Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City

by Mike Reuther

  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.

  “Well. If it ain’t my old pal Crager.”

  For the first time I was actually glad to hear that voice.

  It was the cab driver from hell.

  “Going my way?” he said.

  “That’s my line,” I said, allowing myself to collapse into the seat behind him.

  He was turned around in the seat and lighting up a fag. Through the screen separating us he gave me the once over. “Been playing hardball with the bad boys again I see.”

  “Perceptive fellow you are. Ever consider becoming a private dick.”

  “I’m already one,” he said. “At least, that’s what some people tell me.”

  “Yeah. Do tell.”

  “Honorable cabbie knows all the secrets of the naked city.”

  “Sure. Tell me a few secrets honorable cabbie. I’m running out of ‘em.”

  “Just sit back in your seat,” he said, as we started moving. “You might be interested in my next fare.”

  It turned out I was more than interested. After winding through the streets around Ocyl College we pulled up to Hampton’s place.

  “You’re aces cabbie,” I said.

  He shut off the engine and took a drag on his cigarette. “It’s gonna cost you,” he said peering out the window.

  And then Hampton was coming out the front door. It was more like stumbling really. He was having a losing battle with some luggage. With three suitcases - one in each hand, another tucked in his armpit and one of those carry-on bags over his back - he looked like a clown pulling off a comedy juggling act.

  “Duty calls,” the cabbie said, exiting the car.
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  At the sight of the cabbie Hampton immediately dropped everything. Then he threw him a disdainful look and stepped away from the luggage as if he was avoiding dog shit. And so help me God, he reached into the pocket of his coat - one of those tweed jobs with single patches on the elbows - and unfolded a walking cane. For just a moment he leaned into the cane, grasping its plumed knob with both hands as he watched the cabbie gather up his things. Then he walked smartly on. Jesus, the guy was the snoot of all time.

  Hampton didn’t give me even a glance as he tried mightily to settle his behind into the seat beside me. That done, he placed the cane upright between his knees. Perhaps he wanted to have the thing close by in case he found it necessary to flog the cabbie.

  “I must say, one simply can no longer find adequate help,” he said.

  “Yeah. It’s a funny thing,” I said. “No one knows his place these days.”

  If Hampton even heard me he ignored it. He still wasn’t settled in the seat. He kept moving around his behind and brushing at some pesky lint from the shirt sleeves of his jacket.

  “Going out of town?” I said.

  The question brought no response from him so I repeated it, this time adding the word professor.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  With an annoyed look he turned as if I was his most addle-brained student, his eyes peering over the top of his glasses. “Oh … it’s you.”

  He seemed anything but happy to be sharing the back seat with me. For a few moments he looked me up and down. “And what … may I ask … happened to you?”

  He meant my bruised and battered appearance.

  “Sometimes, things get rough in my line of work,” I said.

  “I see.” Satisfied with my response, he turned away and stared straight ahead at the screen before him. But if the old boy thought class was now dismissed he had another thing coming.

  “You still haven’t answered my question professor,” I said.

  His teeth clenched, and he shut his eyes very tightly as if that would make me go away.

  “I’ve accepted another teaching position, if you must know,” he said.

  “Department head at the school of trucking?”

  “My suggestion to you Mr. Crager would be to direct your sorry attempts at sarcasm to less formidable opponents. Actually, I am to assume my new duties at Oakdale College next week.”

  “Oakdale College,” I said, letting out a shrill whistle. “Sounds like one of the Ivy League heavies.”

  Hampton decided to let it go. The cabbie finished getting his luggage into the trunk then came around to get behind the wheel. For the next few minutes nobody spoke as we drove through the streets of Centre Town. Downtown was dead. No more than a few people could be seen walking the streets - the lonely, the crazy, the drug addicts and drunks hoping for a fix or a thrill. Soon, we were passing the stadium and the city limits sign where Market Street becomes Route 119. I figured we were headed for the airport. Why else would Hampton have his luggage? He seemed to be in a hurry. He kept looking from the passing scenery to his watch and fidgeting with his pockets and adjusting and readjusting his glasses. He reminded the cabbie that his flight was one he indeed meant to catch and that it was to leave promptly at midnight. I looked at my own watch. It was just past 11 o’clock. Time to find some answers. If nothing else, I had to keep the guy talking. Besides, the deathly silence of the cab was getting to me.

  “Tsk. Tsk. I’m disappointed in you Hampton,” I said. “A gentleman of your breeding and sterling academic credentials. Why not Harvard or Yale?”

  I thought he was going to let that one go too. He tapped the cane and shifted uneasily in his seat.

  “There’s no question that the position I am now accepting is … shall we say … a step down from that of what I am accustomed.”

  “So why take it?”

  Hampton allowed himself to smile now for the first time. “Come now Mr. Crager. You’re aware of those incredibly ludicrous charges leveled against me.”

