On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery

by Tom Schreck

  Contents

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  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery © 2007 by Tom Schreck.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2012

  E-book ISBN: 9780738720333

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Gavin Dayton Duffy

  Cover photographs: boxing gloves © PhotoDisc; dog © Comstock Images

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Sue, the Alpha

  and

  Annette, the Matriarch

  To Hound Farms and White Jaguars

  What’s the point of being Irish if you can’t be stupid?

  Billy Conn

  He can run but he can’t hide.

  Joe Louis

  I ain’t got no dog-proof ass.

  Sonny Liston

  1

  “Hey Duff—did you hear what the Polack mom asked her pregnant daughter?” Sam from the business office said.

  “Mornin’, Sam,” I said.

  “Are you sure it’s yours?” Sam laughed himself back to his cubicle.

  With the last name Dombrowski, I’ve heard every imaginable Polack joke and people like Sam made sure I kept up-to-date. I hate the routines, but I especially wasn’t in the mood on this particular Monday morning.

  I am a caseworker at Jewish Unified Services in Crawford, a city in upstate New York, about fifty miles from New York City. Crawford is one of those northeastern cities that goes back to the time of the Revolutionary War. Years ago, it was a city with strong ethnic neighborhoods, the Irish, the Polish, the Jewish, the Italian, and the African American. Today, the neighborhoods are a shell of what they used to be, as most of the old families have participated in the white-flight to the suburbs. Much like a smaller version of New York City, the actual city confines are made up largely of poorer families of black and Latino extraction.

  The other thing about Crawford that distinguishes it from other cities is the wind. Something about the valley formed by the Hudson and the Catskills causes it to be the windiest city in the country. I read something one time about Crawford being actually three times as windy as Chicago. The wind is a bizarre source of city pride—the city limit signs have this humanized cartoon of the wind, an old man with puffed-out cheeks, next to the “Welcome to Crawford,” and McDonough High, my alma mater and the city’s public high school, has the nickname “The Mighty Wind.” To this day, opposing fans chant “Break the Wind” at football games.

  I handle a caseload of about seventy-five clients at the clinic. They use our agency for everything from addiction counseling to parenting skills to anger management. Most of our clients live on welfare and whatever benefits they can get out of the government.

  I’m not a Monday type of guy anyway, but this one was going to be an exceptional pain in the ass. I had a nine-thirty meeting with my boss, the clinical director, Claudia Michelin. Claudia is one of the educated, heartless bureaucrats that live to be in control of other people. She was well suited for the gig. She’s the one who decides who gets thrown out of treatment for missing sessions or for not getting in line and doing everything she asks in just the right way. Claudia was not turning down offers from Victoria’s Secret, either. She had hit her maximum density a long time ago, and I’m figuring she carried almost three hundred pounds on her considerable six-foot frame. In fact, I’m not sure if she was actually a blood relative, but she bore a striking resemblance to her namesake, the Michelin Man tire guy. She had one of those bushy, curly-haired perms that mercifully went out of style around the demise of Studio 54. The Michelin Woman had a scowl permanently affixed to her face, and she had this tendency to shift her eyes back and forth instead of looking right at you.

  She also loves the control of being the boss to me and the other case managers here. Since she took over eighteen months ago, she’s done everything she could to get me to quit or, preferably, to set up a future firing. Of course, I don’t help myself with some of the things I try to get away with. For one, I despise paperwork and avoid it, procrastinate it, and—I’ll tell you honestly—I lie about doing it. Michelin lives for it.

  My extracurricular activities can sort of get in the way too. I’m a part-time professional fighter, the type that’s known in the trade as a professional opponent. Promoters call me to fight up-and-coming prospects because they know I’ll lose but not look horrible in the process. I split a lot of my local, small fights, but the money is in fighting the prospects that I don’t have a chance of beating. As a heavyweight, I can make ten grand getting my ass kicked by some ex-Olympian on his way up looking for an easy win.

  Unfortunately, I scammed some time off a month ago. I got Rudy, the doc who hangs out down at the gym, and who also happens to be my landlord, to get me a temporary disability for a condition known as fibromyalgia. It’s a mostly improvable ailment of the joints that needs plenty of bed rest to get over. I was out of the office for three weeks with it, and it was all on the up and up because Rudy signed off on it.

