Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City (16 page)

“Later doll,” I said as I started for the front entrance.

“I do hope we see you again Mr. Crager,” she called out.

I turned and bowed, and for good measure, threw her a phantom rose and then a kiss. I think she swooned.

Ocyl College is a private institution
,
so I had to come up with identification and sign out a paper at the main desk before using the microfilm.

Then I got to work.

I briefly scanned some back issues chronicling Lance’s days as a high school jock. I have to say there was something more than a little eerie about seeing old photographs of a teenage Lance Miller. He’d been so young and alive and healthy then. Now he was a stiff in a morgue. As a scholastic jock, Lance had starred not only in baseball but in basketball and football as well. I found grainy newspaper photos catching him swinging a bat, sidestepping a defender on the gridiron and dribbling a baske
t
ball past an opponent. Different articles I came across mentioned that schools
-
Notre Dame, Penn State, USC and other football factories had wanted him badly as a quarterback. Yeah, the guy had been a regular phenom. A real natural athlete. Hell, the guy
was
the local sports scene from 1974 to 1977. I got bored after
a while
with the touchdowns and home runs. It wasn’t what I was looking for anyway. I reeled ahead the microfilm and came across the June 10, 1980 issue. The entire first page of the sports section was given over to Lance. The
M
ajor
L
eague baseball draft had been held just days previously, and Lance, just coming off a few years
at
Centre Town Junior College, had been picked in the second round by the New York Yankees. Lance was quoted as saying he looked forward to reporting to his first minor league team. He talked about his chances against minor league pitching, the prospect of living away from home for the first time and being on his own. Pretty boring sports story stuff mostly. And there was the usual fluff about his marvelous athletic skills and the quotes from coaches, teammates and opponents recalling some of his eye-popping feats. This wasn’t exactly hard-hitting stuff. But then, the sports pages usually aren’t, especially in cities the size of Centre Town. One quote I found interesting though. It was from that of his baseball coach, Lefty Johns. I remembered Johns all right. Back in my school days, he’d been the gym teacher. A tough bird but fair, the kind of guy who didn’t put up with crap from students. If he thought you were horseshit he told you so. Tell a kid that today and they’ll haul you into court for causing the kid emotional distress.

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 bi
g
.
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
o
ther. 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.”

So I did. When I saw what was inside the envelope I was surprised it hadn’t been sealed.

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.”