Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City

by Mike Reuther

  She was sitting on the couch in nothing but panties and bra. The woman has a sixth sense of when I’m coming. She’s amazing in that respect. I stood in the living room, giving her a good once over like I was preparing to have her for dinner. It was all a lot of crap though. The long drive back and forth from Maryland and the other events of the day had left me exhausted. A rumble in the hay didn’t do much for me right now. What I wanted was a drink.

  “I expected you a bit earlier. You had a phone call here.”

  “Here? Who?”

  She hit the pause button on the VCR’s remote control. The image of Jimmy Stewart suddenly froze. “A gentleman named Giles Hampton.” She rolled her eyes. “One of those very educated types. He called long-distance.”

  “Interesting he knew to call here,” I said. “What did he want?”

  “He said he was at the banquet that night. That he saw Reba excuse herself from the table about the time dessert was being served. Also, he wanted you to know that Ron Miller is a trustee over at Ocyl College, and that you can draw your own conclusions from that.”

  I plopped down heavily onto the couch. Pat threw a leg across my lap.

  “Well,” she said. “What does it all mean?”

  Either Hampton’s lying to save his own ass, and I don’t think he is, or he’s implicating Reba in the murder.”

  “Why didn’t he come forward before?” Pat asked. She wiggled her foot into my thigh, the code for me to begin massaging her toes.

  “He had too much to lose,” I said. “Apparently, Miller was the driving force behind his getting fired from Ocyl College.”

  “I thought they were friends,” Pat said.

  “They were. But from what I can piece together Reba wanted him out of there. Hampton had been on Miller to leave her.”

  “Makes sense,” she said. “But how do we know Hampton’s still not lying?”

  “A ballplayer told me Reba left the banquet to meet Lance up in his room that night.”

  I had stopped massaging, causing Pat to poke me in the gut with her foot. “Some girls get all the luck,” she said.

  “Then she met up with Lance,” I added.

  Pat shook her head. “The little slut.” I was staring hard at the floor. She again prodded me with her foot. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I still don’t have a murder weapon,” I said. ” And I really don’t know if Reba Miller is capable of killing someone.”

  “I say she is,” Pat said.

  I shrugged and looked up at the frozen image of Jimmy Stewart. He was in a chair with a telescope. “We’ll never know at this point.”

  I could feel her looking hard at me.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she suggested.

  “You go ahead,” I said. “I want to sit here and think for a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” She sighed and got up.

  “Pat,” I said, just as she was about to disappear down the hallway. “Sorry, I’ve been a shit meister lately.”

  She stood at the edge of the hallway in her panties and bra, the dull blue-gray light from the television screen giving her kind of a ghostly glow.

  “There’s Scotch in the kitchen cupboard,” she said. “Don’t overdo it. I need you for the long haul.”

  I went into the kitchen and poured a couple of fingers of the Scotch into a glass. For the longest time, I stood next to the sink, wavering between pouring the stuff back into the bottle or down the drain. Finally, I took the glass with me back to the couch and sat there in the semi-darkness of the room, rolling the liquid around in the glass. I began playing this little game with the stuff, seeing how close I get could bring the Scotch to the very rim of the glass without it spilling. It was an old game, and I was pretty damn good at it. After I got bored with that I slumped back into the couch and placed the glass on my belly. I ignored Jimmy Stewart, still frozen on the television, and gazed up at the ceiling at nothing in particular. I felt myself getting sleepy, and then the room began to swallow me up.

  The door flew open. In all directions they scattered through the house in a mad rush of Spanish chattering. This was it, the barrio drug bust we’d been planning for. Three of us, our guns drawn, took the stairs. Four other cops tore through the bottom of the house. A toilet flushed as I ran up the steps. There was the shattering of glass.“He went out the window,” someone screamed. At the top of the stairs, we separated.

  “Steek ‘em up meester,” came a voice.

  I wheeled around. He was what? Seven, eight years old. “Give me the gun son.”

  I took a step toward him.