  The problem was, I was fighting on the undercard of a fight that was featured on ESPN. Not every bout on a fight card makes TV, usually only a main event and one or two of the better fights. I’m almost never on TV. On this particular night, I was positioned in an off-TV fight scheduled to go on after the TV bo
uts went off. It’s what’s known as a “walkout” because that’s exactly what all the fans are doing, but because there were three knockouts on the scheduled TV fights they moved my fight to the live telecast. There I was with my diagnosis of fibromyalgia fighting ten rounds on national television. At least I had the decency to get knocked out.

  The Michelin Woman found no humor in this at all. Fortunately, because I had a doctor signing off on it, there was nothing she could do. What she could do was step up her Nazi-like review of my records, which were behind back to when Jimmy Carter was in office. I’ve already received “informal counseling” and “a verbal warning,” which, strangely enough, I learned, comes in typed memo form. Today, I realized I was about to get the formal written warning, which is different from the written verbal warning, not by the fact that it is written, but rather by its content. In it was verbiage that amounted to saying my ass was grass and Claudia was the mower. It was an official documentation of the last straw.

  I made my way to her office, dreading every step. Not because I feared getting written up—that’s happened enough throughout my life—but because I would have to listen to Claudia go through her supervisory coaching. We both knew she hated my guts, but even in reprimanding me, she went by the book, encouraging me and telling me how much she needed me to improve. It was procedure for a supervisor to present disciplinary warnings in a positive coaching manner. It would feel better if she just called me a fuckin’ asshole.

  “Duffy, do you know why we’re meeting today?” she asked.

  “I’m guessing it’s not to give me a raise,” I said.

  “This is not a time to get flip. I have some real concerns with your work. I want you to succeed here at Jewish Unified Services but I need you to keep your records up to regulations. It isn’t fair to the clients,” she said.

  She always threw the part in about the clients and I hated it. My clients don’t give a rat’s ass about their files, unless it interferes with them getting benefits, and I always made sure that those reports were done. Even when I scammed disabilities to get out of work, I kept check of my caseload, calling the folks who really needed help and making sure they were all right—which was, by the way, against regulations.

  “Claudia, can’t we just get on with it?” I said, knowing it would piss her off because I wasn’t scared and I was taking back some of her control.

  “See, it’s that type of attitude that is self-defeating to you. I need you to take a look at some of the issues that get in your way,” she said.

  This was the psychobabble that she employed that made her come off like a robot. The words were meaningless jargon and she hid behind them because she felt it gave her some sort of power. It was one of the reasons I liked hanging out at boxing gyms. If someone there didn’t like you, they told you to fuck off and tried to take your head off. It was clear and unambiguous.

  “Look, Claudia, do you have something for me to sign? I realize you would prefer it if I began to shake, soil myself, and weep out of fear, but I just don’t have the energy this morning,” I said.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. This is a written warning. Today is August 16. If in four weeks your paperwork isn’t caught up, you will be terminated,” she said, sliding a formal-looking memo across the desk.

  “Why don’t you just can me now? There’s no way I can get my files caught up in a month,” I said.

  “That’s up to you, Duffy,” she said.

  I left the office realizing that in one month I’d be back in her office giving her the satisfaction of firing me. That was the worst part of it. I’ve been fired plenty of times; I just didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. I should have figured today was going to suck. It’s the anniversary of Elvis’s death and every year something unlucky has happened on this date. I’ve been in car crashes, been knocked out three times, and even caught a case of crabs on August 16. Giving Michelin the pleasure of firing me would be worse than the crabs. The crabs I had were friendlier, easier to get along with, and, frankly, better looking.

  It was the start of a great week.

  2

  I thought I’d take a look at the files Claudia was bitching about. I had just sat down when I realized I’d be in a much better frame of mind if I got some nutrition in me. Being a human service agency filled with overweight, issue-filled professionals, there were always large quantities of simple carbohydrated, fat-laden treats in arm’s reach. I once thought that if you could somehow deep fry sugar and salt you could keep many social workers happy for a very long time.

  This particular morning I was in luck. There was an in-service in the multipurpose room with an outside trainer on “Multicultural Nonverbal Communication.” Technically, I was supposed to attend, but Trina the office manager always hooked me up with the attendance sign-in sheet just before she turned it in to Claudia. I figured being on the attendance sheet entitled me to a couple of donuts and a cup of coffee.

