Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City (17 page)

I didn’t say anything.

“That’s right Crager. Slaughter’s not my real name.”

“So I’m supposed to cry crocodile tears because folks here in the sticks aren’t exactly politically correct?”

“The point is Crager, every time something bad comes down the finger is pointed to me.”

“I get it. You pay off the cops to keep the heat off you. But now the heat’s gotten a little hotter so you call me.”

Again he threw me his best wise guy grin.

“You were a cop yourself Crager. What do you think? Back where I come from it’s just the way you do business.”

“Yeah. But not everybody’s using the money to protect their little piece of the drug trade.”

Mick’s grin slowly faded to a sneer.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t bother with drugs.”

“What if I told you there’s more than a little evidence to indicate otherwise?”

“Is this one of your sucker punches coming Crager?”

“I found one of your muscle pills under Lance’s bed the night he was murdered.”

Mick shrugged. “Doesn’t prove a thing.”

“Come off it Slaughter or whatever the hell your name is. I asked around. The stuff is known to be pretty common around your gym.”

I wasn’t bluffing either. A couple days after the murder I’d looked up some Ocyl College football players who were themselves heavy into the weightlifting scene. They’d confirmed that the very pill I had found was the type that could be gotten at Mick’s gym. Neither of the two were into using steroids, they insisted, but in the past had worked out at Mick’s and been approached by others there to buy.

“So what are you saying? I gave the stuff to Lance?”

“More like you sold the stuff to him.”

“Crager. You’re way out of line here.”

“How about this Slaughter. Lance couldn’t afford all the pills you were supplying him with. But he was desperate to bulk up. So he wrote you out some I.O.U.‘s. This got to be a pretty expensive proposition for him. You never got your money so you sent some of your henchmen up there to knock him off.”

Mick let out a long whistle. “Wow. Did you figure this out all by yourself?”

“But nobody can touch you Mick,” I continued. “You got the cops in your pocket.”

“Let me get this straight Crager. I killed some guy over steroid money. Tell me
…
Is there big money in steroids? Because if there is I just might check it out.”

“But it’s not just steroids Mick. You got the market on the street drugs in this town too. And you know enough about who’s using to keep yourself sitting pretty. Does the name Ronald Miller mean anything to you?”

Mick leaned forward in his chair. He shuffled some papers on his desk.

“Yeah. I know the guy. Owns the ball club in town. He tried to buy this building off me. That was before I built this place up, and he was riding high. Now, the shoe’s on the other foot.”

He leaned back in his chair and fell back into his smile, satisfied with his explanation.

But I wasn’t through. “Gallagher was your biggest coup of all,” I added.

And just like that, he was no longer smiling.

“That was a suicide Crager.”

“Come again?”

Mick appeared totally baffled now.

“You don’t know. They found Gallagher this morning
…
Downstate. He hung himself in his sister’s bathroom.”

Cops from every burg between Centre Town and Philly showed up for Gallagher’s funeral. Say what you will about cops. As a breed they can be heartless. And yeah, some of them have the scruples of an ant. But don’t ever accuse any cop of disloyalty. The hundreds of uniforms at the funeral who headed up the long procession of cars out to the Catholic cemetery outside of town spelled loyalty with a capital L. Normally, it takes a cop to get killed in the line of duty for this kind of solidarity to come about. But Gallagher’s contacts had stretched a long way during his twenty-odd years on the force.

I didn’t doubt that Gallagher had killed himself. For one thing his suicide looked to be no amateur job. His sister had found him hanging by his neck with a good piece of sturdy rope. Only a cop or someone else who’d witnessed the aftermath of an ungodly number of suicides could have pulled off his own death the way Gallagher had.

Gallagher’s sister, a slight woman of about fifty who walked with a pronounced limp, had been talking to her brother just moments earlier. The two had been up late watching television when Gallagher had excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he didn’t return for nearly an hour, she got curious and knocked on the bathroom door. That’s when she’d found his body hanging from the shower curtain rod.

The question is: Why had he done it?

Gallagher could have done worse for a burial site. The cemetery had loads of trees and shrubs and a nice view of the river below. August for the most part had brought either rain or the clammy, muggy sort of weather that leaves everyone praying for autumn. But I couldn’t help thinking that the brilliant sunlight and the turquoise blue sky of this late August day would have brought a smile even to Gallagher’s face. A plot had been prepared for the dead cop right next to graves where his mother and father were buried. More flowers than I’d ever seen smothered the casket as it rested beneath the tent where the onlookers were gathered.

You never get used to funerals. And God knows I’d been to enough of the damn things. Cops who’ve taken bullets in the skull. And kids barely out of diapers with no damn business going to early graves. It made me sick sometimes. Maybe that’s why I always keep my distance. There was a clump of pine trees a good fifty yards away with long branches that threw out lots of shade. That’s where I planted myself. A kind of Owl Eyes attending Gatsby’s wake.

The ceremony for Gallagher was brief. A priest said a few brief prayers. A military color guard fired off a few shots. There was the sounding of taps. I didn’t even get near the casket. There were just too many cops and other people milled around under the tent. That’s why for the longest time I didn’t see Miller standing among the onlookers. He was right up next to the casket, talking to one of the pallbearers when I spotted him. Miller saw me all right too. He gave me one of those double takes before looking away. They no sooner lowered the vault holding the casket into the ground
w
hen he was pumping hands and quickly making his way through the crowd to his Porsche. Once behind the wheel I saw him begin talking into a car phone. I’d been wanting to speak with Miller for some time, and I’m sure he knew it, but this was hardly the time and the place. Up to this time, I’d had only that one conversation with Miller.

