by Mike Reuther
“Someone murdered Lance Miller.”
The voice sounded muffled as if the words were being spoken through a sock. There was a pause then and I could hear his heavy breathing on the other end.
“Where?” I asked
“On Fourth Street at the Spinelli Hotel.”
His voice had begun to crack.
“Have you informed the police,” I asked.
“They should be there now,” the voice said.
The heavy breathing started up again. And before I had a chance to ask who he was there was a resounding click on the other end.
The Spinelli was just three blocks away, in the heart of downtown. It stood ten stories high to easily command the skyline of Centre Town. Ever since I’d grown up in this burg, it had been the one and only place in town for the few visiting dignitaries and celebrities who saw fit to honor the city with their presence. It was, in short, the one place around town that smacked of luxury.
Gallagher was just coming out of the revolving doors of the Spinelli’s front lobby when I got there. He was a heavy-set guy with the ruddy complexion and wide open face of those Irishmen you see walking the beats of old B movies. We were the same age, but it’s a safe bet to say that Joe looked much older. What hair he had left was now completely gray. And as he moved toward me in his rolling gait slowed now by the heavy burden of the situation, he appeared even older.
“It’s bad Cozz. Real bad,” he said.
I looked past him at the revolving doors. A couple of other cops were now emerging from out of the lobby.
“Shot?” I asked.
He shook his head. “He took a knife in the back.”
“Mind if I take a look?” I asked.
“My boys have gotten their fill.” He shrugged and fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. I started to move past him.
“Hey Cozz,” he said, grabbing my arm. “There’s a lot of blood.”
I nodded and went into the hotel. Over at the check-in desk, a clerk had just finishing speaking with a cop. He saw me coming and turned his back on me. Then he began fumbling through some boxes on the floor. I was left standing there feeling like some idiot whose pants had suddenly dropped to his knees.
“Hey, how about a room,” I said, as way of an ice-breaker.
“We’re all filled sir,” he said, without looking up.
He was a little skinny guy and looked about as old as the hotel. He wore one of those vests with gold buttons. The vest was worn over a white shirt, the kind with the puffy sleeves.
“Actually, I need to ask you a couple of questions,” I said.
He was still fiddling with the boxes.
“You a cop?” he asked.
“Not quite.”
He rose up and gave me the once over. He had huge frog-like eyes behind thick glasses. “A detective?”
I nodded.
“All I know is what the cops are saying,” he said. “Some ballplayer got stabbed.”
“You know Lance Miller?”
“Sure,” he said. “He’s the one who got it.”
“He lives here?” I asked.
“Sure. Room 301. Last room on the left. That and Room 302 are the only ones being used on that floor now.”
“Oh?”
“Hotel’s being renovated,” he said.
“That must explain the stuff over there,” I said, nodding across the lobby to some skids resting against the wall on the other side of the lobby.
He shook his head. “No sir. We needed them to move the statue.”
“Statue?”
“It sits over there in the East Ball Room. They carried it in there on those skids today for the banquet.”
“What banquet?”
The big frog-like eyes blinked in astonishment.
“You aren’t from around here are you?” he said. His tone was snotty, impatient.
“I eat in a lot,” I cracked.
“They had a banquet to unveil the statue. All the officials from the ball club were there, along with some of the community leaders.”
“Did you say ball club?” I said.
“Sure. A real formal affair. It broke up early though. What with the murder upstairs and all.”
“Sure,” I said.
He was studying me from across the counter. “You say you’re a detective huh?”
“Yeah Crager’s my name. Tell me. Did you see anyone go up to Lance’s room tonight?”
He looked away and began tapping a key on the counter. “The cops already asked me that,” he said.
For some reason the guy was getting nervous. Some people just hate it when they’re asked a lot of questions. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.
“Yeah. So.”
He tapped the key more furiously now. He gave me a look, adjusted his glasses and blinked those frog-like eyes a couple more times. “I don’t really see how … I got work to do,” he said, turning away.
“C’mon pal,” I said. “Help me out.”
The poor guy was actually sweating bullets now. I gave him a handkerchief which he used to wipe away the sweat. Then I reached across the counter and stopped his hand from tapping that damn key. It was getting on my nerves. He tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip.
“Please,” he protested. “I don’t know anything.”
“I think you do.”
“You don’t understand. This could be bad for me” he pleaded.
“Look pal,” I said, tightening my grip. “There’s a guy upstairs dead. You want that on your conscience?”
He sighed. “Okay. There was one man who went up there while the banquet was in progress.”
“Yeah. How do you know?”
“I saw him take the elevator there,” he said, nodding with his head toward the wide hallway off to the left which separated us from the ballroom. “But really … you can’t let anyone know I told you this…”
“Who was the guy?”
“His name’s Mick Slaughter,” he whispered.
“He runs a gym over on Market. Believe me when I tell you. He’s nobody to mess with.”
“How so?” I asked.
And now the guy leaned real close to me. “They say he’s connected.”
