by Mike Reuther
This was what Johns told the Progress: “I’ve never in my 30 years of coaching had a more talented athlete play for me than Lance. He’ll do all right if he channels his talents and energies the way he should. But he may find some of the nonsense he could get away with in high school won’t go on the pro level. Lance will find there are some kids out there as equally talented, if not more so than him, willing to break their rear ends. The question is: Will he? I wish him all the best.”
The library had been designed in such a way that the entire second floor was open in the center - a kind of four-sided balcony enclosed by glass. That’s how I could look up from the desk where I was working and see Hampton. There was a satchel tucked under his one arm and a pair of pince-nez glasses hung by a chain from his neck. Apparently, he was having a bad day. He appeared a bit flustered, in a hurry and in search of a book. It didn’t take him long to find it. Grabbing it off the shelf, he brought his glasses up to his nose and began thumbing the book’s pages. But he didn’t seem to be reading. He was turning the pages too quickly for that. Something else about that book had his interest. Eventually, he held the volume upside down and shook it violently as if awaiting something to fall out of it. When nothing did, he slumped against the stacks staring at the floor, drained of all his former energy. After a while, he raised his eyes and spotted me watching him from below. Without missing a beat he turned away, put the book on the shelf and left the stacks.
The stairs leading up to the second floor were off to my right. Hampton had no choice but to use them to get past me. Or so I thought. Naturally, he took an elevator that I knew nothing about. It brought him down to another room in the back. It was on the far side of the building where the reference section was housed. By the time I found out about the exit from one of the librarians, Hampton had slipped out a side entrance and was long gone. It didn’t really matter. I had a pretty good idea what he’d been looking for. I still had that letter addressed to Lance I’d found in Hampton’s house the night I’d let myself in there. The thing was, it didn’t contain much in the way of information:
Lance,
I sincerely had hoped you would come to your senses and see the opportunity that presents itself to you. Think about what you may be throwing away.
We both well know you’re not the sort of chap who can find peace in hearth and home. But I’ll forgo that lecture and save it for students in one of my American Literature primers.
You know where I can be reached.
Giles
The typewritten note was vague. And what could Hampton possibly be offering Lance?
I headed upstairs and found the same book Hampton had had in his hands just a few minutes previously. I knew it was the same volume, because it was shelved improperly. In his haste to get the hell out of the library Giles had placed the thing horizontally across the tops of other shelved books.
I recognized the volume, A Critical Appraisal of Twentieth Century Naturalist Authors. It was the book in which I’d found this same note the night I’d searched his apartment. For some reason, Giles wanted that note … and bad.
But why?
And why now?
Did Lance’s murder have anything to do with it?
I figured I’d seen enough of the microfilm. It was time to go and pay a visit to Giles’ girlfriend.
On my way out of the library there was a copy of that day’s edition of the Centre Town Progress. I’d have probably otherwise ignored the hometown rag, but the headline stopped me in my tracks: Police boss Gallagher resigns.
I headed over to Red’s. And why not? In an insane world, a guy needs a refuge and for me Red’s was it.
As usual, the place was all but deserted. Save for Crazy Erma, who sat before a drink muttering to herself, there was little activity in the barroom. I found Red at a stool on the opposite side of the bar, glumly perusing the pages of the Progress.
“It’s too bad about Gallagher,” he said without looking up.
I agreed it was.
The newspaper had played up the resignation pretty big. In addition to the main story, there were a couple sidebars about Gallagher′s feuds with city council, the most interesting one regarding Gallagher’s part in solving a case involving a serial rapist. It seemed some wacko several years ago had gotten his jollies raping elderly women in the city’s East End. The case had left the police pretty much baffled until Gallagher had placed some of his cops in certain homes awaiting the rapist’s next strike. The ploy had worked, but Gallagher ended up getting anything but congratulations from council. Instead, he’d been chastised for putting too much of the department’s resources into solving a single case in a year when the city’s crime rate had risen.
Red tossed the newspaper aside and rubbed his eyes.
