Read Online Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City by Mike Reuther - Free Book Online
Authors: Mike Reuther
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that of a babbling idiot, insisting to some weary bartender or anyone else handy that I too was no slave to the great god alcohol.
I finally had to put a stop to Red’s rendition of “A Night on the Town with Joe Gallagher.” By this time, Red was pounding his fist on the bar top and using Gallagher’s best street-cop language to throw up curses at an ex-wife.
“Sounds like the boy was a bit unseemly tonight,” I said.
Red shrugged. “I’m tired of fooling around with the guy. I called down at the station this time. They brought a patrol car by and saw to it that he got tucked in for the night.”
I raised my beer toward Red. “Good work Mother Theresa. So what else did our fine upstanding policeman have to say?”
He found a rag and then very casually used it to begin wiping down the bar, all the while whistling as he did so. I reached into my pocket for my roll and threw a ten on the bar. He eyed it but kept working the rag into the bar’s well-polished and already clean wood surface. I fingered another ten from the roll. “How’s your ex doin’?
Red continued working the rag. The whistling got louder.
“Why not give that cloth a rest?” I said, throwing the ten down on the bar right next to the other bill. Red ran the rag down the length of the bar. The whistling was really grating on me by this time. Red went over to the beer tap to pour himself a drink. When he came back he put down his beer and eyed the two bills before stuffing one of them in his pocket.
“It seems our star ballplayer was getting a little action besides on the field.”
“Heh. Heh. You’re doing fine Red.” I nodded to the ten still resting on the bar. “Go ahead. It’s yours.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t greedy.”
“What action we talkin’ about?”
“An ex-wife. Her name’s Jeannette.”
“Yeah … well. I know about that.”
“There’s more. She’s shacked up with some college professor named Giles Hampton.”
“Yeah. So.”
“So the good word is that this Giles character paid Lance a bundle to stay away from his girlfriend.”
“Heh. Heh. When Gallagher sings he really belts out.” I nodded to the ten. This time Red scooped it up like a vulture. When I reached into my pocket to pay for the drink he shook his head.
“On the house,” he said.
“Yeah limp dick. About twenty bucks worth.”
Pat was just getting back from the kiddy park with the brats when I got to her place. She lived on the third floor of one of these mammoth Victorians the city’s historical commission was still trying to preserve in the part of town known as Millionaires Row, a slice of the city where the high rollers of one hundred years ago had sequestered themselves away from the community’s common element. All the movers and shakers were long gone now, and the whole area had been taken over through the years by landlords preying on the same needy, downtrodden and derelict element the beautiful people of years past had managed to keep out. Some of the homes had long gone to seed, having surrendered to the mounting crime and drug dealing in the neighborhood just to the west. Pat and her brood had four rooms overlooking a park to the south. It was one of the nicer apartments along Fourth Street. Located as it was just a few blocks from my own place made it real convenient for us both.
I gave her door five light raps. It had become a code of ours, you might say. Timmy, her five-year-old bundle of terror, got to the door first. He was just opening the door, the remains of what appeared to be a spaghetti supper smeared on his round little face, when her two other happy terrors arrived. They were twin boys, two hyperactive monsters with red hair and freckles. Nine years ago, while Pat had been waitressing in a downtown cafe, a smooth-talking salesman from Toledo had come into her life and stuck around just long enough to sire Timmy. Later, along came a handsome lug named Sam, a construction worker who loved the
I finally had to put a stop to Red’s rendition of “A Night on the Town with Joe Gallagher.” By this time, Red was pounding his fist on the bar top and using Gallagher’s best street-cop language to throw up curses at an ex-wife.
“Sounds like the boy was a bit unseemly tonight,” I said.
Red shrugged. “I’m tired of fooling around with the guy. I called down at the station this time. They brought a patrol car by and saw to it that he got tucked in for the night.”
I raised my beer toward Red. “Good work Mother Theresa. So what else did our fine upstanding policeman have to say?”
He found a rag and then very casually used it to begin wiping down the bar, all the while whistling as he did so. I reached into my pocket for my roll and threw a ten on the bar. He eyed it but kept working the rag into the bar’s well-polished and already clean wood surface. I fingered another ten from the roll. “How’s your ex doin’?
Red continued working the rag. The whistling got louder.
“Why not give that cloth a rest?” I said, throwing the ten down on the bar right next to the other bill. Red ran the rag down the length of the bar. The whistling was really grating on me by this time. Red went over to the beer tap to pour himself a drink. When he came back he put down his beer and eyed the two bills before stuffing one of them in his pocket.
“It seems our star ballplayer was getting a little action besides on the field.”
“Heh. Heh. You’re doing fine Red.” I nodded to the ten still resting on the bar. “Go ahead. It’s yours.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t greedy.”
“What action we talkin’ about?”
“An ex-wife. Her name’s Jeannette.”
“Yeah … well. I know about that.”
“There’s more. She’s shacked up with some college professor named Giles Hampton.”
“Yeah. So.”
“So the good word is that this Giles character paid Lance a bundle to stay away from his girlfriend.”
“Heh. Heh. When Gallagher sings he really belts out.” I nodded to the ten. This time Red scooped it up like a vulture. When I reached into my pocket to pay for the drink he shook his head.
“On the house,” he said.
“Yeah limp dick. About twenty bucks worth.”
Pat was just getting back from the kiddy park with the brats when I got to her place. She lived on the third floor of one of these mammoth Victorians the city’s historical commission was still trying to preserve in the part of town known as Millionaires Row, a slice of the city where the high rollers of one hundred years ago had sequestered themselves away from the community’s common element. All the movers and shakers were long gone now, and the whole area had been taken over through the years by landlords preying on the same needy, downtrodden and derelict element the beautiful people of years past had managed to keep out. Some of the homes had long gone to seed, having surrendered to the mounting crime and drug dealing in the neighborhood just to the west. Pat and her brood had four rooms overlooking a park to the south. It was one of the nicer apartments along Fourth Street. Located as it was just a few blocks from my own place made it real convenient for us both.
I gave her door five light raps. It had become a code of ours, you might say. Timmy, her five-year-old bundle of terror, got to the door first. He was just opening the door, the remains of what appeared to be a spaghetti supper smeared on his round little face, when her two other happy terrors arrived. They were twin boys, two hyperactive monsters with red hair and freckles. Nine years ago, while Pat had been waitressing in a downtown cafe, a smooth-talking salesman from Toledo had come into her life and stuck around just long enough to sire Timmy. Later, along came a handsome lug named Sam, a construction worker who loved the
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