  “Carlos no.” A man had thrown himself into the hallway. The gun he held was pointed at me.

  I fired. The man went down, the gun dropping from his hand. He scrambled for it. So did I. A tussle on the floor followed. And then my gun went off for the second time, a split second before I realized the kid had gone for it too.

  I woke up with a start. Sunlight pouring through the window stabbed my eyes. Scotch had spilled onto my shirt. The glass sat on its side next to me on the couch. My shirt was wet with perspiration. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. Labor Day. The last day of the Mets season. A double-dip set to start at noon. But first a ceremony to unveil the statue. I wrote out a quick note to Pat and took off for the ball park.

  Chapter 14

  I wanted to get to the ball park before they opened the gates. A decent crowd was expected. A lot of people would be turning out early for the pre-game festivities. Some nut in a parachute was supposed to land on the field to deliver the game ball. But first, there would be a cow-milking contest featuring some local businessmen and city council people, all sorts of drawings and kids games, and of course, the unveiling of that statue. Yeah. The Mets were going to leave town with a bang.

  Prior to the game, the statue rested in the rotunda area beside the ticket window.

  I bought myself a ticket just as they were opening the gates to the ball park. There were few other people around just yet, and I took the opportunity to get a real good look at the statue. Jack Hastings never looked better. I got to say that. They had him standing real erect, a single hand on his hip to make him look proud, confident and regal, and the sort of warm good guy smile on his mug that would have done Mother Theresa proud. Jack Hastings: businessman, politician, whore master. What the hell. They could have done worse. They named a building after J. Edgar Hoover didn’t they?

  Supposedly, the statue was to have undergone a few last minute changes before being unveiled. Studying the thing more closely, I noticed it was mounted on a concrete slab of about two feet high, the concrete appearing to have been newly poured. That’s when it hit me. Hastings’ feet had previously been bolted into metal. Now, the ankles disappeared right into cement. I ran my hand across the slab. It was concrete all right. And if I wasn’t mistaken, the cement even felt slightly wet to my touch. Apparently, the slab had been poured as recently as yesterday.

  As I was getting a good look at the statue, Rusty Wallace was coming down the ramp next to the ticket booth. He looked like he’d just lost all his money in a game of craps.

  “Lost your way?” I said.

  He suddenly straightened up. “Oh Crager. Sorry … I didn’t see you there.” He stopped now and nodded at the statue.

  “What do you think?”

  “It does the old ball park proud,” I said chuckling.

  “Yeah,” Wallace said grimly.

  “What’s with you?” I asked. “You miss your daily dose of the newspaper funnies, or did Miller just decide he can run this little operation without you?”

  “That’s precisely what’s happened,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Miller just canned me.”

  “And here I thought you were a good little toady.”

  Wallace just stood there on the ramp staring down at the statue.

  “Hey. Cheer up kid. You’re young, you’re white, you’re an American. You’ll find another job in this burg.” />
  Wallace didn’t seem to hear me though. He continued staring forlornly at the statue.

  “He’s sold the club you know. It’s all but a done deal.”

  “It’s true then,” I said. “Mick Slaughter is buying the team.”

  Wallace shook his head.

  “And you don’t fit into the new owner’s plans?” I said.

  “That would be correct Crager.”

  He walked down from the ramp and stood before the statue. “I don’t have anything to hang my head about,” he said, his voice choking. “I did everything Mr. Miller asked of me and then some. This statue, for example. It was my idea.”

  “Tell me something,” I said. “Why did they change the foundation?”

  Wallace turned to me. The poor guy’s eyes had become misty. “Someone toppled the statue when they brought it back to the ball park from this banquet last month at the Spinelli Hotel. When it fell, the feet tore right out of the foundation. They had to prepare a new one for it.”

  “So they got a new mount. That slab there looks newly poured.”

  “It is,” he said. “They brought the statue here by truck and did it yesterday.”

  “Happen to know what they did with the old mount?”

