room set off by a very large, very round window, giving it the feel of an aquarium.

In the backyard he built a new garage, one capable of holding eight cars (Hostetler at one point drove an Excalibur; he told people he bought it off Neil Diamond, and knowing Hostetler, he may have).

He built a second story above the huge garage and ordered the addition painted gray, but one day the work just stopped. "Whether they were out of paint, or out of pay, I don't know," said Kirklin.

He built another equally large, two-story structure adjacent to the garage and tacked it on to the ranch house. Its standout features are its enormous, carved, wooden doors that look like they came from an ancient Buddhist temple, and knowing Hostetler, they may have.

And then there were all those balconies, none of them with railings. "Apparently, Jerry didn't like railings," said Kirklin. "It was pretty clear from the start Jerry had his own ideas about architecture."

"He didn't think about everybody," said Moore. "He just thought about what he thought was pretty."

While in his 20s, Hostetler was married briefly to the woman who would become Hamilton County Circuit Judge Judith Proffitt. They had a daughter, Debbie, who died in a car wreck in 1992.

But mostly, despite his square footage, Hostetler lived alone.

On Aug. 28, 2006, a Monday, Moore realized that she hadn't heard from him in a couple days. Worried, she telephoned his neighbor, Wells, around 11 a.m.

Using his key, Wells entered the house, the police report said, and found "Mr. Hostetter (sic) in the far west bedroom laying on his bed, deceased. Mr. Hostetter (sic) was pronounced dead by EMS 1451 at approximately 11:15 a.m."

He was 66.

Hostetler was buried in Washington Park East Cemetery, in an unmarked grave. Six years later, the plot remains unimproved, no headstone, not even a marker.

A few feet away from where Hostetler's body lies is a handsome headstone. It's made of polished black stone and has a built-in urn and some tender engraved words.

It's for Mr. Big's eternal neighbor, a man named — of all things — Little.

Contact IndyStar reporter Will Higgins at (317) 444-6043. Follow him on Twitter: @WillRHiggins.