  Actually, I wasn’t. But I nodded as if I was. He gazed out the window. “The idea of that committee … that blatantly biased committee proceeding with that grievance. And that charade of a hearing process I was forced to endure ….

  “I never touched any of my students. At least not while they were formally studying under me. It was all politically motivated … an obvious and most flagrant politically motivated ploy.”

  Scarface hadn’t been kidding. There was some sordid sexual laundry in the old boy’s past. At least enough to get him in some hot water with the college.

  Hampton was clearly upset now. He fumbled more furiously with his coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he used to wipe his brow. From another pocket he grabbed a vial. Out of it came two pills. He tossed them both into his mouth and choked them down his throat. Up front, I could see the cabbie stealing glances at us in his rear view mirror.

  “I won’t mislead you Mr. Crager. This recent episode has left me in a most vulnerable state in recent months.”

  “Who had it in for you?” I asked innocently enough.

  “Several of whom I once considered colleagues, even allies, if you will. Bloody buggers turned against me.”

  “How so?”

  Hampton shook his head slowly. “The fields of academic play reek of politics Mr. Crager. Make no mistake about it. So many of my brethren like to see themselves as above the pettiness, the skullduggery and subterfuge that is rampant elsewhere in the world. Those in my discipline who, at rather tender ages, launched academic careers did so for noble reasons. The study of literature, they envisioned, indeed as we all envisioned, put us on a quest for truth and knowledge … and yes … even freedom. Believe me, no one embraced those ideals more fiercely than Giles Hampton.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The world of academia has been a big letdown,” he sighed. “Believe me when I tell you Mr. Crager, the rewards in my world are few. Earnings are modest, and the occasional recognition one gets for scholarly research rarely makes much of an impression on the outside world. That quite often leaves the jockeying for position, for power within the confines of a university as a more lofty goal. And that quest for power can be brutal, one akin to combat. Oh it’s a bloody and ferocious playing field.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the idea of brutal warfare among academics. The thought of tweedy, bearded professors decked out in camouflaged military garb tossing grenades at each other from behind their ivy-covered walls was just too much.

  But Hampton was hardly through.

  “Those of you out there like to think of universities as think tanks for liberalism. From a strictly political ideological standpoint I suppose that’s true. But more broadly defined, liberalism stands for the autonomy of the individual and the protection of political and civil liberties.” Hampton paused. “That’s Webster’s definition, not mine. The point is Mr. Crager, I have interpreted literature in a way that reflects my personal background, biases, struggles etc. Not surprisingly, my viewpoints have not always been popular ones, the ones commonly embraced by my peers. As a result, I was branded a radical, a pariah in the university community.”

  “You’re breaking my heart big guy.”

  “Scoff it you will Mr. Crager. However, my career, despite my well-earned credentials and no small number of laurels of which have been bestowed upon me, is clearly now in shambles.”

  “Whoa. Save The Fall of the House of Academia course for freshmen literature students. Just tell me this, was Lance Miller an acquaintance of yours?”

  “And what does that have to do with my faltering academic career?”

  “Just answer the question.” I said.

  Hampton threw me a quizzical look.

  “He is. That is … he was.” Hampton eyed me now with no small bit of suspicion.

  “Surely, Mr. Crager you don’t continue to grasp that ill-conceived notion that I had something to do with his unfortunate demise?”


  “Maybe. You couldn’t have been happy with him around?”

  Hampton let out a sigh. “Mr. Crager. My personal affairs are hardly of your concern.”

  “Look Hampton. I wouldn’t normally give a flying fart about your personal life. But the fact is, you were involved with a little lady that was once married to a ballplayer, a ballplayer who was found murdered at the Spinelli Hotel.”

  Hampton seemed to give this some thought.

  “Fair enough,” he said finally.

  “So what was the deal with you and Jeannette?”

  “Deal? It was hardly a deal. Jeannette and I were involved romantically … at least … our relationship had some of the, shall we say, common components of a romantic entanglement.”

  “Things weren’t so good between the two of you?”

  “I tried to make things work with Jeannette,” he said sadly.

  “Some women aren’t worth it.”

  The remark caused Hampton to peer over his glasses at me. “Alas. Jeannette carried a torch for Lance. They had, of course, been married at one time. Complicating matters was their son.”

  “A son?”

  “He lives with his grandparents in some dreadful backwater town in Ohio. Jeannette, you see, could hardly support him on her wages as a waitress.”

  “And you did the noble thing and took her in?”

  Hampton glared at me.

  “I never claimed sainthood Mr. Crager. I was more than a little smitten with Jeannette, it’s true. That, despite her being the product of a horribly deficient background and upbringing.”

  “Come off it Hampton. What did you see in her, other than a pretty face and a body gorgeous enough to kill for?”

  “Don’t be crude Mr. Crager. Jeannette has admirable intangible qualities. She’s not without her charms. Most of all, she’s tenacious with the instincts of a gutter fighter. Put simply, Jeannette’s nobody’s fool.”