  Just before the trainer started his exercise—breaking the room into discussion groups of threes to make nonverbal multicultural hand puppets—I slipped out of the multipurpose room and headed to my often little-purpose cubicle. Before I left, I waved to the trainer who clearly never quite disengaged from the sixties. He was bald on top of his head but maintained a brownish-gray ponytail. He had on army fatigues with lots of pockets and his gut hung over the top of them. The best part was his sandals with the separate loop for his fat and hairy big toe. Topping off the look was a toenail on the hairy big toe that looked like it was last trimmed right around the time Richie Havens left the stage at Woodstock.

  I grabbed a stack of about ten files, took a sip of the lukewarm, brownish, cardboard-tasting coffee, and looked at the first file. I opened Eli Allison’s chart and noticed that the last session note I charted was eight weeks ago. Eli is a fifty-one-year-old black guy who keeps getting arrested after he’s had a couple of Olde Englishes, the potent malt liquor found in drug stores and gas stations in ghetto neighborhoods. With that added alcohol content, two forty-ounce bottles are equivalent to more than a six-pack of regular beer.

  Eli’s last arrest came six months ago when, after his customary two or three OEs, he asked the Pakistani owner of the Mobil station where he got the forties if he and his wife wanted to have some sort of three-way sexual Twister game. When Mr. Endou declined, Eli got so pissed he knocked over the Slurpee machine and took off all his clothes. The judge released him into counseling.

  While I was trying to make up some notes for the four times I met with Eli in the last eight weeks, the phone rang. It was Mike Kelley, my cop friend.

  “Duff, you better get over to Walanda’s house,” said Kelley. “We have to arrest her and she’s losing it. Worse than I’ve ever seen her.”

  Walanda is a thirty-four-year-old crackhead with a dash of schiz­ophrenia. She has a tendency to get loud and more than a bit wacky.

  “Why are you arresting her?” I asked.

  “Outstanding warrant for shoplifting. The DA is having one of his crackdowns. She’ll probably have to do thirty days.”

  “She stole some hair extensions from the Dollarama, for crissakes.”

  “Duff, we can talk about it later,” Kelley said. “Right now I could use some help.”

  Kelley was good people. He wasn’t a bleeding heart, but if he could do his job just as easily by being decent, he did. He called me when he was involved in an arrest with someone on my caseload and he needed a calming influence. I filed Eli’s and the rest of the unopened charts and headed to Walanda’s house. She lived in Jefferson Hill, about two and a half miles from the office. It is the kind of neighborhood where you’re better off not stopping when you hit a red light. I was in a hurry so I didn’t plan on stopping anyway.

  In the early part of the century, “The Hill,” as it is known, was home to the city’s blue-collar Irish and Polish. The city went through its own version of the Newark riots in the late sixties and the early seventies, suffering through the growing pains of
the civil rights movement. Today there’s only a handful of old Irish and Polish on The Hill, the ones too old, poor, or stubborn to leave.

  My ’76 Eldorado convertible’s V-8 had plenty of power, but it was a tad temperamental. Just the same, to me there was no finer automobile in the world than this car. Burnt orange body, velour seats, and a deep-pile orange carpet, it was a little heaven here on earth. The eight-track player made it tough to get new music, but that didn’t matter. I only listen to Elvis and while he was alive, so were eight-tracks.

  The King was getting into his second chorus of hunka-hunkas when I came up on Walanda’s house. It was a mess, as only ghetto houses paid for by welfare can be. The screen door on the porch was banging off the wall, three of her four front windows were broken, and there was a washing machine on what there was of a front lawn.

  Walanda was rolling around with Kelley near the washer, screaming a slew of expletives that would’ve made Nixon blush. Kelley’s uniform was covered in dirt and gravel and his hat had found its way to the middle of the street. At a less than solid two hundred thirty pounds, Walanda was no easy restraint, at least not at first. Her stamina wasn’t the greatest, even when she was getting wacky, so she would tire before long.

  I’d seen her go off before, but something was really getting to her this morning. She kept screaming something over and over, but it was hard to make out because of the wrestling match between her and Kelley.

  “Mornin’, Kel,” I said. “What’s new?” I was standing above the two of them, not sure how or if I should intervene.

  “Thanks for the help, Duff,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Kelley and I had done this before, but on this particular morning it was going to take a little more than humor. Walanda was wound up.

  “Duffy, my baby’s gone,” Walanda half screamed, half growled at me. “That Webster’s got my baby, Duffy.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but she kept screaming it over and over and over.

  “Fuckin’ Webster! Stop him!”