With the humidity gone from the air, I didn’t figure walking into town from the cemetery would be much of a chore. It was about two miles by way of Old Salem Road, the two-lane blacktop which got little traffic anymore. The bypass highway they’d built
years ago went to the Ocyl Mall, and now this was a
peaceful, quiet road, meandering past farms and fields
and
glimpses of the river. It made for a pleasant walk too. In fact, by the time the road passed underneath the old railroad trestle, I had walked more than a mile without encountering as much as a single car or truck. As a kid, I’d done a little bit of hanging out here. Lugging kegs of beer up the steep bank at the far end of the trestle had been a rite of passage for Centre Town kids, and I had a strong suspicion kids were still using it as a party spot. There were some beer cans and wine bottles strewn about the area
,
and the cement walls of the trestle were covered in graffiti
,
a few devil worship symbols, some obscenities, rap literature - the usual
‘
90s kid trash.

I was just coming through the trestle when a car came up behind me. I thought it was going to rush right past me into town. It didn’t. About twenty yards ahead of me the car came to an abrupt stop. It was Miller’s Porsche. I had more than a strong suspicion Miller wasn’t alone.

And it turned out I was right. For a few moments the car just sat along the shoulder of that old two-lane blacktop road. Then three doors of the Porsche opened up.

Mick and a couple of his musclemen from the gym emerged from the car. All three of them were dressed in workout attire. One of the behemoths was the Max Headroom clone with whom I’d enjoyed such stimulating conversation at the gym. The other goon was a freak show from Muscle Beach as well. His head was completely shaved, and he had tattoos all over his big knotty arms. I knew right away they weren’t here to offer me a free year of workouts at Mick’s.

Still, I held my ground.

“You left the gym without something the other day Crager,” Mick said.

He waved an envelope in the air and began walking toward me. His henchmen flanked him.

“Gee Mick,” I said. “You don’t even like me. And you insist on throwing money at me.”

Mick allowed himself a sinister chuckle.

“What did I tell you guys about Crager. I real comedy act onto himself.”

The three of them were now right before me - a trio of immoveable slabs. The tattoo man seemed to be itching to get at me. He stood pumping the biceps of his one arm with a big nasty grin. Max Headroom merely glowered.

“Flattery will get you everywhere big guy,” I said.

“Let’s make this simple Crager,” Mick said. “Be a good boy and take the money.”

“Where’s Miller?” I said. “He afraid of showing his face? I looked past Mick toward the Porsche. “Come on Miller,” I shouted. “I know you’re in that car. Come out and be counted.”

Mick’s eyes flared. Through clenched teeth he said, “Cut the shit Crager.”

“Mick. Mick.” We’re all friends here.”

That didn’t sit well at all with the tattoo man. He stepped forward and planted an open hand in my chest. “You heard the man,” he said angrily. He gave me a push then to send me reeling backward onto the pavement.

I went down fast. A little too fast for my taste.

“IGOR!” Mick shouted. “Enough.”

I took my time getting up. “No problem Mick,” I said, trying on a good guy grin. “Zoo animals don’t understand the rules of a civilized society.”

I walked over to Igor and stuck out my hand. He looked down at it like some dumbstruck animal. That’s when I sent my foot into his groin. He staggered and then went down, like an elephant suddenly stricken with severe vertigo.

The next thing I knew Mick and Max Headroom were coming for me.

One thing about musclemen: They fight like it’s heavyweight wrestling time. I  figured to get a few licks in
,
and I did. I staggered Max Headroom with a kick to the stomach and threw a punch at Mick that rang his bell pretty good. Then they overpowered me. Let’s just say three against one ain’t good odds. Max Headroom got me in a headlock that would have done the Incredible Hulk proud. Then I was face down on hard pavement and someone was directing a few well-placed kicks to my ribs. Things went horizontal then
,
and I was vaguely aware of being dragged into the thick brush next to the trestle where I was left like road kill.

It was night when I managed to rouse myself from that thicket. I felt like hell. Crickets and cicadas scorched my ears with their mad chorus of night music. It was as if they were telling me what a dumbass I was.

“Why did you kick Max Headroom in the balls?” they asked.

I couldn’t answer. I could only look up at the stars twinkling back down at me like so many accusing eyes.

My ribs felt like they were in a vice. I could feel bruises on my face; scrapes from the pavement covered my arms and belly. The night air felt chilly. All I could do was groan.

Yeah. Taking on Mick and his henchmen had been no smart move on my part. Still, I’d been lucky. If they’d wanted they could have really worked me over. Why they hadn’t done a real job on me had me wondering.

I’m not one to believe in miracles. Fate? Destiny? I never see any of that as in the cards.

I guessed if I really had to pinpoint my own philosophy about life I’d call it a crap shoot. Yeah, a crap shoot with the assholes winning all too often. Still, it’s funny how the right things fall into place sometimes.

I managed to get to my feet and make my way to the edge of the road. I didn’t relish the long walk into town. I thought of Pat. It seemed like I was always showing up at her doorstep like some cat returning home after a fight. No wonder the woman always thought twice about opening up her door to me. And who could blame her? Cops and ex-cops make their own lives enough of a mess. They don’t need to be dragging others into their crumby worlds. Maybe depositing my beat-up self onto her couch wouldn’t be such a good idea.

Just as I was beginning to feel sorry for myself, a pair of headlights appeared a few hundred yards up the road. My first thought was that Mick and the boys had returned for another round of
Let’s Kick Around the Snoopy Detective.
If that was the case, I thought, they could have their fun. I was too beat to put up a fight.

I had my back to the car as it slowed up near the trestle. It followed me for about ten yards and then got right up beside me. I just kept walking.