  Wallace gave me a funny look. “As a matter of fact, it’s right over there.” He pointed deep under the grandstands.

  Sure enough, a big rectangular slab rested among the twisted network of steel beams deep in the crumby underbelly of the grandstands.

  “Mind if I take a look?” I said.

  “At this point, you can do just about anything you want. My work is done.”

  I had to work my way through the beams and girders to reach it while holding my nose to the raunchy aroma of stale urine and beer. It was like a used-up whore’s armpit under there. That was for damn sure. Bottles, soda paper cups, stale popcorn and french fries, chewed up hot dogs and buns, mustard-stained napkins and zillions of cigarette butts had all been coughed up onto the dirt floor beneath those stands. I had to practically get on my hands and knees to reach the foundation. It was way the hell to the front of the grandstands where the seats sloped down closest to the field on the other side.

  The slab was resting on its side. And it was made of metal all right. There were several holes where thick screws used to keep in place the feet of the statue had been torn away. I propped myself on a knee and rapped the iron with my knuckles. It was hollow. That only made sense. Bolts had probably been used to secure the screws. That meant to get on the bolts, there had to be an opening to the thing. I examined each side of the mount. I could find no openings, gaps or trap doors. I stepped back and looked toward the ticket booth. A few fans were beginning to trickle in. I had to work fast before the wrong person spotted me. I gave it a nudge with my foot and actually moved it a few inches. Something rattled inside.

  Apparently, the damn thing wasn’t as heavy as I’d suspected. That meant I just might be able to topple it.

  Getting both hands wedged into the dirt beneath the mount, I flipped it to the upright position. As I’d hoped, there was a slot on the side. I pulled from my pocket my trusty flashlight and looked inside. My light caught the sight of gleaming metal. At closer inspection, I could see it was a knife with a slightly bowed blade, and all along the length of the blade, which went about four inches, there was dried blood. The knife’s handle was thin and went about four, maybe five inches. All in all, it looked to be a real efficient sort of instrument, the kind that could be stuck into someone then pulled back out with little effort, and small enough to be easily concealed. I took a peek behind me. By now, more fans were coming into the stadium and lining up at the ticket windows. I stood up slowly and stepped back from the foundation. I didn’t have the slightest doubt I’d found the murder weapon.

  My seat was right behind the Mets dugout on the first base side. All around me, the stands were filling up. I wasn’t surprised. It was a gorgeous early September Day, and ticket prices had been slashed for this final day of the dismal season. People will do anything for a bargain, and for a buck you could take in a doubleheader and also watch grown men make fools of themselves in the pre-game festivities. I wasn’t greatly interested in the cow-milking, and after watching some local farmers leading their cows onto the field I got itchy. I was about to take a walk when I spotted Miller. He was just taking his seat behind home plate. There seemed to be a small entourage with him - a few guys in three-piece suits and some well-dressed women. Reba Miller, I noted, was there with her husband. She looked good as usual, this time dressed in a smart pants suit. I looked back to the field. Players were in front of both dugouts tossing balls back and forth. Normally, the Mets would be taking batting practice about now, but on this day the players seemed resigned to push the hitting aside for the goofy exhibitions.

  Then Emerson popped out of the dugout and right behind him, Jack Walter. A few mock cheers went up among the players loosening up in front of dugout. And why not? They looked like a couple of junior Mafia types dressed for a big night of Atlantic City casino-hopping. Shades for their eyes, their hair greased down, they each wore cream-colored suits, with black shirts and white ties. Real wise guys. They went from player to player, shaking hands and slapping backs along the way.

  They had just finished up with the glad-handing and the good-byes and were making it fast toward the dugout when I stopped them.

  “Going somewhere Emerson?” I asked.

  He saw me all right. So did Walter. They halted and looked up at me standing at the bottom row of the grandstands behind the dugout. Emerson took off his sunglasses and glared at me. Walter sneered.

  “Whadda you want Crager?” Emerson said.

  “You and the kid got a plane to catch?” I asked.

