Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City (3 page)

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, but 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 chis
e
led 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 forms 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.”

“Reba?”

“His big brother’s wife. Shit. Some detective you are.”

I decided to file that one away. I turned back to the photo. “So Lance wasn’t trying to become like this?”

“Hell no,” he said. “He just wanted to get stronger and add a little beef is all.”

“I thought lifting weights makes a ballplayer muscle-bound?” I said.

Slaughter shook his head. “That’s an old myth. Lot of player
s have helped themselves with weight-training. Look at Canseco or that guy used to play for the Angels
‒
Brian Downing.”

“Did it help Lance?” I asked.

“You figure it out. His home run total was awesome. What did he have, twenty-two, twenty-three homers in ju
st the two months he was here. Yeah. I’d say it helped.”

“It must have been pretty hard for Lance to get into any type of proper weight training though,” I said. “Those muscles didn’t get a little artificial stimulation did they?”

Slaughter leaned forward now in the chair. He stared hard at me.

“What are you gettin’ at?” he said.

I smiled. “Just that the team’s out of town a lot. He must have missed a lot of workouts.”

“They got gyms in other towns,” he said. He looked away and began drumming the fingers of his right hand upon the desk top. Suddenly, he stood up. “I’ve really told you everything I know about Lance Miller. I got a workout to do.”

“Just one more thing,” I said. “You were talking to police last night outside the hotel.”

“I’m not saying I wasn’t,” he said.

“I think you know a little more than you’re willing to admit Slaughter.”

He came around the desk and stood with his face about six inches from my own. He was a couple inches shorter than me. It was kind of funny, considering he was built like a well-loaded tank.

“I could pick you up and bounce you outta here like a basketball,” he said thickly.

I stepped back and gave him my best good guy smile. “Have a nice day muscle boy,” I said.

Although I’d been back in Centre Town for about two months, I was still discovering how things had changed in the city during the past twenty years. The abandoned storefronts, thanks to the presence of the Ocyl Mall about eight miles away, had killed the downtown business district, turning it into a roosting spot for the drug dealers, bums and loiterers. There was a lot of crap in the
Centre Town Progress,
the city’s only newspaper, about the problems in Centre Town caused by the “influx” from Philly, a nice way of saying that the
“
niggers
”
were ruining the town. It seemed like every week someone with an eye on a political job
‒
always a longtime resident who longed for the good ol’ days when the town had been full of “hardworking, God-fearing, neighborly folks”
‒
was bellowing in the newspaper about the town’s rising crime, always attributed, of course, to the recovering drug addi
cts fleeing Philly for Centre Town’s recently opened rehabilitation centers. I wasn’t too spaced out on Scotch most of the time to see that there were more African-Americans in the city than what I recalled from the old days. They were on the corners waiting for buses, working in some of the coffee shops and bars, shooting past me on sidewalks with their ghetto blasters and basketballs. And yeah. I’d been stopped by a few slick-talking dudes trying to sell me weed or crack.