Gallagher turned out to be right. There was a lot of blood. It was like a huge red ink stain in the yellow carpeting all around the dead ballplayer where he lay prone on one side of the bed. Whoever had done the job had been smart enough to take the knife too. Miller had apparently been ready for a night on the town. He was wearing a cream-colored suit, the coat of which now bore the crimson stains of the attack. I looked around the room as one of the police photographers continued snapping pictures of the body where it rested near the foot of the made-up bed. Other than an overturned lamp on a table next to the bed, there was nothing else I could see that had been disturbed in the room. It looked like any other slightly upscale hotel room. I went over to the bathroom. It appeared all but unused. It still had that fresh smell of having recently been sanitized. Clean enough to eat out of, I thought. The enamel surfaces of both the bathtub and sink were dry, leading me to conclude that no one had tried to wash away any evidence. Either that, or the water had been swept dry by someone careful to conceal the evidence. The medicine cabinet was clean too. I went back in the room and checked the single closet in the corner. It was empty.
I was just beginning to grow more confused when I spotted the two suitcases. They were next to each other up against the front of the bed opposite the side where Lance now rested. Lance, I figured, had been planning a get-away or at least a trip. The police already had yellow tape around the bed. I sneaked a look behind me. The photographer had wandered out into the hallway. Very quickly, I got under the tape and checked the luggage. They were both heavy as if they held bricks. I stole another glance behind me then reached down to unlock the one suitcase. No go. That’s when I saw the pill resting on the carpet beneath the edge of the bed. I’ve seen plenty of speed, LSD and barbiturates in my time, b
ut this didn’t look like anything from the street. I made a mental note of the thing and left the room.
When I got to the street, a small crowd had formed outside the hotel. Gallagher was talking with a short stocky guy near the curb. After a closer look, I could see the guy was more than stocky though. He had the build of someone who spends a lot of time tossing around weights. The tight-fitting black t-shirt he wore did nothing to hide the muscles.
By the time I got to Gallagher the guy had said his good-byes and was quickly heading down the street.
“Who’s the Charley Atlas?” I said.
We both watched the guy’s wedge-like figure retreat up the street. “Said he’s a friend of the ballplayer.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mick Slaughter. Runs a gym over on Market Street.” Gallagher continued watching the figure.
“Mick Slaughter?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Thanks Joe,” I said, moving away from him. He was still watching Slaughter who was now getting into a little red sports car parked along the street. Suddenly, Gallagher whipped his head around to me. “Forget it Coz. You don’t have the manpower for this one.”
“Sorry buddy. I’m already on to it.”
I gave him a wave and started back for home.
“And you can forget meeting me for that drink,” he yelled.
Chapter 2
The next day was Sunday. A day normally meant for sleeping in, scanning the Sunday papers or calling on Pat. Pat and me had this thing, you might say. She wanted stability and I just wanted the occasional female companionship to keep myself from going stir crazy in this one-horse town. At least that’s how it had started out. I wasn’t sure anymore. At any rate, we managed to strike a compromise, spending the occasional Sunday and some evenings together, usually at the apartment she shared with her three kids. It wasn’t ideal, but then I wasn’t looking for anything long-term.
I was supposed to ride along with her and the kids to some kiddy park downstate on Sunday, but with the murder I figured it was a day that couldn’t be wasted riding merry-go-rounds. Pat wasn’t too happy when I called her to cancel the trip but took it like a real trooper. She told me she suddenly had contracted a strange disease that indefinitely precluded sexual relations. Then she slammed down the phone.
Sorry babe. Duty calls.
Mick’s Gym was wedged between a travel agency and a tattoo parlor on Market, several doors up from the intersection with Third Street. There was a vacant lot at the corner, thanks to an arson fire that had taken with it a couple of buildings several years earlier. I remembered a shoe store had sat in the very spot of Mick’s gym. I’d gone there for shoes as a kid. The big store front windows were still there. Only now, instead of offering displays of penny loafers, high heels and PF Flyer sneakers, the windows showed passersby glimpses of sweaty, muscular men grunting with weights. Even early on this Sunday afternoon, I could see from the street at least a dozen male bodies laboring away. There had to be a more pleasant way to spend a Sunday.
The heavy odor of human sweat, smelling all too much like a dirty wet sock, staggered me like a drunk on skid row when I walked in. Most of the sculptured bodies were too busy grunting with weights to even notice me. Those who weren’t struggling with barbells or other apparatus were preening before any one of the many mirrors lining the walls of the place. I was still getting my bearings when one of the he-men in a tank top sauntered up to me with his chest stuck way the hell out and his large ropey arms hung out to his side like a gunslinger. I nearly asked him if it was high noon. I didn’t, which was a smart move on my part, I guess. He had me by about four inches and probably fifty pounds. Around his waist was one of those thick belts used to prevent hernias or back strain or some such nonsense. He was breathing heavily as he stopped before me and looked me over as if unable to decide whether to hoist me over his head or just step on me. I threw him a glare that would cause lesser men to flinch. A sudden kick to the groin, I thought, and this sucker would be down.
“Lookin’ for someone,” he grunted.