  “Matter of fact we do,” Emerson said. “Jack here got the call. He’s pitching for the Mets tomorrow night at Shea Stadium.”

  I looked at Walter. “I suppose I should say congrats.”

  Walter shook his head and grinned. “Let’s go,” he said to Emerson. “We don’t need to waste our time with this chump.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Go ahead and catch your plane. Enjoy your time in New York while it lasts.”

  “We plan to,” Walter sneered.

  “Good. Make sure you have a good month there Walter. And make sure you’re compensated for those wins. You and your hanger-on there are going to need every penny for your trials.”

  “You don’t know nothin’ Crager,” Emerson said.

  “Interesting hiding places you find for your hunting knives Emerson. You could have at least wiped the blood off the thing.”

  Both of them just gawked up at me. It was actually funny the way they stood there. A few moments before looking so smug and cocky, now just a pair of wise guys who’d just shit themselves.”

  “What’s he talkin’ about?” Walter said.

  “Nothin’,” Emerson said. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  I figured the two of them would make a quick exit from the ball park. But I figured wrong. Five minutes later I spotted Emerson settling himself into a seat beside Miller. The two of them began to talk. Or rather, Emerson talked and Miller listened, the ball club owner looking very solemn as he sat listening to the groundskeeper. Reba was on the other side of her husband, but on the very edge of her seat stretched toward Emerson, obviously taking it all in. Reba was seated in such a way that she was facing me and looking plenty worried. Several times throughout Emerson’s spiel, she shot up from her seat and wrung her hands at which point Miller reached out to her, and she’d fall back heavily into her seat, burying her head into her hands. Finally, she shot up from her seat for the last time. Miller and then Emerson grabbed for her, but she tore away, turned, and rushed up the steps through the box seats.

  And then Miller was talking into a cell phone, and Emerson was pushing his way past people to try and catch her. I didn’t waste a moment. When I got down the ramp behind home plate I found Reba and Emerson near the ticket booth ta
lking. Reba was in bad shape. She was crying into Emerson’s chest, her whole body shaking. People queued up to the ticket booth were making curious glances their way. I was just about to push through the line separating me from the two when out of nowhere came Jeannette. She strode right up to Reba and began flailing away at her. “You killed him you son of a bitch. You killed him,” she screamed.

  Emerson tried to grab Jeannette, but there was no stopping her. She was all over Reba, using her fists and feet to do a job on her. Reba never had a chance though she was doing her best to cover up as she back-pedaled beneath the stands. She was still doing a retreat when she stumbled and fell over one of the cross beams of the stands. At that point, Jeannette commenced kicking at her prone body. Before Reba got the living crap kicked out of her a couple of young guys from the line tore beneath the stands and grabbed Jeannette. And then two beefy security guards dashed down the ramp and under the stands. Right behind them was Miller.

  And then, we were all gathered there beneath those crumby stands. Miller just stood there looking as if this was the last place he wanted to be. Jeannette, being held from behind by one of his security flunkies, was screaming at his wife. “You Goddamn whore. You killed him!” she screamed.

  Reba, now on her feet and having gathered herself somewhat, was getting in a few licks of her own. “I killed him? Why you cheap tramp. You lousy, cheap tramp,” she said as Emerson slowly backed her away. She was a mess. Her hair looking matted and tangled, her clothes torn and dirty.

  The two women traded a few more choice insults as a crowd of onlookers began to push their way closer to the action. Acting quickly, the other security guard moved forward, pushing back the crowd. Both women began to settle down. They continued glaring at each other though, like two attack dogs circling.

  “Don’t just stand there Ronald,” Reba said to her husband. “Do something. Have this bitch thrown out of here.”

  “Call me a bitch you whore,” shot back Jeannette as she attempted to disengage herself from the guard’s grip. Miller looked like he wanted to melt away. He began looking all about him. Hell. I almost felt sorry for the guy. “Do something for God’s sake Ronald,” Reba screamed.