“I’m worried about the guy. He ain’t been in for a couple of days.”
“He’ll turn up.”
“He ain’t home either. I’ve called a few times, but there ain’t been an answer.”
I grinned. “Gallagher always likes to keep you guessing.”
Red just shook his head.
“I tell ya I’m worried about the guy Cozz.
“By the way, he wanted me to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
Red leaned closer to me. “He said to tell you he’s a hypocrite. That you’d understand.”
I stared at the empty stool next to me. It was the same stool where Gallagher usually could be found sitting.
“He said that huh?”
Red looked concerned now. A basket of beer nuts or whatever the hell you call those little brown things that stick between your teeth when you chew on them sat between us. Red kept grabbing at the nuts one at a time and tossing them back into the basket. “So what does that mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “When was the last time you saw the big guy?”
“Two nights ago. He dropped hints that evening about resigning. He was pretty deep into the sauce. I suggested he go home and sleep it off.”
“So did he?”
“Hell no. He ended up making a phone call. About five minutes later, Mick Slaughter and a couple of guys from the Centre Town Mets showed up in the bar.”
“Did you say Mick Slaughter?”
I hadn’t liked the sound of that at all. And Red knew it.
“Hey Mick’s all right,” he said. “Some people think he’s connected. But I don’t buy it.”
“So then what?”
“They all sat down and had a drink. After a couple of minutes they all left.”
“These two ballplayers. I mean, you’re sure they were ballplayers?”
“Yeah. Mick introduced them. The one kid was a pitcher. I can’t think of his name. Let’s see … His name is … Let me see. Can’t think of it. I guess he’s one of these can’t- miss prospects’. The other guy, Billy Somethin’ or other. Nice kid. One of their better ballplayers.”
“This pitcher. He a tall skinny kid.”
“Yeah. That’s him. He was a real wise ass too. He was going on and on about the bar being a dump. I think he was pissed off about not getting the call to join the Mets.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well from what I’ve been reading in the Progress, the Mets have been looking long and hard at this kid. And it’s only a matter of time before he gets the call. But Lance got the call instead and … “
I tossed a ten on the bar and got up.
Red threw his hand up. “Hey. This one’s on me.”
“You don’t know how valuable it’s been this time.”
Chapter 11
“I figured you’d be coming by Crager.”
Mick closed the door to his office.
I watched him go to his desk and slide open a drawer. Out of the drawer came an envelope that he tossed on the desk.
I just stood there gazing at it. It was a plain white envelope with no address or letterhead of any kind.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Open it.”
It was a cashier’s check for $5,000.
“What’s this?” I asked. “Shut up money?”
“What shut up money? You’re working for me pal.”
I threw him a funny look. Then it hit me.
“So it was you who called me about the murder.”
“You’re a real bright guy there Crager.”
I let the envelope fall to the table. Neither of us said anything for a few moments. I could hear the clanking sound of weights being dropped to the floor outside the office.
“Go ahead. It’s yours.”
I looked at Mick then back at the envelope then back at Mick again. He held me with his best wise guy grin.
“Come on Crager. Take it. God knows you could use it. I’ve seen that dump you live in.”
“Ransacking apartments too huh?”
Mick just sat there smiling up at me. He was leaned back in his chair with both hands entwined behind his head.
“I don’t get it. Why hire me?”
“It’s simple. I don’t need any more hassles.”
“You got to be shittin’ me.”
“Hey. I came to his one-horse town five years ago. Let’s just say there was some business back in Brooklyn I left unfinished. So I set up shop here. Okay I fled to here. Enrolled in school. Said the hell with that. Thought I’d start this health club. I’m doing okay. Probably the best of its kind within 100 miles of here.”
“That’s just marvy Slaughter. A real rags to riches story. Shall I alert Maury or Oprah?”
“Yeah. Isn’t it though? Problem is, people in this burg get uptight when some gonzo from the big city comes into town and shows a little entrepreneurial spirit. Especially when he talks with a New York accent and his last name ends in a vowel.”
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 when 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.