His tone was neither friendly nor hostile.
“Yeah. Mick Slaughter,” I said.
“Back there.” He brought a thumb over his massive shoulder like some umpire calling out a base-runner. I mumbled thanks but the he-man sauntered over to some nearby weights which he immediately began throwing over his head. A few other muscle-heads glared as I made my way across a wrestling mat toward a glass cubicle in the corner of the vast room.
The door was open, but there was no sign of anyone around. The room itself wasn’t much. It was small, and other than pictures of some Arnold Schwarzenegger types in various poses, there was no indication that this was the working office of a man who ran a gym. At closer look I could see the guy in each of the photos was Mick himself. He had the same shaved head, the same angular facial features of the man talking to Gallagher outside the hotel the previous night. There was a desk strewn with papers and a small table in the corner with a typewriter.
I was outside the door for perhaps a few minutes when Mick Slaughter entered the gym from the street. If he had appeared muscular last night, he looked even more the he-man today. He wasn’t a tall guy, but his wedge-like figure seemed to fill up the doorway as he looked around the gym to allow several of his customers to acknowledge his presence. He wore shorts, sneakers and a tank top. I could now see there was more to the body than merely his V-shaped torso. He had large knotty arms and legs resembling a pair of thick overturned bottles chiseled with rivers of muscle. In a world of inflated bodies, Mick’s loomed the most impressive. As he moved, every slab of muscle, every vein seemed to stretch and pulsate.
The muscle-head who’d spoken to me earlier caught Mick’s attention and pointed to me. Mick looked across the room, nodded and started toward his office, but not before being sidetracked by a few of his patrons along the way. Everyone seemed to want a piece of Mick’s time. After watching one guy lift a bar over his head about twelve times, Mick suggested to him that he put a little more weight on the thing. Then he moved over to the bench press and served as a spotter for another lifter. The lifter pushed the bar up and down several times before struggling. He held the bar frozen about a foot off his chest. By now, he was grunting heavily, his eyes practically popping from their sockets. At this point, Mick leaned down and got right in the guy’s face: “Push it,” he yelled. “Push it you fuckin’ wimp.”
I thought he had forgotten about me by the time he was dispensing advice. He walked right past me and into his office where he kept his broad back to me while going through some papers on his desk.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
His voice carried a thick New York accent.
“You know anything about the Lance Miller murder?” I asked.
He looked me up and down. I wasn’t sure if he was checking out my body measurements or trying to figure out what I was up to. Mick was probably in his mid-thirties or thereabouts. He had a swarthy complexion and a three-inch scar below his one eye. There was about him a vague feeling of the streets. And some mean streets at that. He had thick and bushy black eyebrows. But other than that, he was hairless. In fact, his head had been shaved clean. I figured it must be true about body builders oiling their bodies and shaving their hair.
“Who wants to know?” He pitched some papers he’d been holding on the desk behind him. I reached for my wallet and flashed my identification.
“I told the police what I know,” he said studying the badge. “I don’t need to sing to some self-employed cop.”
“How did you know Lance Miller?” I asked.
“Heh. Heh. You don’t give up do you?” He walked behind his desk and pulled open a drawer. Bringing out a manila envelope, he tossed it on the desk. “There,” he said. “That’s what I know about Lance Miller.”
I studied the two pages inside. They appeared to be nothing more than printed registration for
ms for membership to Mick’s Gym. Standard information regarding Lance’s birthdate, address, occupation, height, weight, and other background stuff comprised the one form. I turned to the other page. At the bottom was a statement releasing Mick’s Gym from all obligations in case of injury to the member. Lance’s signature was scrawled on a line next to the statement. I studied the form more closely. In the middle of the page were a series of questions: How fit do you consider yourself? What are your goals with respect to a fitness regimen? Do you wish to increase your upper body strength by as much as 100 percent? Underneath the questions were some half dozen specific exercise regimens for a member to consider.
“I see by the form Lance signed up for the Strength-Training Course,” I said.
Mick eased into a chair behind his desk. “So,” he said.
“So what does that amount to?”
He shrugged. “Guys who sign up for that work out a minimum of three times a week on the free weights. It emphasizes strength and muscle endurance rather than bulking up just to look good for the girls at the beach.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a wise-guy grin. “Ever do any lifting?”
“Only with bottles of Scotch,” I said.
He let that one go.
“So what are you telling me?” I said. “Lance came in here three times a week to build up his strength?”
Slaughter nodded.
I turned from Slaughter and studied one of the photos of him on the wall. In this particular one, Slaughter looked like he’d been dipped in bronze. He was standing sideways to the camera with his right arm posed in an L shape to give the full effect of his bulging bicep.
“Talk about looking good for the babes,” I said.
Mick glared. “Look. I don’t like wise-guys,” he said.
“So what about it,” I said. “Was Lance getting the babes?”
“What do you think?” he said. “Lance was a ballplayer. Girls flock to them like whores to a Shriner’s convention.”
“Anyone in particular?” I asked.
“What? You don’t know? I thought everyone knew about him and Reba.”